Skinner's Mission

27

The midnight oil was burning in the Scottish Prison Service headquarters. Maggie Rose and Sammy Pye sat before computer terminals at adjacent desks, in a big open-plan office, lit only by neon tubes over each exit and by the glow from their screens.

They were finishing the third round of coffees provided by sympathetic security guards, surrounded by the remnants of Burger Kings fetched by Pye from the Gyle Centre four hours earlier.

‘You’d think, ma’am, wouldn’t you,’ said the Detective Constable, ‘that in this day and age there would be a simpler tracing system than going through every individual file.’

Rose groaned her agreement. ‘It would be nice, wouldn’t it, if we could just key “Vulture” into the system and press a button. But no, we have to open and read every file. It takes so much time. How far d’you think we’ve got?’

Pye pulled up a notepad window. ‘We’re a quarter of the way through, ma’am, that’s all.’

‘And that quarter has given us three possibles to be followed up, of men listed as having large tattoos on their bodies.’

The Chief Inspector leaned back and switched off her terminal. ‘That’s it for now, Sammy. I’m cross-eyed. Let’s knock off for tonight, and get back here for nine thirty tomorrow morning. The Cunningham woman was right. We are in for a long, boring weekend, and probably a fruitless one. I can see us slogging around those health clubs after all.

‘Maybe I’ll persuade my husband to come in to help us.’ She paused. ‘Wait a minute, I outrank him again. Stuff the persuasion, I’ll order him!’