Skinner's Mission

39

Pamela Masters looked around the room, and pondered upon fate. It was Saturday afternoon and she was in the Royal Botanic Garden. After an hour of poring through dusty files, Skinner had called a lunch-break. Since the Senior Officers’ Dining Room was closed for the weekend, and since the pubs would be crammed with football and rugby supporters, he had suggested the Garden Cafeteria.

Now he and his new assistant sat at a white wood table. He was demolishing his second chargrilled chicken and salad roll; she was hoping that her ‘Dear John’ message had reached her date, and that he would not arrive ahead of schedule.

‘What school did you go to in Motherwell, sir?’ she asked, as he finished eating.

He laughed. ‘When I was a lad in Motherwell, that question meant, “Are you a Protestant or a Catholic?” That’s if they couldn’t tell from the handshake.

‘The answer is that I didn’t. I went to Glasgow High. Myra was at Dalziel, though.’

‘Me too,’ said Pamela. ‘When did you leave Motherwell?’

‘When I was twenty-one, as soon as I graduated. I did an ordinary Arts degree at Glasgow, to please my dad, then I applied to several police forces. I could have joined Lanarkshire or Glasgow, as they still were in those days, but Myra and I both fancied the idea of Edinburgh. So here I am.

‘Maybe I’ve been here long enough.’

She frowned, and looked at him quizzically. ‘Ach,’ he said, ‘don’t listen to me. I love it here still. It’s just that sometimes, everyone has to make a choice.

‘How about you? What if you had stayed married? Would you still have joined the police?’

‘I’d like to think so,’ she said, her smile restored. ‘But I’d probably have had the regulation two point four weans, and that might have made it difficult.’

‘Do you want to have a family some day?’

She pulled a face. ‘With the right man, probably I would. But I’m not obsessed by the idea. Just as well, because time’s a-passing, and there’s no sign of the right man. For a while I thought Alan might have been, but we just didn’t gel.’ She paused, and leaned back in her seat.

‘You’ve got a child, sir. Do you recommend parenthood? ’

He held up his right hand, palm outward and extended the first two fingers. ‘Two. I have a daughter as well, Alexis. She’s only about ten years younger than my second wife, and she’s a law graduate. If you didn’t know, she’s engaged to Andy Martin.’

Pamela’s big eyes widened expressively. ‘Making it a family business, eh.’

He chuckled. ‘Yes, and to cap it my wife’s a police surgeon. That’s how we met.’ As he said the words, a pang of sadness ran through him, as he recalled the ecstatic early days of his relationship with Sarah, and the laughter left his face.

‘To answer your question, as far as parenthood’s concerned, I can recommend it. As for marriage, right now I’m not so sure.’

‘Do you think the two necessarily go together?’ she asked, matching his change of mood.

‘I brought Alex up as a single parent,’ he replied. ‘I did my best, but she missed out on a lot. Right now, in fact, she’s finding out just how much.’

She frowned again, but before she could ask him what he had meant, his mobile phone rang. He took it from the pocket of his soft, brown leather jacket, and pressed the receive button.

Brian Mackie’s voice sounded in his ear. ‘Can we see you, sir? Urgently. We’ve got something to report.’

‘Sure,’ said Skinner. ‘It’s half one now. My office at two fifteen. Okay.’

He picked up a hint of disappointment in the Chief Inspector’s, ‘Very good, sir.’

The DCC grinned. ‘I know you, Thin Man,’ he said into the phone. ‘You were hoping to be at Tynecastle by then, weren’t you?’

‘Well . . .’

‘Okay, then. Look, Pamela and I are up in the Botanics coffee shop, and it’s quiet as a church. It’s only two minutes away, so get yourselves up here now.’ He ended the call and laid the phone on the table.

‘More local knowledge, Pamela,’ he said. ‘DCI Mackie is an incurable Hearts fan. But then he can’t help it. He’s from Edinburgh.’

They sat and waited, admiring the garden outside, which was edging gradually into its spring colours. After less than five minutes, they saw the slim figure of Mackie and the heavier frame of Detective Inspector Mario McGuire as they strode up the slope towards them. They moved outside to meet them, towards one of the patio tables, well out of earshot of the few other diners.

As Skinner introduced his new assistant, they arranged themselves around the table. ‘Right, Brian,’ said the DCC. ‘What’s so urgent?’

Impending football matches or not, Mackie was always brisk and businesslike. ‘We did the check you asked for, boss. It isn’t complete yet, but a plum fell out of the tree that we thought you ought to know about. I’ll let Mario explain.’

McGuire nodded. ‘I had just started the check, boss, when I was called by my oppo in Birmingham. They’ve been keeping a very close watch on a gang of Brummies with interests in protection, prostitution and gambling. In fact, they’ve got a man planted on the inside. These people aren’t part of the Magic Circle that Jackie’s in, but they’re pretty heavy, nonetheless.

‘Three months ago, the team’s accountant vanished, and a hell of a lot of money went with him. By the simple means of torturing his wife, they managed to trace the guy, to a place in Spain called Palafrugell. They placed a contract on him, through Dougie Terry, and two guys were sent out to take care of the matter.

‘They duly did. The accountant was found stabbed to death in the apartment he was renting. Terry’s guys brought back the cash, but they brought it up to Edinburgh. Then the Comedian called Birmingham and told them that his boss had said that the fee on offer for the job, forty grand, was too low, since the guy had pinched four hundred thousand, not the two hundred the Brummies had claimed.’

Skinner shook his head, gravely. ‘You can’t trust these Midlanders, can you. Go on.’

‘He said,’ continued McGuire, ‘that since they had been pikers, they could have back the two hundred thou. He told them that Jackie was going to keep half, that their dough was in the left luggage at Waverley Station, and that the key was in the post.’

The big DI grinned. ‘It turns out, sir, that these people aren’t just cheats. They don’t have a sense of humour, either. This morning two guys with shooters, and a driver, left Birmingham in a blue Ford Scorpio, registration M 22 FQD, with instructions to visit Jackie Charles at home at midnight tonight and ensure that he and his missus have a double funeral.’

The DCC looked at McGuire, then across at Mackie. ‘Did you say a plum, Brian? This is a bloody pineapple. If we can manage to nab these guys and get them to talk, we’ll have something to lay at Jackie’s door at last. You can go to Tynecastle, Thin Man, you too, Mario, if you want . . .’ McGuire, a Hibs fan, made an expression of distaste. ‘. . . But report to Andy Martin at Fettes at eight o’clock.

‘Before you go though, arrange for armed people in plain clothes to watch Jackie’s house from now on, in case these Brummies can’t tell the time.

‘But tell them to be discreet. I don’t want Charles to have the faintest idea that something’s up, until the visiting team appears, and we have them in the bag.’