Skinner's Mission

1

‘This is just the sort of thing that can happen when you sell a dodgy Ferrari.’

Six heads turned towards the doorway. The white-coated scene of crime technicians stood automatically to attention. They shone like spectres in the white glare of the temporary floodlighting, which was reflected also by the puddles which covered much of the floor of the burned-out showroom.

The man, white-clad like the rest, gazed slowly around the ravaged shed. The scene took him back to the after-math of an urban riot to which he had been taken by the Los Angeles Police Department, during a month-long international police symposium visit in California, from which he had just returned. He counted, spread around the area, the skeletal shells of eight motor cars. They rested not on tyres, for they had melted into the floor, but on bare wheel hubs.

‘Relax, ladies and gentlemen,’ the newcomer barked, at last. ‘I’m only paying a visit.’ He looked, automatically, at the oldest of the men in white coveralls. ‘Where’s Chief Superintendent Martin?’

‘He’s through the back, sir. With the ME.’

The big man nodded. ‘Thank you, Arthur.’ His eyes roamed slowly and carefully once more around the gutted area. He smiled, grimly. ‘What d’you think of the show so far?’

‘You can rule out accidental causes, sir. Or spontaneous combustion. This was very deliberate, sir. Good old-fashioned low-tech arson, with nothing fancy about it. The blaze had several seats, but from what the firemen told me about its spread, I’d say they all went up at the same time.

‘We’ve still got some poking around to do, but I should be able to draw you a picture in a wee while.’

‘Don’t draw it for me, Inspector. Chief Superintendent Martin’s in command here. Like I said, I’m just passing through.’

The red-haired man nodded, sagely. ‘Very good, sir.’ He paused. ‘But it’s still good to see you back.’

Deputy Chief Constable Bob Skinner grinned and accepted the Inspector’s proffered handshake. ‘Thanks, Arthur. Between you and me, and anyone else who’s listening, it’s bloody good to be back, even at half past two on a pissy awful late winter’s morning in Seafield, even with the north wind blowing the rain off the river and carrying the smell of the sewage works along with it!’

He glanced around the showroom once more, smiling grimly. ‘Not an insurance job, then?’ he said, in a mischievous tone.

The other man laughed, with the same grim gallows humour as Skinner. ‘Not unless the man who puts in the claim fancies doing fifteen years for his trouble. Insurance jobs nearly always start in the main fuse box, or with something inflammable accidentally falling across an electric fire.

‘Whoever did this just walked in and set the fucking place on fire!’

The DCC nodded. ‘And some very high-priced motor cars in the process.’

‘That’s right, boss. According to the ad in yesterday’s Scotsman, a red Ferrari, three Beamers, at least two Porsches, a classic Mercedes sports car, and a very rare Maserati.’

‘Funny,’ said Skinner, ‘for all the things that we’ve tried to nail Jackie Charles for, I never fancied him for dealing in hot motors!’

His smile vanished as he glanced again at the Inspector. ‘So why do we need an ME? Young Sammy Pye only told me about the fire when he called. All he said was that Mr Martin thought I might like to come along.’

He could see the man shudder beneath his loose white tunic. He nodded his head towards a blackened, empty doorframe, at the rear of the showroom. ‘That’s through there, sir.’

Skinner frowned. ‘It’s not Jackie, is it?’

‘I had a good look at it, sir, but for all I could tell it could have been my father-in-law’s pet greyhound . . . except I think that it only had two legs!’

It was the DCC’s turn to shiver. ‘I’ve been trying to lock up that wee bastard Charles for just about all of my police career, but I wouldn’t wish that on him.’ His voice dropped. ‘I hate fire, Arthur. It gives me the creeps, especially when I see how easily and how well people burn.’

‘I know what you mean, boss,’ said Inspector Dorward. ‘I go to crime scenes practically every working day. It’s my job. Mostly they don’t bother me, except where there’s kids or fire involved.

‘D’you remember that one last summer out in East Lothian, when that bloke was burned alive. Your wife was the Medical Examiner. Some job she has, eh! I don’t know how she does it.’

Skinner frowned. ‘She’s a tough lady, is my wife, but I’m glad she’s not here. Who was the poor bastard on call for this one?’

‘Doctor Banks, sir.’

He tugged awkwardly at his vast white overall suit. ‘I suppose I’d better go and join him, then. Give me a shout when you’re ready to draw us that picture of what happened here.’

‘Will do, sir.’

Picking his way carefully through the blackened, soaking debris on the floor, the DCC walked across to the doorway at the back of the showroom. He had almost reached it when suddenly it was filled by a stocky, wide-shouldered blond man, the thickness of his build emphasised by his protective suit. The tinted contact lens which he wore made his vivid green eyes shine oddly in the bright light.

‘I thought I heard you, boss,’ said Chief Superintendent Andy Martin. He stepped back, allowing Skinner to enter the small, blackened room. Although the door had burned away to ashes, its frame and the lower half of the walls which partitioned the chamber off from the rest of the unit were constructed of steel sheeting. They, the substructure of a large metal desk, and four filing cabinets, had survived the blaze. The twisted, charcoal-black figure which lay at their feet had not.

The duty Medical Examiner was crouched over the body. He looked up for a second at the newcomer, giving him the briefest of nods. Skinner responded with a grunt. He disliked Banks, and had often questioned his thoroughness, even on occasion his competence. However he had always stopped short of having him removed from the list of police surgeons, mainly because he suspected that if he took the step he might be accused of acting under his wife’s influence.

The only other living person in the room was Detective Constable Sammy Pye, the most junior member of the small personal staff which Andy Martin maintained as head of CID. He stood, silent and pale in the corner of the room.

‘You didn’t mention this added attraction when you woke me from a sound sleep, Sammy,’ said the DCC. ‘All you said was that there had been a call after a major fire at Jackie Charles’ showroom, and that Chief Superintendent Martin thought that I might like to join him.’ He grinned. ‘Did you think that if you mentioned an immolated stiff, I’d have decided to stay in my bed!’

The young man reddened. ‘No, sir. But . . .’

‘Leave the lad alone,’ Martin intervened. ‘None of us knew about the death until we got here. All that our fire brigade colleagues said to us was that they had a suspicious blaze down here in Motor City, and would we like to come along.’

‘When were they called out?’

‘Around nine. This building isn’t seen easily from the roadway. A passing motorist spotted the glow from the flames once they broke through the roof.’

‘And when did the fire service call CID?’

‘About an hour ago, just before we called you. This was some fire. They had gas tanks, paint and God knows what all in this place. It took the lads four hours to put out the blaze completely, and until they could be sure that the petrol storage tanks underneath us weren’t going to blow. As soon as they were able to take a look inside they realised from the pattern of the damage that they were dealing with a crime. But I don’t think they had found the body when they called us.’

Skinner nodded. ‘Fair enough. But how come you’re here? You’re Head of CID. What the hell do we have divisional offices for? Haven’t I taught you anything about delegation?’

‘No,’ said Martin, cheerfully. ‘Not a single, solitary bloody thing! All I’m doing is following the example you set when you were in this job.’ His soft smile faded. ‘But seriously though, I’ve got a standing order in place that anything involving Jackie Charles is reported immediately to my office. Like I heard you say to Arthur Dorward, he’s been Number One on our target list for years, or at least since Tony Manson got killed.’

‘And you want the glory of banging him up?’ Martin looked at him sharply, surprised. ‘Only joking, Andy!’

‘As a result,’ said the Chief Superintendent, heavily, ‘when the night duty man in Dave Donaldson’s office logged in the Fire Brigade report, he did the right thing and phoned Sammy, who takes the night calls for me.’

Skinner smiled sympathetically at the young man. ‘We’ve all had to do night telephone duty in our careers, son. But I’ll tell you a strange thing. The higher up the tree we get, and the more we have willing lads like you to shield us from the middle of the night calls, even so the fucking phone seems to ring more and more.’

He looked back at Martin. ‘So what about Jackie? Has anyone called his house yet, to see if he’s in?’ He pointed downwards. ‘Or are you assuming that we’re looking for a new public enemy Number One?’

‘The Fire Service phoned him as soon as the blaze was reported. There was no reply, but there’s a Porsche outside, with Jackie’s personal number, “N1JJC”, on it.’

The DCC frowned. ‘I see. Still, let’s not jump to conclusions. He could have left it here for a service.’

‘Sure, but then again . . .’ Martin looked at Skinner, very slightly askance.

‘To answer your question, boss, I haven’t sent anyone out to his house yet,’ he said. ‘I know you’re as interested in Charles as I am. That’s why I told Sammy to call you, even before I knew there was a body involved.

‘Hope he didn’t wake the baby,’ he added.

‘No. Master Jazz sleeps through the phone these days. Just as well. I’m in deep enough shit with the wife as it is.’

The Chief Superintendent looked at him, sharply once again, but decided that it was not the moment to follow up the remark. Instead he said, ‘I thought we might go to the Charles place together, sir, to pay a call on Jackie, or possibly, probably even given that car, on his widow.’

Skinner sighed. ‘The lovely Carole, eh. I haven’t seen her in years.’

‘You know her?’

‘Too right I know her! Years ago Jackie and Carole used to live in Gullane, not that far from me. There he was, living the life of a respectable young motor dealer, and there was I, a young blood in the CID, knowing that he was one of the biggest villains in Edinburgh, and a part of the team that was trying to put him away.’ Again, Martin glanced at him in surprise.

‘It was more than a wee bit embarrassing at the time. A couple of times Myra and I were invited to parties, and the Charleses were there.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I stopped going to parties. Eventually the Charleses moved up to Edinburgh, but by that time Myra was dead, and I wasn’t getting party invitations anyway.’

‘Eh?’

Skinner nodded. ‘Don’t look surprised. A single man, especially a widower, is a very awkward guest at married couples’ parties. All the guys watch him like a hawk around their wives.’

Martin stared at him. ‘I’m single, and I’ve never noticed that.’

‘Aye, but when were you ever stuck for someone to take to a party? Anyway, enough of my past. Doctor, how’s the sift through the ashes coming along?’

The middle-aged Banks pushed himself awkwardly to his feet. ‘That is more or less what it is. All the features and genitals have been obliterated, most of the flesh has been reduced to ash and what’s left is roasted.’

‘Could this be Jackie Charles, the owner of the showroom? ’

‘Yes, Mr Skinner, it could. But it could also be just about anyone else on the surface of the planet. I will need to open the body up before I can even tell you the gender of the victim. As for identification, that will have to be done through dental records. Even that might be difficult, since most of the fillings in the teeth seem to have melted.’

Skinner looked closely at the body for the first time, and felt his stomach lurch. Apart from the blackened, grinning skull, there was nothing that was recognisably human.

‘Do what you have to, Doctor, as soon as you can.’

‘Sir.’ Sammy Pye spoke without moving from his corner. ‘You won’t see it where you are, but there’s a wedding ring beside the body.’

‘Pick it up, then, Constable, and let’s have a look.’ The DCC glanced at Martin. ‘Who says I can’t delegate?’ he muttered.

Taking a deep breath and holding it, the young Pye bent over the black, stinking, sodden mass, and picked up a small, approximately round object with his thumb and second finger. He held it up for Skinner and Martin to see, then placed it on the DCC’s outstretched palm.

‘A man’s ring?’ asked Skinner.

‘Could be,’ Martin replied. He produced a torch from his tunic and shone it on the band. The fire had distorted it until it was almost oval but it still gleamed in the light. He picked it up and shone the beam around the inner surface. ‘Bugger,’ he whispered. ‘No inscription, only a hallmark.’

‘Even that might tell us something. Come on, let’s get out of here and leave Doctor Banks to his work.’

The DCC led his two colleagues back through the showroom and out into the forecourt, which was lined with undamaged cars, all high-value used models, if less costly than those which had gone up in flames. The policemen stood there, protected from the drizzling rain by their tunics, and looked down Seafield Road, the recognised heartland of motor car retailing in the City of Edinburgh, at the lighted logo towers of more than a dozen car dealerships, which advertised among them almost every manufacturer in the marketplace.

‘Quite a set-up,’ said Skinner quietly. ‘You want any sort of car, odds on you can get it here. Twenty-five years ago there was virtually bugger all on this road but for whisky bonds, the bus depot and the Dog and Cat Home.

‘Now there are God knows how many millions turned over on this strip every week in the year. And you could argue that Jackie Charles started it all.’

He broke off and turned to Pye. ‘Right, Sammy,’ he said. ‘It’s oral examination time. What can you tell us about Jackie Charles?’

Alarm at the snapped question showed in the young Detective Constable’s eyes, but for no more than a second. Then he nodded, and it vanished to be replaced by cool confidence.

‘John Jackson Charles, sir,’ he began, as if reading from a page in his mind. ‘Known to all his friends and associates as Jackie. Aged forty-eight, and born in Edinburgh. He was an only child and his parents were thoroughly respectable middle-class people. His father, Martin Charles, was sales manager with the main Ford dealer in the city until he retired twelve years ago. Mr Charles senior is seventy-seven years old. He and Mrs Charles senior, who is seventy-five and who has always been a full-time housewife, now live in a cottage in St Andrews owned by their son.

‘The Charles family lived in a small bungalow in Corstorphine, and Jackie was educated at the Royal High School. He left school at eighteen with a clutch of Higher passes, but didn’t choose to go to university. While he was at school his father had given him holiday work at the Ford dealership, and when he left, he insisted on starting there full-time.

‘He was there for three years, until there was a row. The directors of the business discovered that he’d been dealing privately in used cars, often selling to customers who had come into the Ford showroom. Jackie was sacked, and his father might have been too, only his bosses were persuaded by Jackie that his dad had known nothing about his illicit sales.

‘Not unnaturally, Charles moved out of the family home after that incident. He bought a semi-detached house out in Penicuik, and began to deal from there, selling to private customers, or locating and supplying specific cars to the trade.

‘He did that, apparently successfully, for three more years. Then all of a sudden he went up in the world. He opened up, in this very showroom, the first car dealership in Seafield, and at the same time he and his new wife moved from Penicuik to a villa on a new development, Muirfield Park, in Gullane.’

Detective Constable Pye paused, and looked at Skinner. ‘I’m sorry, sir. That’s as far as I’ve got with the file so far.’

‘That’s fair enough,’ said the DCC. ‘I didn’t expect you to have memorised Jackie Charles’ complete life story, but you’ve done pretty well. Let me fill in the rest for you.’

He paused, as Pye looked at him, in relief. ‘In those days,’ he began, ‘before computer storage and analysis, the business of criminal intelligence wasn’t anywhere near as sophisticated or as high-tech as it is now, but it existed nonetheless. Fair or unfair, secondhand car dealers were among its priority subjects, and so when Jackie Charles made his big move it stood out like a sore thumb. My team became even more interested when our routine investigation showed that Jackie wasn’t renting his new showroom. He had bought it for a hundred and twenty grand from a dealer in domestic heating oil, who had anticipated the collapse of his market.

‘The showroom had plenty of stock too, much of it bought for cash at auction in the month before the opening. My people did their sums. The showroom and the new house were mortgaged to an extent, but we worked out that Jackie must have laid out over a hundred thousand in cash.

‘We had a guess at the profit that he might have made in six years of trading, but it fell well short of that, and the Inland Revenue were happy with his tax returns. So we looked around, and we came up with a theory.

‘Around a year before Jackie Charles made his big move upmarket, there was a major robbery in Edinburgh. One of the biggest industrial employers, a company called Indico, had its payroll snatched in broad daylight from an armoured van on a back road out in Sighthill. Five men in two cars stopped it and blocked it in. They were dressed SAS-style and were armed with shotguns, handguns and sledgehammers.

‘They smashed their way into the cabin of the truck, hauled out the driver, put a gun to his head and forced him to unlock the back door. The security guard inside had a go as soon as it was open. One of the gang shot him in the legs with a sawn-off. Afterwards the man had to have a leg amputated.’

Skinner paused, to make sure that Pye was following his narrative. ‘Indico had a big payroll,’ he went on, eventually. ‘The gang escaped with almost half a million pounds. None of it was ever recovered, and they were never caught. Six months after the event, an informant gave us the name of someone he said had driven one of the cars. The man named was Douglas Terry, the manager of one of Tony Manson’s saunas. He was picked up, but he denied any involvement and of course, a couple of girls from the sauna came forward and gave him an alibi.

‘My squad made the reasonable assumption that Tony Manson was behind the robbery, and that he had done his usual efficient cover-up. But then a few months later, Jackie Charles spent all that money, and the case was reopened. Us guys in the Serious Crimes squad took another look at the staff of Indico, the company which had been robbed. We had already investigated everyone in the accounts department who might have known about the movement of cash, but couldn’t find a thing.

‘This time we looked at former staff as well. We found that a young book-keeper had packed in her job three months before the hold-up, and we read her resignation letter. It explained that she was leaving to work in her boyfriend’s business. When she worked at Indico, her name was Carole Huish. By the time we read the letter, she had become Carole Charles.’

Young Pye’s eyes widened, but Skinner held up a hand, seeing Inspector Dorward approach. ‘You can read the rest for yourself, Sammy.’ He turned towards the newcomer. ‘Yes, Arthur. Are you ready to draw that picture for us?’

The man nodded. Like the others he had pulled up the hood of his tunic against the rain. ‘As ready as I’ll ever be, sir.

‘Like I said earlier, this was a low-tech job. The arsonist used petrol as his fuel, good old four-star. Some of it was in cans near the office door, some of it was in the tanks of the cars in the showroom.’

‘How was it triggered?’ asked Andy Martin.

‘The old-fashioned way, with petrol-soaked rope as fuses. We’ve found traces of what we think is hemp residue leading from the showroom doorway right up to the tanks of the Maserati, the Ferrari and the two biggest BMWs, and to a pile of what we reckon are melted oilcans, beside the empty office doorframe.

‘Whoever did this set up the fuses, stood in the showroom doorway, lit them all, closed the door behind him and buggered off.’

‘But wait a minute,’ said Martin. ‘All that couldn’t have been done silently. Surely the victim in the office must have heard?’

‘Not necessarily, sir. We found a melted radio in the office with the volume control turned up pretty high.

‘But even so, take a look at this.’ Dorward held up a bright brass object, with a darker piece of twisted metal protruding from it.

‘It’s the lock from the office door, as we found it among the ashes. It’s been turned, and the key is on the outside.’

Martin stared hard at him. ‘So your evidence in the witness box would be that the victim was locked in, before or after the fire was set, yet could have been unaware of it until it was too late.’

Dorward thought for a few seconds. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said at last. ‘That’s what I’d say under oath.’

‘Yet the arsonist knew that the poor sod was in there,’ said the Head of CID, ‘because he turned the bloody key!’

‘Which makes this,’ muttered Skinner slowly, ‘not an insurance job, or a fire-raising by someone with a grudge against Jackie Charles, but cold-blooded premeditated murder, possibly with the man himself as the victim.’

He looked at Martin. ‘I think, Chief Superintendent,’ he said heavily and grimly, ‘that it’s time that you and I paid a call on Mr Charles. Unless, that is, we’ve seen him already this morning!’