Skinner's Mission

67

The Comedian was smiling . . . or so it seemed as Skinner bent over the body, in the cramped little attic office. Douglas Terry lay face-down, with his head turned to the side, and the corner of his mouth turned up in a grinning rictus.

The back of his head was indeed smashed in, a red, black and grey mess of blood, hair and brain tissue, with bone chips mixed in.

The scene of crime squad had finished its work and had gone, but Arthur Dorward remained behind. He, Andy Martin and Dave Donaldson, were the only other people in the room.

‘Do we have the weapon?’ asked the DCC.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Inspector Dorward. He held up a clear plastic bag, containing a short-handled hatchet, with a heavy iron head. It, and most of the wooden shaft were caked with blood. ‘The DIY stores sell hundreds of these every week, quite legally. The perfect murder tool, effective and untraceable.’

‘Effective is an understatement. What happened, Arthur?’

‘It seems pretty clear, sir. Terry walked into his office and someone was waiting for him, there behind the door, out of sight. One blow would have been enough, but our man made sure. He must have hit him half a dozen good wallops as he lay on the ground. There’s blood and brains all up the desk there, see?’

‘Time of death?’

‘The ME estimates around ten o’clock last night. She came up with that description of the murder, and I agree with her, as always. A tall man, she said. Slightly taller than Terry at any rate.’

Skinner looked round at Andy Martin. ‘She?’

He nodded. ‘She’s just gone.’

‘Was she here when you called me at Pam’s?’

‘That’s how I knew you weren’t at Fairyhouse Avenue,’ he said, wincing. ‘I never expected . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished.

‘Magic,’ Skinner whispered ironically, then turned to Dorward once more. ‘Anything else, Arthur?’

‘Yes, sir. This.’ He stepped across to a corner of the room, picked up a steel wastebin, and held it out for the DCC to inspect.

Skinner looked inside. The walls of the rectangular bin were scorched, and on its base lay a tangled, shapeless black and white mess. He sniffed.

‘We’ll need to test it of course, but I’d reckon that it’s a binliner and plastic bags.’

‘Burned,’ said Skinner. ‘This bugger gets more thorough every time.’ He turned to Donaldson. ‘It’s a bastard, Dave, is it not?’ he said vehemently. ‘We’ve been trying for years to land this guy. At last, McCartney hands him to us on a plate, then this happens.

‘How did Charles know?’

‘McCartney must have had an arrangement to call someone, boss,’ said the Superintendent. ‘When he didn’t, maybe Terry reported it to Charles, and maybe Jackie decided that it was getting too close and that he’d have to play it safe.’

Skinner looked down at the body. ‘It doesn’t get any safer than that,’ he growled. ‘Bang goes our chain of evidence leading up to Charles. With Terry dead, he’s probably out of business, but that’s small consolation if he’s still walking around as a free man.’

‘Maybe he won’t be out of business, sir,’ said Donaldson. ‘What if the guy who did this is ready to take Terry’s place?’

The DCC laid a hand on the Superintendent’s shoulder, and looked at him, earnestly. ‘You really know how to cheer a man up, Flash, don’t you. If you’re right, then it’s up to you to go out there and catch him.’ He nodded at the corpse on the floor. ‘There’s no way that Jackie did this himself. He’s two or three inches shorter than Terry, and if my wife said that the killer was taller than him, you can take that as gospel.

‘McCartney and Kirkbride are in the nick, Barney Cogan’s dead, Willie Easson’s been lifted and Willie Macintosh is out of town. So who the hell else is there? And what’s the link that ties all the murders together?’

He gave Donaldson’s shoulder a final pat. ‘You’re the man on the ground, Dave. I’m counting on you, above all, to give us the answers.’