Skinner's Mission

70

The General Register of Sasines conceals behind its grand and mysterious title the details of most of Scotland’s property ownership. To avoid the chancy business of parking in the back streets off London Road, Skinner and Masters arrived at its slightly drab entrance in the police car which had ferried Bob to and from his regular lunchtime visit to Jazz.

‘How was your son?’ Pamela asked, at last, as the car drew up outside the flat uninteresting bulk of Meadowbank House.

‘In fine loud form,’ Bob smiled. ‘His mother was absent though. Deliberately, I think. I’ll call her later.’ For an instant, he considered telling Pamela that Sarah knew where he had spent the previous night, but their driver’s presence made him think better of it.

They jogged up the steps, and were given clear directions by an attendant which led them to an office, modern but quite unlike that in which the Register of Companies was maintained. It was dull and dry, smelling of crisp paper and old, oiled leather bindings. Glass-fronted bookcases lined the walls of the big room, in which a man and three women worked at old grey metal desks.

One of the women rose and came towards them. ‘Yess?’ she asked in the tentative tone of one who hoped that whatever the enquiry was it would not be too taxing.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Pam, brightly. ‘I’m Sergeant Masters. And this is Deputy Chief Constable Skinner. I called this morning to make an appointment for two fifteen, with Miss Brittle.’

‘Ahh yes.’ The woman sounded relieved. ‘Mary,’ she called across the room. ‘Your two fifteen!’

Miss Brittle rose from behind the furthest desk and wound her way towards them. She was as grey as her desk, as grey as the carpet on the floor, as grey as the city on a wet November day. Her hair was drawn up in a tight bun, and she walked with a slight stoop, her spine curving beneath the embracing wool of her twin-set, which was, of course, grey. She looked at least sixty. In fact, Skinner thought to himself, she looked as if she had been sixty for ever.

‘You’re the police lady,’ she said in a clear, shrill tone.

‘Yes, and this is my boss, DCC Skinner.’

Mary Brittle gazed up at him, severely. ‘What’s this about then? We’re not used to police traipsing in here, asking for information. You didn’t need to call personally, you know.’

‘I know,’ said Skinner, doing his best to charm the dragon, ‘but we thought that it would be easier for you if we did. There is a degree of urgency, as well.’

Her glower softened, almost as if it were starting out on the long journey towards becoming a smile. ‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘What is it you want?’

‘We need to locate all properties owned by a company, registered in Scotland, called Thirty-First Nominees Limited, ’ said Pamela. ‘There’s nothing in the company’s returns to indicate where they are, and we believe that its sole director may have died.’

‘Won’t the death have been registered?’ asked Miss Brittle.

‘We’ve checked. This person’s birth isn’t even registered. The name in Companies House is an alias.’

‘Hmm. Very mysterious. Hold on then, and I’ll check. Thirty-First Nominees Limited, you said.’ Pamela nodded.

‘It’ll take a wee while. There’s a display on downstairs: why don’t you wander round that and come back in fifteen minutes or so.’

Leaving Pamela to tour the exhibition of old Scottish Feudal charters, Skinner stepped out of the building, walked up the few steps which led up to London Road, and took out his mobile phone. He dialled in his Edinburgh home number: Sarah’s number now, he reminded himself. It was Tracey, the nanny, who answered. ‘Hello, Mr Skinner. Yes, she just came in.’

‘Hello, Bob.’ His wife’s tone was so frosty that it chilled him to the bone. ‘I suppose I should sing, “Who Were You With Last Night?”, shouldn’t I?’

He had been expecting her to say something, but still a great flame of anger swept through him, obliterating the chill and stopping just short of lighting his notoriously short fuse. ‘I got snowed in,’ he said curtly.

‘If you say so. I got snowed in too, with our son.’

He sighed. ‘Listen, Sarah, I think we should talk to each other, about the situation, about where we’re headed. Can I visit you tonight? I’ll bring supper with me.’

‘No thank you.’

‘You come out to Gullane then. Leave Jazz with Tracey.’

‘Oh no!’ Her voice was vehement, her upstate New York accent as pronounced as it was when first they had met. ‘I’m not coming back to the haunted house! Listen, I’ll decide when we meet, and where. If we meet, that is.

‘As for tonight, I’m sure you’ll find that your evening’s occupied.’ Abruptly, she hung up.

He felt another blaze of anger. He pressed the ‘Redial’ button, but caught himself and stopped the call. Instead, he took three deep breaths, to calm himself, then called his office.

‘Ruthie,’ he said, calmed at once by the sound of his secretary’s friendly voice. ‘It’s me. Is the Chief back from his lunch yet?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Okay, when he comes in, tell him that I’ve reviewed the material he secured for me, taken what I need from it, and wiped it as agreed. Tell him too that if the ball spins the way it might, I may need a very private meeting with him tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Yes, sir.’ She paused. ‘Mr Skinner, don’t mind me asking, but are you all right? It’s just that I’ve never heard you sounding so stressed out.’

‘I guess that’s because I never have been.’ He chuckled, and that was a relief in itself. ‘But don’t you worry about me. Stress can be a stimulant, they say.

‘D’you have anything else for me?’

‘Yes, one thing. Alex phoned. She said she wants to see you tonight, at Gullane. She said to expect her at eight thirty.’

He laughed again. ‘That sounds like an order, not a request. I’ll look forward to it.’ He replaced the phone in his pocket, stepped back into the building, reclaimed his assistant from the exhibition, and headed back to the formidable Miss Brittle.

Pam climbed the stairs a couple of paces ahead of him, her hips rippling in her tight skirt as she took the steps. For some reason Bob thought again of Sarah and the chill in her voice, and suddenly felt ashamed of his angry reaction.

Miss Brittle was waiting for them as they stepped back into the big room. This time she showed them to a desk and invited them to sit.

‘That wasn’t too difficult at all,’ she said, with a slight air of smugness. ‘Thirty-First Nominees owns three tenemental properties, all in Edinburgh. Here are the addresses.’ She pushed a handwritten note across the desk. ‘31a Rankeillor Street, 5c Westmoreland Cliff, and 59 Stalbridge Colonies.

‘Titles to all three properties were registered within a six-week period, three years ago. None of them are encumbered.’ Miss Brittle’s smile surfaced at last, weak and watery, as she looked across at Masters. ‘That means that none of them are mortgaged, dear.’

Skinner threw a quick sideways glance at his assistant. Only a sudden clenching of the muscles at the base of her jaw as she forced a smile in return betrayed any reaction to Miss Brittle’s patronising.

‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘Do your records show who acted for the company in the acquisitions?’

The grey woman nodded. ‘Watson Forbes, Solicitors, of Falkirk; a small firm. I was surprised. I don’t usually see their name involved with corporate work.’

‘Thank you very much, Miss Brittle,’ said Skinner, rising from the desk. ‘You’ve given us what we were after. We’re very grateful.’

‘We are here to serve,’ said the elderly lady, fixing him with a sudden gaze so perceptive that it almost made him start. ‘I can’t imagine what this is about. But it must be very important, to demand the personal attention of a Deputy Chief Constable.’

They walked side by side from the building, in silence, and down the steps to their waiting car. As Skinner opened the back door for his assistant, a slow smile spread over his face. ‘A right cunning old bird that was,’ he muttered.

He stopped, his hand on the roof of the car. ‘Pam, drop me off at Fettes, then head on out to Falkirk and find this Watson Forbes firm. See what they can tell you about their mysterious client. Meantime I’ll speak to my pal the Fiscal and get entry warrants for these three properties. I’m sure I can find grounds under the Companies Acts.

‘Once I’ve taken care of that, I’ll be going out to Gullane. I’ve been bidden to meet with my daughter, and I can only hazard several guesses as to what it might be about.’