Skinner's Mission

73

McIlhenney thumped on the door of number 31a Rankeillor Street with the side of his clenched fist.

‘Let’s count to thirty-one, for luck,’ said Skinner. The three stood on the doorstep of the basement flat and waited, until finally, the DCC nodded.

McIlhenney picked up the big black battering ram by both handles and heaved it, as smoothly as he could. With hardly any splintering of wood, the door gave and swung open violently.

‘I didn’t hit it that hard,’ said the Sergeant, puzzled. He looked at the doorjamb and at the keeper of the five lever lock, and turned to the DCC. ‘Sir, I’d say that someone’s been in before us, with a crowbar. The door was just held on the Yale, and barely at that. It’s a wonder it didn’t open when I knocked on it.’

Frowning, Skinner led the way into a dark hallway. He ran his hand along the wall until he found a light switch and flicked it on.

Three doors led off the hall, all of them closed. He opened each in turn. ‘Bathroom. Pam, you check in there. Living room, kitchen off. Neil, you take that. This must be the bedroom. I’ll look in here.

‘Remember, don’t touch anything for now. We’re looking for ledgers, files, correspondence. If someone’s beaten us to it they won’t be here, but you never know what else we might find.’

The bedroom, like the rest of the flat, as far as he had seen in his snap look round, was furnished for functionality rather than comfort. A continental quilt, with a cheap cover and white cotton pillowslips lay on the double divan bed. He bent over the pillows and looked closely, a strange smile on his face.

The wardrobe, chest of drawers and dressing table were made of light pine, matching the headboard. A number of cosmetic items and a tall tube of hair spray lay on the dressing table, on which a thick film of dust had gathered. There were three drawers in the chest. He opened them one by one. The first was half-filled with female underwear. Skinner took out a pair of panties and held them up. He shuddered as he was reminded of the garment which Alex had worn the night before, and which he had consigned to the flames.

He closed the drawer quickly, and opened the next, revealing a few tops and sweaters, of varying weights. The bottom drawer was empty, save for a large box of condoms. He picked it up. ‘Twenty-four at a time,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Randy bugger, eh.’ He looked in the box. It was full ‘. . . Or did she buy them?’

Skinner opened the wardrobe. Inside he saw, hanging neatly to the left of the rail, half a dozen dresses, three pairs of slacks, and a tracksuit. The right side of the wardrobe was empty.

He sensed Pam behind him before she spoke. ‘Nothing in the bathroom, boss,’ she said. ‘Nothing at all. It’s been scrubbed clean.’

‘So has this, in a way. I’d guess that there were men’s clothes here, recently, but not any more. One drawer’s empty, and half the wardrobe. And look here.’ He picked up one of the pillows. ‘The sheet’s been stripped from the bed, and these pillow-slips; there isn’t a single hair on them.

‘The bastard’s been thorough,’ he said with feeling.

‘Ahh, but . . .’ Masters reached down and felt the coverlet of the quilt, then, slowly and carefully, turned it over. ‘Not that thorough,’ she said. ‘Nobody, but nobody can get all the hairs off a nylon duvet cover.’

She smiled up at Skinner, brightly. ‘That’s why I use cotton.

‘Look, here. And here. And here. And here.’

Skinner went to the door. ‘Neil,’ he called. ‘Through here, with those plastic envelopes for forensic samples.’

He turned back towards his assistant, as McIlhenney’s heavy tread sounded in the hallway. ‘Pam, call in for a car to pick you up and get out to the lab as quick as you can, with these strands of hair for matching and checking. The report’s for my eyes only, like before.

‘Meanwhile, Neil and I will check the other two flats. Let’s just hope that our friend didn’t know about them.’