Skinner's rules

48

The meeting with Shi-Bachi lasted for just over forty-five minutes. When Skinner emerged from the Embassy into Piccadilly, the morning was still fine. He strolled back towards the Circus, and turned past the restored Eros into Regent Street. As he walked a wave of depression settled on him. The Ambassador had removed any last thought that Yobatu might after all be guilty.

He was back to square one, starting an investigation into a possible murder conspiracy on the basis of evidence which, to others, might have seemed shaky. What if Mortimer had nicked himself shaving, and a drop of blood had fallen into the open case? Did he own black woollen gloves? Could the strands have come from them? What if Jameson’s case had indeed been stolen by a casual thief? The murders had stopped, the affair was closed. Should he leave it that way?

‘The hell I should!’ Skinner exploded aloud, startling a street corner news vendor.

He arrived back at Fettes Avenue just after 4.00 p.m. Brian Mackie sat in the outer office, casually dressed, working his way through a pile of papers. The second desk, occupied during the week by a secretary, showed signs of use. Skinner jerked a thumb towards it and raised an enquiring eyebrow.

‘Maggie Rose, sir.’ Mackie answered the unspoken question. ‘She’s helping me with this lot. Statements from Mortimer’s family and closest friends, and from those who saw him in the Library before he was killed. So far there’s nothing. No one can think of anyone with a grudge against him, or can credit that he might have been involved in anything at all dodgy.’

‘Is there a statement by Rachel Jameson there?’

‘First one I studied, boss. There’s nothing in it. Not a hint of anything like a lead. And she must have known him better than anyone.’

Skinner looked hard at Mackie.

‘This won’t be easy, Brian. If there’s something there waiting to be found, we’ll find it, but it’ll take balls-aching hard work. Go over everything, and then go over it again. Glamorous job this, is it not?’

Maggie Rose came into the room, carrying two mugs of coffee. She started in surprise when she saw Skinner. ‘Afternoon sir… and a Happy New Year.’

‘Thanks, Sergeant.’ He smiled at her. ‘Same to you.’

He turned back to Mackie. ‘Andy in?’

Maggie Rose answered. ‘I think he’s in his office, sir. I saw a light under the door when I was out for these.’

Skinner walked the few yards along the corridor to the Special Branch suite. Martin was at his desk, making a telephone call. He waved his free hand in a wind-up motion as he saw Skinner enter, and terminated the call after a few seconds.

‘Hello, boss. London didn’t take long. What happened?’ In detail, Skinner told him. Martin grimaced at the story of Yobatu’s suicide.

‘So he really wasn’t our man.’

‘No Andy, not a chance. The poor bastard was trussed up like a Christmas turkey and set out before us. And we, greedy and gullible coppers that we are, we did the carving.

‘Right, so what are we doing here?’

‘Well, boss, we’ve started on all the available papers — statements that sort of stuff — in the Mortimer job. And the Transport plods are sending us through all their witness statements — such as they are — on Jameson.

‘I’ve also spoken to Rachel’s mother again this morning. We’ve had a bit of luck there. It seems that Mortimer and Rachel were planning to get married next summer. In advance of that, they’d bought a new house together. It’s not built yet, but they’d signed up for mortgage, insurance and all that. When they did that, they each made a will naming the other And each of them specified the same guy as executor; Kenny Duff of Curle, Anthony and Jarvis, in Charlotte Square. I’ve spoken to him.’

‘Good day’s work. What’d he say?’

Martin took a sip of coffee from the big white mug before him.

‘Well for openers, neither Mike’s nor Rachel’s flat has been put on the market yet. Wrong time of year apparently. The new house wasn’t to be ready until next September or October. So both places are lying there virtually as they were at the times of the murders. The only papers that have been disturbed are those to do with insurance, property and that sort of thing. All their personal and business documents will still be there.

‘That’s the good news. Now here’s something that you’re not going to like. Kenny Duff found definite signs of entry at each flat. There were indications that they had been searched, and one or two small items had been taken.’

‘So what did he do?’

‘Reported it to Gayfield, and explained the circumstances.’

Skinner’s face darkened. ‘And what did they do?’

Martin looked at him. ‘They visited each locus with Mr Duff, dusted the doors for fingerprints, didn’t find any, took notes, and filed them.’

‘They had the names?’ Skinner’s voice had a cutting edge. Martin nodded. ‘And they did sweet fuck all?’ Martin nodded again.

Skinner turned, picked up Martin’s telephone and dialled his own extension number. ‘Brian, I want the names of the CID officers who attended reported break-ins at…’ he looked at the note Martin handed to him and read out the addresses,‘ … on December the ninth, and I want them on my carpet on Monday morning. And tell them to come in their best uniforms.’

He slammed down the telephone. ‘Let them sweat it out for a couple of days.’

His anger, as usual, went quickly. ‘What about keys? Will we need warrants?’

‘The keys are all safe and sound at Curle, Anthony and Jarvis. Kenny Duff will let us have them tomorrow. And there’s no question of warrants, even as a formality. He’s being very co-operative.’

‘That’s good. What did you tell him?’

‘A version of the truth. That our enquiries are continuing and that we need to look through personal papers to pursue them.’

‘Right. Stand down the people for today. We’ll meet here at nine-thirty tomorrow morning. Now I’m off to make it up with my fiancée, and to explain why her Sunday’s going the same way as her Saturday!’