Skinner's rules

52

The cobbles roared under the wheels of the Astra as they drove throug the New Town. Martin parked on a yellow line across the street from Mortimer’s flat. There was an old-fashioned remote entry system on the heavy outer door. Skinner rang the bell and after a few seconds the door creaked open. They stepped into a cold, dull hallway, and went through a second door, glass-panelled this time.

‘Up here!’ Brian Mackie called down to them.

The two detectives trotted up to the second floor. At the top of the stairway, the DI held a door open.

Mike Mortimer’s living room was furnished conservatively, mostly with reproduction items, but with one or two antique pieces situated prominently.

‘Nice place,’ said Martin.

‘A change from your bloody Habitat warehouse!’ Skinner suggested

Mackie grinned. ‘You should take a look in the bedroom. The four poster must have cost a bob or two.’

‘Does it have a canopy?’ Skinner asked.

‘Yes, boss. And we’ve checked. There’s nothing stashed up there. Mackie smiled, unable to hide his pleasure at having anticipated the question which had been bound to follow.

‘We’ve been all over the place. All his personal and business records were in that big desk over there, or in these two cupboards. He’s had them converted into filing cabinets.’

Mackie walked over to a door set in the wall to the left of the east-facing window. He threw it open. The space behind was filled with side-hung file racks, most of them stuffed with papers and manila folders.

Skinner looked inside. ‘You’ve got some work ahead of you. Is the other one the same?’

‘There’s this thing as well. We’ll need to look at it.’ He turned agai towards the desk. The only incongruous object in the room was a grey micro-computer with a small dot-matrix printer attached by a ribbon cable. By its side was a small box with a clear plastic lid, containing a number of computer disks in cardboard holders. Mackie picked one out and howed it to Skinner and Martin. ‘He’s been kind enough to label all of these. All I need now is to be able to read them.’

Skinner moved over to the desk. ‘I think I can show you how, Brian.’ He looked at the computer. ‘Yes. It’s an Amstrad 8512, twin-drive, bog-standard machine. My daughter has one for her studies. Watch me.’

He ran through the start-up procedure for Mackie. ‘Is that clear enough, Brian?’

‘Yes boss. Thanks. Thanks for God knows how much work. Each of these things could hold a hell of a lot of files, and we’ll have to look at them all.’ He counted fourteen disks in the box.

‘Sorry Brian, but you’re right. A complete search does include our friend Mr Amstrad. Just make sure that you don’t alter any of the files as you read them.’

He turned away then turned back towards Mackie. ‘By the way, have you discussed your search procedure with Maggie?’

‘Yes, boss, we’re going about it the same way.’

‘That’s good. We’ll pay her a visit now, to see how big a task she has.’ He made the slightest move towards the door, then turned back again, as if with another afterthought. ‘Brian, let’s try to make life a bit easier for you. Did friend Michael have an address book, or a card index and a diary?’

‘All in one, sir. He had a Filofax. A yuppie’s handbook.’

His smile turned watery as he remembered the black leather personal organiser which Martin always carried, and felt the green eyes boring into him. Skinner picked up the gaffe and laughed. So did Martin. Eventuall Mackie, looking relieved, joined in. From the desk he picked up a heavy brown leather binder secured by a strong clasp. The initials ‘MM’ were picked out in gold leaf in the bottom right comer. He handed it to Skinner.

Rachel Jameson’s flat was also in a New Town block, but different in style to that of Mortimer. In estate-agent terms, it was a typical Edinburg garden flat, in the basement of what had once been an entire house on four floors. Its entrance was below street level, accessed by a short fligh of steps. French doors opened from the living-room on to a small rear courtyard, which Rachel had brightened with an array of hardy shrubs and flowers, set out in earthenware vessels. Skinner noted, with amuse ment, plants set in two tall chimney-pots, scavenged, no doubt, from a demolished building.

Like Mortimer’s flat, it was part home, part office. Rachel’s files were contained in two steel cabinets which stood, as Maggie Rose showed Skinner and Martin, in a deep cupboard off the hall.

She pulled open the four drawers in the two low cabinets.

‘Fewer documents than Mortimer,’ Skinner remarked.

‘She seems to have been a very neat person, sir. I’ve been right through this flat, while Mario … ’

‘Who?’

‘DC McGuire, sir. His first name’s Mario.’

‘Jesus Christ, what a mixture. Ice-cream and Guinness! Sorry, go on Maggie.’

… while Mario sorted out the papers. I’ve been trying to judge what sort of a woman this was. To imagine myself as her, in fact.’

‘Very good. So what sort of a picture have you formed? Describe your self to me.’

The red-haired woman hesitated, took a deep breath and began. ‘Well sir, as I’ve said, I’m very neat. My files are in such good order because I’ve summarised all my older ones and destroyed a lot of paper, or archived it in the cellar at the front under the pavement, which I’ve had water-proofed.

‘My diary is meticulous. So are my personal habits and my dress. I use good quality soap and shampoo, not over-priced designer stuff. I bathe or shower at least twice a day — and perhaps not always alone, because there are three big towels on the heated rail. I buy most of my bras, knickers and tights at Marks amp; Spencer, and my working clothes at Jenners. I use storecards and chargecards rather than cash or cheques, with direct debit arrangements with my bank.

‘I’m reserved and elegant, but I can be a bit sexy too, because I have a collection of rather more exotic underwear, and one or two designer evening dresses that are guaranteed to attract attention. I’d say that I like sex, but only as a shared experience. By that I mean, if I may be blunt that I like making love but not screwing. When I dress sexy it’s for my partner’s pleasure as much as mine.

‘My reading list shows that I’m a very thoughtful person. I don’t throw books away. Some I read over and over again. I like Tolkein, I like Leon Uris. I like Solzhenitsyn. I like Tom Sharpe’s early novels, the one that take the piss out of the South African police, but I ignore the rest of his stuff because I think it’s sexist.

‘My taste in music is broad, but I’m no musician. I like strong memorable melodies, from Mozart to Mendelssohn, or Marley to Morrison. It says what I think as well as now I feel. There’s a Marley on my player right now, with three songs programmed — this is true, sir, it must have been like that since the last time she walked out — “Buffalo Soldiers”, “Get Up, Stand Up”, and “Redemption Song”, all of them strong political statements.

‘As an advocate, I’m part of the establishment. Yet when I conside my taste in literature and in music, I have to admit to myself that I’m drawn to the side of the poor people. I’m for what I regard as good against evil, and some of my beliefs and causes would be regarded as pretty left wing. If I felt something strongly enough, I’d go all the way. I have the determination to do that.’

‘You sound like quite a lady, Rachel Jameson. Are you a strong person?’

‘Yes, I think I am. Not physically brave perhaps, but morally strong.

‘Are you loyal?’

‘Absolutely. If you’re my friend, you’re my friend for life and I’ll do anything I can to help you.’

Skinner looked down at the serious face. ‘Are you sure that none of Maggie Rose has crept into this analysis?’

She smiled. ‘Quite sure, sir. I like Georgette Heyer, Len Deighton, Wet Wet Wet and Joan Armatrading. My favourite clothes are denim. As for sex, I prefer reading about it to doing it. I’ll give to the RSPCA, but not Greenpeace. I’m an out-and-out realist, not a closet idealist. We couldn’ have been less alike.’

Skinner continued to study her for a few moments. ‘Maggie, I have a feeling that you have just given this investigation its first big push forward. I don’t know why, or how, but I do.’

Then he swept back to business. ‘That’s what you’ve picked up from her knicker drawer and record collection. Does anything shout at you so far from her papers?’

‘Yes, sir, one thing. We’ve found desk diaries here dating back to 1986, meticulously kept, with ticks for completed engagements and everything. But this year’s diary is missing. Either it was in her briefcase, or it was taken from here by our man. I’d say that’s more likely. The earlier diaries aren’t the sort you carry around. They’re detailed, the sort you would keep at base, with your Filofax for quick reference.

‘Only there’s no Filofax here, and I’d bet this lady had one.’

Skinner nodded his agreement. ‘Could her desk diary be with her clerk up at the Faculty?’

‘Not very likely, sir. The earlier ones aren’t just business records. There’s some very personal stutt there too. They show when she met Mortimer, weekends away, and so on. There’s even a date a while back not long after she met Mortimer, with “M” and two big crosses along side. I think I can guess what they signified. You don’t leave that sort of thing at your office, do you?’

Skinner grinned briefly, bringing a slight flush to Maggie’s face. ‘No: personally. I’ll ask Aileen to confirm that tomorrow, but I’m sure you’re right. Advocates’ clerks maintain business diaries for each person in their stable, and they never leave the office, as a rule.

‘Have you discussed this with what’s his name, Paddy Pavarotti?’

‘No, sir, he didn’t look at the diaries, and I didn’t mention it.’

‘Good. Don’t. There’s no need for him to know. The implications of this could be more serious than you can imagine, so don’t talk about it even to Brian.

‘At this stage, only Andy and I need to know.’