Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel (33 page)

But that was what I faced, sitting on that slab of volcanic debris, staring out across the water. Where was I in these two key inquiries that could make my career or wound it, maybe mortally? My fear was that I was stuffed, in both.

I looked for positives in the Marlon Watson murder hunt. On the face of it, we had an acceptable result. We had identified Milburn’s van, and McGuire’s pub manager witness, after a lot of thought, had picked Warren Shackleton from an array of mugshots as one of the men he had seen in Infirmary Street. I hadn’t been sure how he would hold up against an aggressive defence advocate, but that wasn’t a factor any more, since dead men can’t be tried. I was fairly certain also that our scientists would find evidence that would place the two of them at the scene. DNA was coming into use then and in its era everybody leaves a trace behind.

The obvious thing for me to do, in PR terms, was to issue a statement announcing that two men who had been our prime suspects, and one other thought to be involved, were those who’d been found dead in Newcastle. I knew they’d have been the top story in the Tyneside press that morning, and expected them to make the national news, if only briefly.

Yes, I would do that, but not personally, just a couple of paragraphs put out through the press office. I had no intention of exposing myself at a media briefing to follow-up questions to which I had no answers.

On the face of it, I’d be able to close the book on the case. Show the prosecutors our evidence and they’d sign off on Milburn and Shackleton as Marlon’s murderers, no further proceedings necessary. Fine, but I would know that we’d come up short, and so would my bosses. Not only that, there were half a dozen good crime reporters in the city who’d work it out too. Most important of all, though, I’d never be satisfied myself with a job half done. So, the investigation would not be closed. The search would go on, as discreetly as possible, but it would go on, and I’d be judged on the outcome.

As for the Weir-McCann murder hunt, I didn’t feel in touch with that one at all. There had been an early lead in the Watson case, but no such luck with the other. We’d established that the two had been killed by the same man, with the same weapon, but we hadn’t a clue why, and he was still out there. A third murder, and the press would have hysterics. Something had to tie the victims together, beyond the fact that they’d each survived the same sink-estate school, but we weren’t close to finding it. The press clipping about Mia? A curiosity, that was all. No . . . I frowned . . . not one, but two: the fact that he had it at all, and the question that it posed. What was a guy who worked on the shop floor in B&Q doing with a page torn out of a communications trade magazine? ‘Now that is interesting, Skinner,’ I murmured. ‘Where the hell would Weir have got that from?’
And who the hell’s going to tell us?
I added silently, and my flicker of optimism faded. ‘Bugger!’ I sighed, as I stood up, my arse cold from its ancient seat.

I’d left my phone and my house keys in my jacket in the Discovery. A risk casually taken, I realised as I walked back; police officers have no personal immunity to theft. It was still there, though. I could see the car, intact, as I crested the rise. The two youngsters were gone; it could only have been a quickie. I checked the mobile as soon as I was back in the driver’s seat. It showed three missed calls, all from the same number: Mia. As I was looking at the readout she rang again. I hesitated before answering. Indeed, I almost pressed ‘reject’, before I gave in to her persistence and hit the green key instead.

‘Yes.’

‘Bob, it’s me.’

‘I know who it is,’ I replied. ‘I have this clever phone that tells me.’

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was way over the top this morning. You scared me, that was all.’

‘Yes, I did,’ I conceded, ‘and I’m sorry for that. But you are right, you were way over the top.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry.’

‘Accepted, for fuck’s sake!’ I snapped.

‘So you’re still mad at me.’

‘No,’ I told her, regretting my flash of temper. ‘No, I’m not. Mia, I don’t know what I am, I don’t know what to say. Nothing, I suppose.’

‘I’m not usually like that. I don’t know why I behaved that way.’ She paused for a couple of seconds. ‘But maybe I do,’ she went on. ‘Maybe I haven’t come as far from home as I thought. Do you want to give it another try?’ she asked. I didn’t hear total conviction in the question.

I didn’t have to think about the answer. ‘No, I don’t. It’s not a snub, Mia. And it’s not “Wham bam, thank you, ma’am” either. Last night was great, but this morning was not. Each of us saw a side of the other that we didn’t like, and that’s not going to go away. So best put a full stop after it.’

‘I suppose,’ she sighed, then she chuckled. ‘You weren’t so bad yourself, for a tired old thirty-something. No hard feelings, then.’

‘None. See you around. Who knows, I might even send one of my guys along to talk to your audience about the evils of crime.’

‘Mm,’ she said. ‘That DC Martin would do nicely.’

‘He’d probably agree with you. So long.’

So long indeed
, I thought, relieved,
and no damage done
. As I drove away, it occurred to me that I might have asked her whether she could recall the names McCann and Weir, then remembered that the task was being assigned to Mackie and Steele, and let it lie.

Only McGuire was in the office when I returned, minding the phones while the rest were at lunch. ‘The press officer called, boss,’ he told me. ‘He’s had a couple of people looking for updates on Weir and McCann.’

I called Inspector Hesitant back and dictated a short statement about the Marlon suspects having turned up dead in Newcastle. ‘Don’t go beyond that,’ I warned him. ‘Stick to my script; no initiative to be shown. As for the other one, you can tell them the truth, that we’re trying to establish whether there’s a link between the two victims beyond their schooldays.’ I’d ordered him not to use his initiative; that was something he liked to hear.

I went back out to the front office and sat on the desk facing McGuire. The tailor-made suit had gone, replaced by jeans and a brown suede bomber jacket. It hung over the back of his chair. His shirt had the words ‘Hugo Boss’ embroidered on the breast pocket, and I was pretty certain that it wasn’t a fake from a market stall. I might have been worried about the young man’s expensive tastes, had I not known that he came from a wealthy family.

‘What do you think of the job so far?’ I asked him.

‘As a whole, sir, or CID?’

‘CID.’

For once in our short acquaintance he looked serious. ‘It’s where I want to be,’ he said firmly. ‘Nowhere else. When I joined the force, that was my aim. I’ll tell you, sir, my folks were not best pleased when I told them what I was going to do. I’d three different options open to me: construction like my old man, join my mother in her temp hire business, or go into the Viareggio firm with my Uncle Beppe. I did a bit in each of them, and decided that none was right for me. When it comes to building things, I’m crap. Placing secretaries by the week in banks and PR firms? Look at me, for Christ’s sake. Who could take me seriously?’ I studied his massive frame and agreed. ‘As for my papa’s businesses . . . I’ll always think of them as his, not my uncle’s; he’s a knobhead . . . I’d have fitted in there, but I’d have wound up fighting with my cousin Paula.’ I’d run across young Paula Viareggio once, in Madogs while on a date with a girlfriend of brief tenure. She looked sensational, but the word ‘feisty’ could have been coined for her. I could see that she and her cousin would be an explosive combination.

‘So,’ McGuire continued, ‘I told everyone politely that I was going my own way, and I applied to join the force. Do you know how naive I was, boss? I thought you could apply just for CID. It came as a hell of a shock when they told me I’d have to wear a uniform for a while first. But I put it on. I’ve given myself till age twenty-eight to make it. If not, it’s back to importing Italian produce.’

‘How old are you now?’ I asked.

‘Twenty-six.’

‘Congratulations, kid. You’ve made it two years ahead of schedule.’

His face lit up; he seemed to radiate. McGuire is the most charismatic man I’ve ever known, and I’ve met a few worthy of that adjective. ‘You mean I’m staying? It’s not temporary?’

I nodded. ‘You’re signed up. The head of CID’s approved your transfer from uniform.’

‘Aw, that’s great, boss,’ the big guy exclaimed. ‘Wait till my mate McIlhenney hears about this. He will shite bricks of pure green envy. He and I had a bet on who’d make it into plain clothes first.’

‘Where is he just now, this pal of yours that I keep hearing about?’

‘Intimidating sailors in Leith.’

‘Maybe I should take a look at him too,’ I said. ‘But first things first. Since you are on the strength, give me a view on the Watson inquiry. Where do we stand on it?’

He sucked in a breath. ‘Well,’ he ventured, ‘from what I’ve been told, we know that the guys that wrote him off have been remodelled themselves, and we had no leads beyond them. Newcastle answered the mobile phone question while you were out. No joy there either; none found on any of them. If Milburn and his pal were taxi drivers like they say, that’s beyond belief, so somebody’s mopped them up too, as those guys did with Marlon’s.’ He frowned. ‘Looks like we’re up against it, sir. Down to last resort stuff.
Cherchez la femme
, and all that.’

‘Say that again.’ I must have spoken sharply, for he looked concerned.

‘Sorry, boss,’ he murmured. ‘I was just being flip. Like the French say, when all else fails, look to the woman.’

I laughed. ‘Maybe you were being flip, but do you know what? You’re going to be a great detective, Mario. There are some, the great majority, like Fred and me, that mix methodical with a wee bit of instinct, but every so often there’s someone who just relies on flair, luck and brass neck, yet gets the job done better than anyone else. You’re going to be one of them; I can sense it.’

He looked at me, puzzled. ‘Thanks, boss, but what the fuck do you mean? Why? What did I say?’

‘Tony Manson’s woman,’ I answered. ‘The one he took to Ibiza. We’ve ignored her all along. We don’t know who she is, and he took pains to make sure that nobody else does either. It’s time we found out.’

‘Maybe, sir, but how? People sign in as Mr and Mrs Smith all the time.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘Christ, I do often enough.’

‘Not on an aeroplane passenger list, they don’t. Check it out, Mario, check it out. Manson flew to Ibiza from Newcastle the Sunday before last. Get on to the airport and find out who the carrier was, then contact them and find out who was with him.’

‘There’ll have been a couple of hundred people on board. How’ll we know out of all of them?’

I shook my head. ‘Thank God the magic doesn’t work all the time,’ I said. ‘That would be too much to take. She’ll be the one in the next fucking seat to him, son, that’s how. Now go to it.’

As I left him leafing through the Yellow Pages . . . he had a lot to learn, but I couldn’t teach him all of it . . . Fred Leggat, Jeff Adam and Andy Martin returned from lunch. I called the DI into my office and told him about McGuire’s brainstorming, and of the instructions I’d given to the press officer. ‘Make sure that everybody knows the party lines on both, Fred,’ I warned. ‘Nothing beyond; not even pub talk.’

‘Will do,’ he promised. ‘By the way, DCS Stein called while you were out, boss. He said he’d like a word.’

‘How about two?’ I growled. ‘Those being “fuck” and “off ”.’

Leggat laughed. ‘You tell him that, boss. I’ve got a pension to safeguard.’

In truth, I had no reason to moan about Alf. He was my line manager, and he was entitled to be kept in the loop. I walked up to his office, knowing that he’d be there. My stomach was rumbling as I reached his door. I’d burned through my trucker’s breakfast.

‘Come in, son,’ he greeted me. Most of the time, Alf was avuncular. ‘You look fucking knackered. I can guess why. Inspector Hesitant sent me copies of the statements you issued.’ He saw my expression change and added, ‘Don’t go and tear into him, now; it’s a standing order he has. Before that, though, I had a call from my opposite number in Newcastle asking for any help we can give him. There’s a lot of heat on down there. The guy they found after you’d left was a hell of a fucking mess apparently. Something of a local character too, so his death’s attracted special attention. Not just in the media either. He was big in the Masons, so there’s interest within the Northumbria force, at the very top level.’

‘That’s all I need,’ I grumbled. ‘Pressure from the goat-shaggers, as a chum of mine calls them.’

‘Shh,’ Alf whispered. ‘Don’t let Proud Jimmy hear you.’

‘The chief? Is he one?’

‘Aye. High up, too.’

‘Then you must be as well,’ I pointed out, ‘or you wouldn’t know that.’

He beamed. ‘We’ll make a detective out of you yet, young Skinner. Now you know about us, you’d better join yourself.’

‘Not a chance,’ I assured him.

‘Why not?’

‘I’m too secretive for you guys.’

He stared at me, and then exploded in laughter.

‘Let me give you an example, sir,’ I said, then described the scene in Winston Church’s kitchen in all its terrible detail.

By the time I was finished he was pale, and serious. ‘You were there.’

I nodded. ‘Andy and I. After we’d found him, the local talent got a bit nervous about our presence, so we got off our mark.’

‘Good for you. That was the best thing to do.’

‘What does their head of CID want from us?’ I asked.

‘He wants you to share your files on the Watson case, and to take a couple of his officers on to your team. How do you feel about that?’

I bounced it straight back to him. ‘You’re the gaffer.’

‘No, Bob, it’s your call.’

‘Then it’s no, twice. These men were killed because of Marlon Watson.’ As I set out the facts for him, my thinking began to coalesce. ‘They were hired, I believe, through Church, to extract information from him, and they were given a location where they could do the job undisturbed. They did it thoroughly. I don’t know what they were trying to find out, or if they succeeded, but they were not the most subtle interrogators, and they killed him in the process. They were also careless. Early in our investigation we identified the van they’d used in Marlon’s abduction, traced its owner, and asked Northumbria for assistance in locating him. You with me?’