Skinner's Ghosts (13 page)

Ruth shook her head. 'You have too much faith, Mr Skinner. I've been living with a separated man for the last month. Mine's a doctor, a country GP. We're the talk of the community too, although on a smaller scale than you.'

He looked at her in surprise. Ruth was in her late twenties, and when it came to men, she had always led him to believe that she sought safety in numbers. 'I wondered why you'd changed your contact number,' he murmured.

'And I didn't tell you,' she countered. 'Which, if you want to look at it that way, puts us both at fault.

'Now, are you ready for what the papers say?'

The Deputy Chief Constable nodded. 'As much as I ever wil be.'

'I've been through them already. I've marked the pages you should look at. The red numbers are the stories about you. The blue ones are about the McGrath investigation.'

Skinner picked up the paper on top of the pile. As always in 80

Ruth's arrangement, it was the Scotsman. His heart sank as he looked at the lower part of the front page, from which his likeness gazed out at him: at once he knew what the tone of the coverage would be.

Rather than recycle the Spotlights sensational scoop, the responsible Scotsman had taken as its front-page lead the announcement by five members of the Police Supervisory Board that they intended to raise the Deputy Chief Constable's conduct at the next meeting of the Board on the fol owing Wednesday. The Chair of the Board had agreed to accept an emergency motion of censure for debate.

Skinner scanned the rest of the story. In careful terms, clearly legally approved, it sketched out the allegations about his private life, naming Pamela Masters, and carrying the statements released by his solicitor and the Chief Constable's office. It closed with a footnote directing readers to Page Sixteen.

He leafed through the pages until he arrived at the Editorial column. There were two leader articles. The second was headed

'Morality and the Media'.

The detective scanned it through then read it aloud.

'If it is to be of true value to society, and ultimately to protect its freedom, the media as a collective entity must never be afraid or reluctant to comment critically on one of its own. when condemnation is justified.

'It is with that in mind that we deprecate the conduct of Spotlight magazine in its invasion of the private life of Deputy

Chief Constable Bob Skinner, and in particular the methods which it chose to adopt. This newspaper disapproves thoroughly of the surreptitious photographing of honest citizens within their own homes. That is why we wil not reproduce the photographs which appeared yesterday, although we were offered

publication rights, at a price.

'Spotlight is a publication without any perceptible moral standards, driven only by the greed of its owners, and restrained only by the civil law of defamation. Your publishers find it distasteful whenever this newspaper occupies the same shelves in the relatively few outlets where they are sold together.

'Nevertheless, when questionable behaviour comes to light, the fact that its exposers are beneath contempt themselves does not make it any less questionable. Mr Skinner occupies a high-profile position which demands exemplary standards of personal behaviour. We wil not pass judgement on the motion which will be put before the Joint Police Board on Wednesday.

All we will say is that the Deputy Chief Constable, despite his great service to the city, is not above personal censure. On this 81

occasion, if his professional and moral conduct is cal ed into question, then in the circumstances, it seems that he cannot blame the Spotlight, however unprofessional and immoral a rag it might be. He can blame only himself

He folded the paper and laid it aside. 'I can't disagree with much of that,' he said. 'Who could, given that it's so circumspectly written?'

He gave a wry smile. 'Mind you, for all its position on the high moral ground, I can't help noticing that the Scotsman still manages to put my private life on its own front page.

'Is all the rest of it like this?' he asked.

'Yes,' Ruth replied. 'There are no other leaders, and no-one else has used the photos, but al the stories lead on the censure motion.

Everyone's used it. Even the Telegraph.'

'Let me guess. On Page Three?'

'Right first time.'

Skinner picked up the Daily Record and turned to page seven, as Ruth's red number indicated. 'Five Hunt Top Cop!' he read. He waved the newspaper in the air, indicating a row of head-and-shoulder photographs.

'There they are, the Famous Five. Unreconstructed Lefties, all of them; every one of them keen to take any opportunity to put their own party on the spot.'

His secretary looked across at him. 'Wil you go to the meeting on Wednesday?'

'I've thought about that. I'll go only if the Chair guarantees me the right to a personal statement, after the discussion but before the vote.'

'Do you think she will?'

'It won't be her choice. It'l be a group decision. My bet is that she won't be allowed to.'

He rearranged the newspapers into a pile.

'Will you issue any more statements before the meeting?'

Skinner shook his head. 'No. Pam might, though. She's been advised that she has a case for defamation against the Spotlight, since they suggested that she slept with me to get on in the Force. I'm telling her to sue.'

He saw Ruth wince. 'You don't agree?'

'If she was sure they'd settle out of court,' she said, 'yes, I'd agree.

But if it goes to trial, she could be hammered in the witness box. I wouldn't fancy being cross-examined about my sex life.'

'They'l settle, Ruth. Sooner rather than later too. That rag's used to paying off libel suitors.'

He slapped the papers on his desk, in a typical gesture. 'But enough of that,' he said, suddenly grim again. 'Let's see what the press say V about the McGrath case. That's my priority, and the thing that makes me most angry about the Spotlight is the fact that they deflected me from it!'

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23

Martin and Mcllhenney had barely left Skinner's office before he picked up his secure telephone and dial ed a London number.

'This is Skinner, in Scotland,' he said, curtly, to the man who answered his cal with a simple 'Yes?'. 'The technical people are analysing a tape for me. Have them cal me back with a progress report, within ten minutes.'

Six minutes and four seconds later, the direct line rang. He picked it up quickly, laying down the file he was reading. 'Skinner.'

The voice on the other end of the line answered in a middle-American drawl. Skinner knew that the special relationship which had sprung up between the new Prime Minister and the US President had led to promises of greater co-operation between the security services for which each was responsible. He wondered if the caller was early evidence of their sincerity.

'Good morning, sir,' said the woman. 'My name is Caroline Farmer. I've been working on your tape.'

'Good to hear from you, Ms Farmer. Been with us long?'

'Three weeks, sir, on secondment from Langley.'The Scot smiled, his supposition answered. 'What's your background?' he asked.

'I'm a graduate of Massachusetts Institute of Technology, been with the Company for four years. I'm over on the new information exchange programme.'

'That's good. How about my mystery voice, then? You got anything for me?'

Caroline Farmer hesitated. 'Yeah, we've got something,' she began.

'I'll start with the accent. We have people here who reckon they can place the origin of UK citizens by the nature of their speech.'

'Yes, I know. What are they saying?'

'They believe that your caller is Scottish, sir.'

'Hah,' laughed Skinner, 'that's very good. Now carry on please: Scotland's quite a big place.'

'That's it, sir,' said the American. 'They can't do any better than that. They say that the basic cast of the voice indicates that the caller is Scottish. But his speech is absolutely flat, other than that. Listening to you, sir, I can detect a pronounced accent which I assume is regional Edinburgh.'

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'Mostly Lanarkshire, actually,' the DCC grunted.

'Okay, but distinctive none the less. This guy is either disguising his voice, or he's been subject to so many influences that he cannot be pinned down. They did say, though, that he could have spent some time outside Scotland, or have a non-Scottish parent.'

'That's something at least. Now how about the tape itself: any joy from that?'

Caroline Farmer paused once more. 'I'm not sure whether you'l find it joyful, sir.'

'Try me.'

'Okay,' she said, 'but first I have to ask you something? When the cal came in, was there an open door or window in your home.'

Skinner frowned, searching his memory. 'Yes,' he said at last. 'It was a warm night. We had the window open a little.'

'Good. Now think again. Can you remember, as you listened to the man, whether you could hear anything else?'

He closed his eyes, and tried to place himself back in the bedroom.

His anger still burning over Salmon's taunting cal . Undressing in the dark, beginning the process of unwinding, of relaxing, of making love. Then the ringing of the phone, and his fury erupting once more.

He stopped and concentrated on the moments before the interruption.

Pamela, kissing, licking, nibbling her way down his body. . .

'Geese!' he said suddenly. 'Through the window I could hear geese.

It's no big deal for us, part of the sound furniture, you might say.

There's a wildlife sanctuary near my house. In summer, they go over in flocks at al hours.'

'Okay,' said Caroline Farmer. 'That was on the tape: the sound of geese. You couldn't hear it on the cassette we sent up, but when we built it up, it was there.

'Now to the interesting part. The equipment that we use to tape telephone calls records each half of the conversation on separate tracks. This is the sound we took from the background of your track.

Listen.'

She broke off, and suddenly Skinner heard in the earpiece the familiar squawking sound of a large flight of wild geese, as he had heard it thousands of times, as he had heard it less than forty-eight hours before. There was a click as the player was switched off.

'Now,' the woman resumed. 'Hold on while I switch cassettes.

Okay, ready. This is the background from the caller's track.'

Another pause. Another click. Once more the sound of flying geese filled Skinner's ear. He listened, puzzled, for a few seconds. 'Wrong tape,' he said, at last. 'You're playing my track again.'

No sir,' said Farmer, emphatically. 'I am not. That is the background from the cal er's track.'

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'Well, surely the sound from my phone must have fed through to his.'

'It did. There was feedback sound on both tracks. We've stripped that off. You, and this guy, sir, you could both hear the same flight of geese, at the same volume, at the same time. Which means that the cal was made from very near your home.'

Skinner sat at his desk, stunned. 'There's no possibility of the equipment being faulty?'

'No, sir, there is not. You live in a vil age, I understand.'

'Right.'

'That might make it easier for you. We were able to match the sounds on each track exactly. The recording levels on each were almost exactly the same. I would say that you and your cal er were no more than a quarter of a mile apart.

'Can I ask you, sir, in which direction do the geese fly?'

'Westward; by evening and night, they fly westward.'

'Good, that tells me from the sound pattern that the cal er was to the east of your home.'

'Anything else?' asked Skinner, eagerly. 'Was there anything else on his track? Can you tell what type of telephone it was?'

The American chuckled on the other end of the secure line. 'We ain't that good, sir. It was a touchtone telephone, and the cal er disabled your 1471 tracing service, but you knew that already. There were other sounds though, faintly, beneath the geese. An automobile passed close by during the call travelling in a straight line at about forty miles per hour. And there was music playing nearby. Further away, there was the sound of a woman, shouting angrily. Does any of that help?'

Skinner grunted. 'It might. Listen, Agent, or whatever I should cal you, that's great work. I want copies of al these tapes sent up here for my people as soon as possible, like today. Can you isolate that woman's voice?'

'Sure. I'll put that on a separate tape. I'll have everything with you by courier by mid-afternoon. Meantime, we'l keep on working.

We can take resolution up practically to the level of an individual goose. You never know what else we might turn up.'

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24

Detective Chief Superintendent Martin was seated at his desk as Skinner rapped on his door and burst into the room. Detective Constable Sammy Pye, with his back to the door, looked over his shoulder and sprang to his feet.

'I'm just getting young Sammy started on that list you ordered, sir,' said the Head of CID.

'Good,' said Skinner, closing the door behind him, and waving Pye back to his seat, 'but put it on hold for now. Our Friends in the South have come up trumps. We know where the caller was when he phoned me, and you're not going to believe it. The cheeky bastard was within a quarter of a mile of my bloody house!'

Martin's eyebrows rose. 'You what?' he gasped, incredulously.

'That's right. The background noise gave him away. From what I've been told, my guess is that he cal ed from the phone box outside the Post Office, across the road from the pub. However we can't be certain of that. Chief Superintendent, I want to know, from British Telecom, the location of every telephone in Gullane that was used at ten fifty last Saturday night, and I want every one of those subscribers checked out.'

He paused. 'I can't believe that the guy would actual y hide Mark in my home vil age, but it's the first lead we've had and it must be fol owed. Unless we turn up something from the telephone check, I want a house-by-house check of the whole place. You can leave mine out, but I want every other door in that village knocked.'