Skinner's Rules (12 page)

‘Are you going to tell me, or not?’

Skinner smiled expansively. ‘Tell you what?’

‘You think you might have cracked it, don’t you? You think you’ve nailed our man.’

The smile grew even wider.

‘Well, since you’ve been vetted, I will tell you.

‘Even as we sit here sipping this fine port, two of our colleagues are out in the cold watching a certain house on the outskirts of Edinburgh, the occupant of which has been under constant observation for the last few days.

‘And once the Sheriff gives me the necessary warrant, as he will tomorrow - sorry, this morning - you and I, you for old times’ sake, will pay a call on the gentleman. There we will interview him in connection with the four Royal Mile murders, the murder of Rachel Jameson... ’

‘But that was a suicide, wasn’t it?’

‘Don’t you bloody believe it... and the murder in Glasgow of a certain Shun Lee.’

‘Who the hell is Shun Lee?’

‘Before he was axed, stabbed and castrated, he was a Chinese waiter, and a client of Miss Rachel Jameson.’

The revelation hung in the air for almost a minute. But even through the Cousino Macul, the champagne and the port, Martin’s mind was working. His face lit up in comprehension. ‘Not a client with a grudge. A victim.’

He looked sidelong at Skinner, with a quizzical smile.

‘The guy we’re going to visit. He wouldn’t be Japanese, would he?’

Skinner had decided to take Yobatu by surprise. There would be no preliminary visit, but a full scale raid and interrogation.

Sarah awoke at 10.00 a.m. to find herself alone in Bob’s king-size pine bed. There was a note on the bedside table. Robert, she thought, your handwriting is bad enough for you to have made it big in medicine.

The message was brief but multi-purpose:
‘Morning, love. Tell Andy for me I’ve gone to see the man about a warrant for our visit tomorrow. I’ll be back for one o’clock. I’ve booked a starting time on No. 2. We tee off at 1:36. Tell Alex she’s partnering Andy. Luv, B.’

‘That’s great,’ Sarah muttered, but with a smile on her lips. ‘I’ve got either a migraine or a hangover, and he wants to play golf.’

Alex’s head appeared round the bedroom door. Her big eyes were clear, and her hair was as tousled as ever. ‘Hi, Sarah. You awake? I’m doing a fry-up.’

Sarah’s head was clear and painless by the time Bob returned. The healing process had been helped by a brisk walk along Gullane beach, a great mile-long stretch of golden sand. The weather continued cold, crisp and bright, with a light breeze blowing from the north-west.

They drove off from the first tee of Gullane Golf club’s number two course at 1.36 p.m. precisely, Bob and Andy hitting drives across a wind which was refreshing and just beginning to swing round from the north.

By the time that they holed out on the exposed twelfth green, the most distant part of any of the three fine links courses laid out on Gullane Hill, the blue sky had gone. The wind had risen and the clouds looked to be heavy with snow. As Alex sank the winning putt on the sloping eighteenth green, the first flakes were beginning to fall.

 

Later, Bob and Andy, each of whom had been forced by circumstances to become expert in the kitchen, prepared dinner. Alex offered to help but was banished by a wave of her father’s hand.

‘Just don’t get too close to him, Andy,’ she said as she left. ‘Pops isn’t exactly the handiest man around the house.’ She pointed to a crockery shelf which hung at an odd angle on the wall. ‘He’s been promising to fix that for years. Don’t stand underneath it. The lot could come down on you!’

The meal, when it came, was dominated by seafood. Langoustine bisque, cooked and frozen two months earlier, was followed by four thick salmon steaks baked with prawns and served with courgettes, baby corn and a tossed salad of iceberg lettuce, peppers, tomatoes and olives.

Instead of dessert, Bob produced a wheel of Stilton, and a bowl of black grapes on ice. He programmed the Amadeus recording of Haydn’s ‘Emperor’ quartet on his CD player, and as the glorious strings swelled from the Cyrus speakers, he smiled around the table.

‘You know,’ he said, squeezing Sarah’s hand, ‘this is turning out to be the best weekend I’ve had for a long, long, time. And if tomorrow goes the way I think it might, well it could, just about, top the lot.’

Sarah, Skinner and Martin left Gullane just after 10.00 a.m. next morning, Andy in his own car, each driving carefully through the newly fallen snow. The two policemen met up at Fettes Avenue, after Bob had dropped Sarah at her surgery, where she had left a pile of paperwork.

A twelve-strong team was assembled in the briefing room, awaiting instructions. Skinner strode to a table at the far end of the room. Martin took a seat in the corner nearest the door. The Chief Superintendent looked refreshed and very formidable.

He looked around the room. ‘Good morning, gentlemen, lady. Today we are off to an unusual place for us, Balerno. Very up-market.

‘We are not going up there to knock on a steel door with a big hammer, but we are going on serious business. This is the gentleman we are going to visit. Brian, please.’

Mackie handed each officer a print of the Yobatu photograph. One or two started as they looked at it.

‘That is Mr Toshio Yobatu, a Japanese industrialist resident in this country. A very respectable type indeed, upper-crust in Japanese society. But at this moment, we are investigating six violent deaths, yes people, six, and this gentleman has a very respectable motive in three of them. So we have to talk to him. And because he’s a prime suspect in these serious crimes, the nice Sheriff has furnished me with a warrant to enter and search his premises.

‘We are looking for a number of specific items. One, a black balaclava, or similar headgear. Two, a pair of black woollen gloves, almost certainly purchased from Marks & Spencer. Three, a black tunic, possibly one-piece. Four, sharp weapons, including axes, knives and possibly a sword. Five, human remains. It’s most unlikely that we will find these last items, and I won’t describe them. Suffice it to say that one of the male victims had some important bits missing.

‘Now, as I have said, this is serious business, and our reasons for calling upon Mr Yobatu are strong. But the evidence is not yet conclusive, and on the basis that Mr Yobatu may well be innocent, we don’t want to embarrass him unnecessarily in front of the neighbours. So we will go in at 1.00 p.m., when most people will be at lunch. Given the weather today, the snow will be thick up there, and so I don’t anticipate there being too much traffic about.

‘Those of you in uniform will wear overcoats, and no caps. We will travel in unmarked vehicles. When we arrive at the scene, Chief Inspector Martin, Inspector Mackie and myself will enter the house and show Mr Yobatu our warrant. Inspector Mackie will then come outside and fetch you gentlemen, and you, Miss Rose. You will enter the premises quietly and will conduct the search efficiently and neatly, inconveniencing Mrs Yobatu and her children to the minimum extent possible. DC Rose will remain with the mother and children while Mr Martin and I interview Mr Yobatu.

‘The search will be coordinated by Inspector Mackie. You will work in pairs in areas designated by him. Should you find anything that you think may be relevant to our enquiries, you will not shout out but will summon Mr Mackie and point out the object to him. Whatever it is, you will not touch it. He will make an assessment, and I will be summoned if necessary.

‘That is the operation. Any questions?’

A fresh-faced uniformed officer in the second row of seats raised a hand. ‘What if he’s no’ in, sir?’ He smirked as he said it.

One or two members of the group choked off laughter. Mackie looked at the ceiling.

Skinner nodded. ‘Thank you, constable. I take it that your present rank represents the height of your ambition in this force. I’ll say this just once more. This is serious business, potentially the most serious any of you have ever been on. I will come down like a ton of soft shit on anyone who treats it in any other way, or who is in the slightest bit disrespectful to any member of the Yobatu family. Now, are there any sensible questions?’

Detective Constable Maggie Rose raised her hand. ‘Sir, can I ask, whether Mr Yobatu has done anything while under observation to support the possibility of involvement in these crimes?’

Skinner’s eyebrows rose slightly. He knew Maggie Rose slightly. She had three years’ experience in CID, and her DI had marked her highly in her performance reviews. He made a mental note to consider her for the vacancy caused by Mackie’s promotion.

‘Thank you, Miss Rose. The answer is no. Since we put a team on him, Mr Yobatu has done nothing at all out of the ordinary. He goes to work, he goes home, and he doesn’t go out till he leaves for work again. There’s expensive TV dish on his house. He may watch a lot of telly, I believe there’s a Japanese satellite channel these days.’

Skinner looked around the room again. ‘Right. Time for a coffee or whatever, people. Carriages at 12.15, prompt.’

Home for Toshio Yobatu was a large secluded villa in a cul-de-sac off the main road which headed out of the city towards Lanark. The two-storey house was faced in light-coloured sandstone. An arched entry porch jutted out between two broad picture windows. Four more, smaller, windows ranged across the width of the second floor, and a big dormer was set in the roof.

To the left of the house stood a double garage with its up-and-over door raised, revealing a white BMW 535i and a black Nissan Sunny Gti. The snow-covered drive curved past the garage to the front door. Facing the entrance, a flight of three steps led down to a lawn, fringed with shrubs and flower beds, which ran under its unbroken white mantle to a high privet hedge. The snow on the path leading up to the house was undisturbed.

The three senior officers sat in Skinner’s Granada as it turned into the wide driveway, with a uniformed constable, hatless, at the wheel. The search squad, in two anonymous minibuses, remained at the entrance to the cul-de-sac, out of sight of the neighbouring houses.

‘Very nice,’ said Skinner, surveying the scene. ‘I don’t see many signs of Japanese influence, though.’

‘It’s quite a big house, boss,’ Brian Mackie remarked. ‘I’m glad we brought a dozen with us. Even at that it’ll take a while.’

The driver pulled up in front of the open garage, and the three detectives crunched round the snowy path. They stepped into the porch, kicking the snow off their shoes as they did so and wiping them on a large doormat. A big brass knocker hung between two stained glass panels set into the upper part of the heavy wooden door. Looking for a bell, but seeing none, Skinner seized it and rapped loudly, twice.

After perhaps thirty seconds, the door was opened by a black-haired Japanese woman. She was, Skinner guessed, not much more than forty years old but had the air of someone much older, someone who had seen too many sorrows. She was dressed casually, in Western style, her slacks emphasising her height, over five feet six, and a close-fitting black sweater emphasising her slimness.

‘Yes, gentlemen?’ The accent was flat.

‘Madame Yobatu?’ Skinner asked. The woman nodded. ‘We are police officers; we wish to speak with your husband. Is he at home?’

‘Yes. What is wrong? Has something happened at the factory?’

‘Please fetch him.’

‘Of course. I am sorry. I am being rude. Please come in.’

They stepped into a wide hall. Rugs were strewn on a polished oak floor. Five glass-panelled doors led on to different parts of the spacious house. From the centre, a stairway rose. The woman left them, they heard voices, and a few seconds later she reappeared.

‘Please enter.’

They stepped past her. Again, the room was furnished in Western style, with an oatmeal-coloured Wilton carpet, and a black leather suite of settee and two chairs ranged around a big stone fireplace, in which sweet-smelling logs burned. At the far end of the long room, two slidin glass doors stood apart, framing a tall broad man.

‘Come in, gentlemen.’

Yobatu turned, and led the three policemen into a spacious glass conservatory, walled to a height of three feet. A door on the right of the room led out into a large garden, enclosed by high fir trees. Shrubs and heathers ranged around a central lily pond, its frozen surface covered with snow.

The peaceful setting was wholly at odds with the blazing eyes of the man who turned to face them, his back to a gold upholstered swivel chair

Coolly, Skinner looked around the room, and saw, for the first time, a sign of Japanese influence. At the far, curving end of the conservatory, behind a leather-topped, two-pedestal desk and green captain’s chair, a full set of samurai armour stood on a frame. A short sword was tucked into the sash which was tied around the waist.

Skinner returned his gaze to the waiting man. Formally, he introduced himself, Martin and Mackie.

Yobatu nodded his head briefly towards each in turn. Then he spoke, and in his voice, Skinner caught an unmistakeable edge of contempt not far beneath the veneer of courtesy.

‘Gentlemen, what is it that brings three so senior policemen to my home on a Sunday? This is my day of rest; I would have thought it was yours also. So tell me, what has happened to my factory?’

‘Yobatu san,’ said Skinner. Mackie’s head turned in surprise at the greeting. ‘Nothing is wrong with your factory. We are here to speak with you about other matters.

‘In recent weeks there have been a number of violent deaths in Glasgow and in Edinburgh. We have looked for a link between these crimes, and in our investigation certain facts have come to light which indicate that such a link may possibly exist through you. This evidence is sufficiently strong for the Sheriff to have agreed to provide us with a warrant to search these premises for certain items which may have a bearing on these crimes.’