Skinner's Rules (3 page)

‘Thanks, David.’ Skinner slumped onto the battered leather couch beneath the tall south-facing window. Outside the day was bleaker than ever.

‘Bad one, was it?’ said Murray. ‘I thought Thornton looked drawn when he came in just then.’

Skinner described the murder scene in detail. Wnen he had finished he looked up. Without a word, the Dean, now ashen-faced, produced a second glass and poured a malt for himself. His hand shook as he did so.

Skinner watched him drain the glass. ‘David, can you think of anyone with a professional grudge against this man? Had he lost a case? Could this be a disgruntled ex-client putting out a contract from Peterhead?’

Murray thought for a moment. ‘I can’t see that. The fact is that Mortimer was very good. He’s still a junior, but he’s led for the defence in one or two quite big cases, and given the Crown a good stuffing in the process. I can think of a couple of Glasgow villains who would be doing serious time right now, but for Mike Mortimer. But do you really think that the perpetrator knew him? At 4.00 a.m., down a close, wasn’t this just a random madman?’

Skinner nodded. ‘In all probability that’s exactly what it was. But one thing bothers me. The animal got away without leaving a single pawprint behind him, yet he tossed away this huge bloody bayonet where we’d be sure to find it. Still, you’re right. Chances are it’s a nutter. I only hope that he doesn’t get the taste for it!’

‘Indeed, Bob, indeed!’

The big detective stood up, towering over Murray. He was six years younger than the Dean, but at that moment he felt much older.

‘Look, David, can I have your permission to talk to Mortimer’s clerk, and to check on past and current instructions? Just to cover all possibilities.’

‘Of course. Carry on whenever you wish. In the meantime, I’d better put a notice up in a public place. All your people across the way will have drawn attention, as will the closure of the Close. Gossip spreads like flame here, so I’d better let the troops know the bad news as soon as possible.’

The two shook hands, and Skinner left the Library. He walked back across the street, to the mouth of the Close. A group of journalists and photographers had gathered. They crowded round him as he approached, thrusting tiny tape recorders under his nose. A television camera and hand-lamp were trained upon him.

‘Any statement yet, Mr Skinner?’

‘Any ID on the victim, Bob?’

He held up his hand to silence the clamour. No point in delaying, he thought. He had always been willing to talk to the media, and this had won him their respect and their trust. It had also brought him the highest public profile of any detective in Scotland.

‘Okay, gentlemen ... oh, yes, and okay, Joan ...’ he began, spotting the Scottish Television reporter beside her camera crew.

‘At around 5.30 this morning, two police officers discovered the body of a man in Advocates’ Close. It was quite obvious that he had met a violent death, and a murder investigation is now under way.

‘The victim has been identified, but the name will be withheld until next of kin have been informed. Once that has been done I will make a further statement.’

Alan McQueen of the
Daily Record
was first with a question. ‘Have you found a weapon, Bob?’

‘We have found something near the scene which could well be the murder weapon. We are talking here about severe wounds caused by a sharp-edged weapon. That’s all I can say for now. Thank you all.’

He turned away and was about to enter the Close, when McQueen put a hand lightly on his arm. ‘Any more you can tell us off the record, Bob?’

Skinner stopped and turned back. As he did so all of the tape recorders were switched off and pocketed, the television hand-lamp was extinguished and the camera was lowered from its operator’s shoulder.

He was silent for a few moments, as if choosing his words. Then he looked at McQueen directly. ‘Without quoting anyone, you can say this: senior police officers are agreed that this is one of the most brutal killings they have ever seen.

‘You can say, too, that police are anxious to speak to anyone who may have seen a person in the High Street, Cockburn Street, or Market Street area between say 3.30 a.m. and 4.30 a.m., with what might have been blood on his clothing. I don’t want to alarm the public at this stage, but want this bastard caught and bloody quick, so any help you can give me in putting that word about will be much appreciated.’

‘Any hint on the victim?’

‘Male, aged thirties, unmarried. We should have broken the news to his parents and his girlfriend within the hour, so check with me at ten-thirty. I’m going to set up an incident room in the old police office across the road.’

‘Thanks, Bob.’ ‘Thanks, Mr Skinner.’ The group broke up, the journlists rushing off to file copy and to prepare broadcast reports. Skinner knew that his disclosure of the brutality of the killing had provided an extra headline, but if there was a maniac at large it would do no harm to put the public on guard.

He pushed aside the tarpaulin sheet which had been raised as a screen over the mouth of the Close and stepped inside. David Pettigrew, the deputy Procurator Fiscal, as Scotland’s public prosecutor is known, awaited his arrival. He was a burly man with a black beard which, even in the poor light, accentuated the greyness of his face. I’ve seen that pallor a few times today, Skinner thought.

‘Mornin’, Davie. I can tell by your face that you’ve had a look under that cover.’

‘Holy Christ, Bob! Who’d have done that? Jack the Ripper?’

‘Don’t. He was never caught.’

Pettigrew shot him a lugubrious look. ‘I see you’ve found the murder weapon. Any thoughts on who might have used it? Former client connections?’

‘That’s the obvious starting point, but David Murray says no. Apparently the lad left a string of happy villains behind him. According to his description of Mortimer’s career the Glasgow Cosa Nostra would help us find whoever did this. And I might have to ask them because, apart from a bayonet which I know even now is not going to give up a single finger print, I do not have a single fucking clue!’

The news of the murder broke first on the 10.00 a.m. radio news bulletin on Forth RFM, Edinburgh’s commercial music station. By that time, David Murray had posted a black-edged notice at the entrance to the Library, having first sought out Rachel Jameson, and having broken the news personally. By that time, too, CID officers in Clydebank had told Mike Mortimer’s stunned father that his brilliant son was dead.

As he had promised the press, Skinner set up a command room in the former police station behind St Giles Cathedral, across the street from the murder scene. The building had been converted to a District Court two years earlier, but there was still adequate office space available.

There, he and Martin stood looking at their two items of evidence. The technicians, with unprecedented speed, had confirmed his guess that the bayonet was absolutely clean of fingerprints. There was no sign of blood or bone fragments, but halfway down the blade its long cutting edge was slightly notched.

Carefully Skinner picked it up.

‘Andy, I want Professor Hutchison, the Big Daddy pathologist, to do the postmortem, and I want a yes or no from him on whether this was the weapon. He’ll want to run a test, so find the biggest, ugliest polis-man in Edinburgh and have him ready to try to go through the equivalent of a human neck with that thing in a single swipe.’

Martin grinned. ‘I know just the bloke. There’s a beast down at Gayfield that they send up to the station when the Glasgow football crowds arrive for a Hibs game. One look at him and they’re like sheep.’

Skinner looked at the briefcase. ‘It’s a bugger about this combination. Six digits, three either side. This is a valuable piece of luggage, so I don’t want to damage it. We don’t have any safe-breakers in court today do we?’

‘Sorry, we don’t. I’ve checked.’

‘Right, let’s try some of the obvious ones. What was Mortimer’s date of birth?’

Martin checked a folder: ‘4-6-60.’

‘Let’s try that.’ Carefully, he set the digits in sequence, then tried the locks. They remained immobile. ‘Let’s reverse it.’ He reset the combinations to 06 and 64, then pulled the square raised levers, simultaneously, away from the centre of the case. The catches clicked open. ‘Gotcha.’

He opened the case and, carefully, lifted out the contents. Briefs for two criminal cases in the High Court in Glasgow, one an incest trial, the other arson. Witness statements, and notes on each side. A Marks and Spencer sandwich wrapper. A Mars bar, untouched. Two green Pentel pens.

‘Not a lot here,’ Martin spoke Skinner’s thoughts.

‘No, there isn’t.’ Skinner hesitated. ‘But you know, Andy, there’s just something about this that doesn’t quite square away; something about this situation that raises one wee hair on the back of my neck. It’s niggling away at me, and I’m buggered if I can figure out what it is.’

Martin knew the signs. The Big Man was a stickler for detail. If anything in a situation was out of line with what he considered to be normal, he would gnaw away at it forever. But nothing here seemed out of the ordinary.

‘I’ve got to say, boss, that I can’t see anything odd.’

‘No, and if it’s there, you usually do. Maybe I’m still just a bit sick over this one.

‘All right, let’s get this enquiry properly under way. I want all the taxi drivers covered. Everyone at the
Scotsman
who was either going off or beginning a shift at that time. All the office cleaning contractors. Railwaymen. Coppers, even. Talk to them all, and I’ll deal with the overtime bills later. We’ve got the Queen here in two weeks, and I don’t want our nutter still on the loose by then!’

It is one of the great truths of crime, that in the majority of murders, the victim is known to the killer. But an exhaustive search of Mortimer’s circle of acquaintances, professional and social, produced not a trace of a lead. And without that personal connection, which in many cases is as direct as the husband sat drunk in the kitchen, while his strangled wife grows cold in the bedroom, any murder is enormously difficult to solve ... unless the investigating team has an enormous slice of luck. And luck was in short supply that week in Edinburgh.

In forty-eight hours every one of Skinner’s targets had been covered. None of them had produced a lead towards the identity of the ‘Royal Mile Maniac’, as the tabloids had labelled the killer.

During that period, Skinner directed operations from his command centre in the High Street, interrupted only by a three-hour visit to the High Court to give evidence in a drugs trial.

Three men had been kept under observation in Leith, and a consignment of heroin had been tracked from a Panamanian freighter to a ground-floor flat in Muirhouse. The police raid had been well-timed and wholly successful. The three men had been caught ‘dirty’ and their distribution ring had been broken up. Skinner had been irked, but not surprised by the ’not guilty’ plea. The Scottish Bench was commendably severe on dealers, and the three knew that they could be going away for fifteen years.

So it was that Skinner came to be side-tracked from the Michael Mortimer murder enquiry, and cross-examined by Rachel Jameson for the defence. She was a tiny woman, barely more than five feet tall. Her advocate’s horse-hair wig hid most of her blonde hair, which was swept back and tied in a pony tail. Under her black gown she was dressed in the style required by the Supreme Court of lady advocates, a dark straight skirt surmounted by a high-necked white blouse.

As the Advocate Depute finished his direct examination, she rose, bowed to Lord Auchinleck, the judge, and walked slowly towards Skinner.

‘Your information came from an anonymous source, Chief Superintendent?’

‘That is correct, Miss Jameson.’

She looked towards the fifteen men and women who faced the witness box. ‘Might the jury be told his or her name?’

‘Miss Jameson, I will not reveal that unless I am instructed so to do by the Bench.’

She looked towards the judge, who sat impassively in his wig and red robe.

‘Convenient, Mr Skinner. Mr or Mrs Nobody tells you about a stash of heroin. You kick the door in, and lo and behold there it is. Mr Skinner do you trust your officers?’

‘Implicitly.’

‘So what would be your reaction to my clients’ claim that these drugs were, as they say, “planted” by your detectives?’

‘I would say that it was preposterous, and wholly untrue.’

‘So defend your officers, Chief Superintendent. Name your informant.’

Skinner leaned forward in the witness box. He looked deep into Rachel Jameson’s eyes and held her gaze. ‘Counsel may be aware that I have come to this Court from a highly-publicised murder enquiry. Earlier this week I saw a person who had been brutally killed. If I do as you ask, I might well have to look at another. I don’t want that. Do you?’

Rachel Jameson paled. She nodded to the Bench and sat down. Lord Auchinleck thanked Skinner and excused him. He left the Court feeling a twinge of sympathy for the defence advocate, but only a twinge. Each of them had clients to protect.

The telephone, held in a cradle screwed to a post at the head of Skinner’s pine bed, rang at 6.00 a.m. He struggled out of sleep, cursing softly. The slim figure beside him rolled over, grumbling. His groping hand found the receiver. The caller was Andy Martin.

‘I’m sorry to wake you, boss, but there’s been another murder. Jackson’s Close this time. Some bastard’s set a wino on fire!’

‘Aw, come on, Andy. Those poor sods are always dropping matches on their meths.’

‘No’ this one. He had a gallon of petrol poured over him and was set alight by a piece of paper thrown on to a trail four feet away. Look, I wouldn’t have called you, but with the other one so close by, and so recent ... ’