Skinner's Trail (36 page)

Ninety-six

K
i
ng's Landing was peaceful in the Scottish summer gloaming. The block, one of the first built during the revival of Leith as a living community, was framed against the deepening blue of the northern sky.

`Thank Christ, there's no entry phone this time,' muttered Martin as they approached the entrance. He pushed the door open and led the way up the twisting stairs. On the top landing there were two doors, facing each other. He glanced at each, and on the one on the left, read the name 'Virtue' on a small brass plate set just above a glass spyhole. Beckoning to Rose and Mcllhenney, he strode towards it. There was a bell push, but Martin ignored it, and thumped the surface with the side of his closed fist.

`Joanne he called. 'It's the police. Mr Martin. Open up, please.

He stepped back so that he, and his companions, could be seen clearly through the viewing glass. He listened, and eventually he heard the creak of a floorboard from within the flat. The door swung open slightly, as far as its safety chain would allow. Joanne Virtue peered around its edge. Her blond, hair was tousled, and held back by a band, and she wore no make-up, yet she was still striking. But there was something in her eyes that Martin had not seen before, an expression that
was far from her usual cheerful self-confidence – something that he would not expect to see on a woman of her profession, even when receiving a visit from the police. Martin looked at her and saw fear in her face.

Nevertheless, she tried to stick to type. 'What is it, Mr Martin? Some bloody time this! An' three of yis, an' all!'

`Is he here, Joanne?'

There was a flicker, a momentary tensing around those eyes. 'Who?'

`You know who. Paul Ainscow?'

`Naw! Paul's no here. Why should he be?'

`Because he's been missing for about the same time that you've been away from the sauna. Your spell off must have done you good. You look pretty healthy to me. Now open up and let us in. We want to interview Ainscow in connection with serious offences, and we've got reason to believe that he might be here. We've got a Sheriff's warrant to come in, so let that chain off the door.'

`Look, he's no' here. Why don't y'all just fuck off!'

Martin's jaw tightened. 'Sorry, Joanne, I'm not kidding. Either you let us in or that door comes off its hinges.'

The woman opened her mouth as if to argue, then all at once gave in. The door closed, its chain rattled as it was released, and then it swung open fully.

`Right,' said Martin. 'That's sensible. Listen, we're not here to hurt you or lift you or anything else. It's Ainscow we want.' ‘But ah tell ye—'

`We have to see for ourselves. Now, you wait out here with DI Rose, while Neil and I search the place.' He brushed past her into the flat, Mcllhenney on his heels.

`Careful, Neil,' he warned. The first of the three doors off
the hall was ajar. He turned back to Joanne Virtue. 'Bedroom?'

She nodded reluctantly. 'Aye. And the bog on the right, and the living room at the far end. The kitchen's off that. Mind ye don't break anything.

Martin pushed the door open and stepped quickly inside, tensed and ready for action. The room was empty, yet full of signs of recent occupancy. The musky smell of sex hung in the air. The bed was rumpled, and both pillows were crushed. There were night tables on either side, and on each lay a mug. Martin picked one up. It was half full of what looked like coffee, and it was still slightly warm. He checked the other. It was almost drained, but the dregs had not yet dried to a stain. He stepped back into the hall, signalling to
Mcllhenney
to open the bathroom door. An aerosol can of shaving gel and a razor lay on the shelf above the basin. Quickly they checked the living room and kitchen. They too were empty, but further signs of a guest were strewn all around.

`Okay, ladies,' Martin called. 'You can come in now.'

A few seconds later, Joanne Virtue stepped hesitantly into the room, with Maggie Rose close behind her.

`Okay, Joanne,' snapped Martin. 'No crap. How long has he been here? Since Monday?'

`Sunday night, late,' she said softly.

`And when did he go?'

`About twenty minutes ago.'

`It must have been a sudden decision, judging from those mugs in the bedroom. What happened? Did that fat bastard Barratt tip you off? I promised him that if he did, I would ri
p
his balls off. He should have believed me.'

Big Joanne shook her head. Naw, it wisnae Ricky. We ha this call a wee while ago. Just after ten. We've been screenin
all the phone-calls — no' that there've been many — leaving the answer machine on all the time. So we taped it.'

`That makes a change,' said Martin. 'A wee bit of luck for once. Play it back for us.'

She stepped over to a low sideboard on which the combination phone and answering machine sat, and pressed the replay button. There was a whirr as the tape rewound. Joanne turned up the volume.

Suddenly the rewind stopped and replay began. After four or five seconds, there was an intake of breath and a voice filled the room: a strange, strained voice, as if the speaker was concentrating very hard on something very important. 'Don't say anything. Just listen. I need to see you right away. It's about Tony's will. It's turned up. Go to the Botanics now, get in the back gate, and meet me at the entrance to the big glasshouse at eleven. Get moving.'

The line clicked as the phone at the other end was replaced. There was a whistle for a few seconds, before the machine switched itself off.

Martin and
Mcllhenney
looked at each other in astonishment. 'Jesus!' whispered the detective sergeant.

`Do you know who that is?' Martin asked Joanne.

It
sounded
like that wee lawyer chap, Cocozza — him that
was Tony Manson's message boy. Paul knows him. He sounded
funny,
'No bloody wonder, Joanne. He's been dead for a day and a
half!’

Ninety-seven

Skinner leapt to the phone and picked it up on the first ring. For one of the few times in his short life, Jazz had been difficult about sleep. Eventually he had succumbed to the cajoling of his parents, and now lay upstairs, fitfully, in his cot.

`Hello: Skinner was unusually curt.

`Bob, sorry, did I wake you?'

`No, but you'd better not have wakened the baby. What's the score?'

`I'm calling from Joanne's. Ainscow was here, but he's gone. Called by telephone, half an hour ago, to a meeting at the big glasshouse in the Botanics at eleven. Right this minute, in fact.'

`Who called him?'

'Would you believe, Richard Cocozza?'

`That's a bloody good trick. A tape.'

`Yes. That must have been why he was tortured. To force him to tape a message setting up Ainscow, and to get Joanne's telephone number out of him.'

`Clever bastard, right enough,' said Skinner, almost to himself
.

`Yes,' agreed Martin.
Lucan’s
English must have been a lo
t
better than he let on. And his brother must have given him
chapter and verse on everyone involved at this end.
We’re
heading off there now, boss. Will you call in back-up?'

`Bugger that! I'm your back-up.'

Martin laughed. 'So much for the family man. See you at the Inverleith Row gate.'

Skinner hung up. He turned, to find Sarah standing in the doorway.

`What was that?'

`Andy.'

`What's up?'

‘
Ainscow. Someone's got to him before we did. He's walking into a trap. I've got to go — and I could be a while.'

She crossed the room and kissed him. 'Okay, but be safe.' `Don't worry, love. This one's just a walk in the park. Literally.'

He picked up the sweater which he had discarded earlier while cradling Jazz, and pulled it on as he went out into the cool night air. The garden was flooded by the light of a full moon as he walked to his car, reversed out into Fairyhouse Avenue, and headed towards Inverleith, and Edinburgh's famous Royal Botanic Garden. He was driving fast up East Fettes Avenue, past the headquarters building, when his car-phone rang. He pushed the receive button.

`Bob, my friend. It is Arturo Pujol. I know it is late, but Sarah said it was okay to call you with my news. We have had a great excitement again in L'Escala. The man you are looking for in Britain
,
Lucan, the brother of Vaudan. He is here in Spain, in jail.'

Skinner smiled to himself in the dark of the car, a satisfied smile — the sort that comes with the final piece of the jigsaw. What happened?' he asked.

It was this afternoon. Young Joaquim — the officer who was with you and whose shot killed Vaudan — he was leaving the Gala, the bar across from my barracks, when he was attacked

by a wild-eyed man with a knife. The man was dirty and had been days needing a shave. It was Lucan, and he had in his pocket a page torn from our local newspaper, the Empordan, describing Vaudan's death, and with a photograph of the man who shot him. Joaquim was cut, but he fought him off, and was able to stop him with two shots in the leg. He said later that he had been aiming for his head.' Pujol paused. 'It seems that. Joaquim's shooting has returned to its normal form. Does all that interest you?'

As Pujol finished his tale, Skinner drew his car to a halt beside the side entrance to the Botanic Garden. 'Arturo,' he said, 'it's fascinating. I'm a bit busy right now, but I'll call you back tomorrow. We'll talk further and, who knows, I may have an even stranger story for you.'

Ninety-eight

M
artin took the roundabout at high speed, and swung back towards Ferry Road, the shortest route from Leith to the Botanic Garden.

The colourful sparkling of the moonlight on the petrol spill gave him advance warning of the hazard, but far too late for him to take any evasive action. He hit the slick as he exited from the roundabout, and the car went into an uncontrollable spin. He steered into it, but with absolutely no effect. Mcllhenney, in the front passenger seat, braced himself for the impact which he saw coming, but which Martin did not, as he fought for control.

The off-side of the car slammed into the base of the solid iron lamp-standard, wrapping itself around it like a sleeping lover in the night. Maggie Rose, in the back seat, was held in place by her retaining strap. Mcllhenney was pulled up short by his belt, as it cut into his chest and side. But Andy Martin, taken unawares, slammed sideways into the arch of the driver's door, his head hitting the tightly padded metal with a definitive thud. He rebounded back against Mcllhenney, unconscious, and with blood beginning to trickle from a cut above his right

eye.

The engine stalled. Rose and
Mcllhenney
sat in the shocked silence, until Martin's weight against him triggered
the sergeant into action. Gently he straightened the other man on his seat, with his head against its restraint.

`Sir,' he said urgently. 'Andy?'

Martin gave a faint groan, but that was all.

`He's spark out,' said Mcllhenney to Rose, over his shoulder. 'See if the phone's still working.'

The inspector obeyed her subordinate's order and took the instrument from its cradle between the front seats. Its dial showed that it was still operational. She keyed in the Fettes number. 'This is DI Rose. I'm at the foot of Ferry Road at the Leith end, in DS Martin's car. There's been an accident. One injured: unconscious. Get an ambulance here fast.' She ended the call and searched her diary for Skinner's car-phone number. She dialled it in and waited.

`I don't believe it,' she said to Mcllhenney. The boss's car-phone is engaged!'

She dialled another number: her own. A sleepy-voiced Mario McGuire answered. Thirty seconds later he was wide awake and calling Brian Mackie.

Ninety-nine

‘C
ome on, people, you should have been here first!'

Skinner voiced his exasperation in the darkness of his car as he sat at the end of the short roadway off Inverleith Row, which led to the smaller of the two gates into the Royal Botanic Garden. He glanced at the computer-set time display on the LCD panel of his cassette player. It showed seven minutes past eleven.

He shook his head. 'Can't wait any longer,' he muttered to himself. He stepped out of the car, and clambered over the gate with surprising agility for a man in his mid-forties.

The Botanics, as the people of Edinburgh know it, is one of the world's great gardens, set in seventy acres in the heart of Scotland's capital. Every day, save Christmas and New Year, it offers free access to thousands of visitors who walk its leafy paths among the trees, plants and shrubs, admiring and sometimes feeding the pigeons, ducks and impertinent squirrels
who animate the scene.

The centrepiece of the Botanics is its great glasshouse. As Skinner emerged into the wide open space of the garden, he saw it three hundred yards away, silhouetted massively against the northern skyline. To prevent any chance of his being spotted in the moonlight, he hugged the trees to his right as he ran towards the building, taking extra cover from their
darkness, but occasionally leaving the grass and cutting through the planted beds. Soon, he had reached the steps which led up towards the scientific study centre. He looked along the length of the Glasshouse, but saw no figures, no shapes, no movement. Pressing himself against the glass wall, he crept silently along towards the main entrance.

The flash of moonlight from the slivers of glass on the ground caught his eye before he reached the doorway. He froze for a second, listening, but heard nothing. Very slowly he advanced towards the entrance, moving lightly on his feet. When he had almost reached it, he broke away from the wall in a wide sweep and flattened himself against a tree opposite the doorway. One of the double doors was wide open, allowing him a clear view into the reception area. It was empty. Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself off from his tree and reached the door in a few strides, taking care not to step on the broken glass lest he make a sound. Inside the small hallway, a corridor led off to the right towards offices and to the scientific centre. To the left, another door led to the glasshouse itself. He stepped past the reception desk and tried its handle. It opened silently, and Skinner slipped into the first gallery of the great glass structure.

The door closed automatically behind him and, as it did, he looked around. Moonbeams shone through the higher branches of the trees and bushes, casting weird shadows on the paved walkways which led visitors through each section of the exhibition. He listened again, but still the silence was total. Then, through the foliage, he caught a flash of artificial light. He moved towards the source, almost on tiptoe, until he came to a second door. Through its glass, he could make out, to his left, a series of illuminated panels in which floated an
assortment of aquatic plants, their fronds moving in the tanks' continuous aeration. He opened the door and stepped into the expected darkness beyond.

At once, he knew that he had arrived too late for Paul
Ainscow.

The thick glass panel on his right was around ten feet wide and five feet high. It was back-lit and offered a view of the lily-pond which was the centrepiece of the upper area of the glasshouse. Ainscow's body was still settling on to the round stones and pebbles which made up the bed of the lily-pond —settling down to an eternal sleep. The corpse lay close to the glass, facing Skinner as he looked on in resigned horror. The eyes stared, wide and round. The normally sleek hair drifted, Afro-style, in the water. The head lay at an odd angle, strange enough to tell Skinner at once that drowning would not feature on the death certificate. The body lay on its side, the right arm thrown up and over the head, palm and wrist pressed against the glass. Skinner stepped forward and looked at the wrist. There, at the base of the thumb, vivid against the whiteness of death, he saw three small, pink semicircular scars.

`Knew it,' he whispered, softly, to himself.

Suddenly, his eye was caught by movement above and beyond the body, above the moonlit surface of the pond. There was a figure framed there, bent over as if peering into the pond to make sure that Ainscow was not about to resurface.

Moving as if his life depended on his silence, and imagining that it might, Skinner slipped back out of the aquarium room and looked up. The pathway to the lily-pond gallery was ten feet above his head. The steps leading up to it were at the far end of the area in which he stood. He paused for a moment and looked around, until his eye lit upon a
strange, long tree-trunk, similar to a palm, but with deciduous leaves. It reached up to and over the path above his head. He grasped it and began to climb, monkey-style, hands and feet digging for purchase into the rough, thick bark, sweeping small twiglet branches aside, scrambling up and up until the trunk began to curve and he was straddling it, perched above the walkway.

He sat and stared at the door to the lily-pond gallery, trying to decide his next move. But it was decided for him.

The glass door opened, framing a figure, silhouetted black in the moonlight — a huge figure.

Skinner jumped down from the tree. The man froze, then moved back into the pool gallery. Skinner followed, watching him through the glass panel as he backed away. He opened the door and stepped through. The gallery was lit by the moon, and by its reflection from the surface of the pool.

The man had stopped his retreat. He stood there waiting, a great dark slab, towering and vast. Skinner was six-two himself, but this giant stood almost a full head taller, straight-backed, wide-shouldered, and built like a bulldozer.

Oh shit, Skinner thought, of all the times for the cavalry to go missing!

`Hello, Lennie.

He had forgotten just how big Lennie Plenderleith was. He felt eyes boring into him, even in the dark. Eventually the mountain spoke.

`It's Mr Skinner, isn't it?'

It was possibly the most incongruous voice that he had ever heard. While its owner was huge and threatening, the voice was soft, slow and gentle, almost soothing in its tone. It struck Skinner that it might just have been that of a telephone
Samaritan. 'You sound as if you were expecting me.'

‘I
was. Officially we've been setting traps for a Frenchman, but I was pretty certain that it would be you who turned up. I did some private research on you, Lennie. You're not the big thick muscleman that you and Tony wanted us to see, are you? You were going to night
-
school classes even when you were working in that pub in Leith Walk. And while you were inside you were never out of the library. Correspondence courses in — what were they? — business admin, economics and Spanish. Who paid for them? Linda?'

Plenderleith shook his massive head. 'You're joking. No, Tony did.'

'He was grooming you, Lennie, wasn't he? You were going to be his right-hand man when you got out, weren't you? His adopted heir? What was that about a will in Cocozza's message? He had told us he couldn't find one. Was that just a way to get Ainscow here, or does it exist?'

There was a gleam in the dark as the big man smiled. 'Oh yes, Tony left a will all right. He gave it to me when he visited me in Shotts just before I got out. He thought it would be a long time before it was needed, though. He didn't think anyone could touch him.' Lennie gave a soft tinkling chuckle. `He reckoned even God would think twice about having a go at him. Tony took me under his wing years ago. I was giving some trouble to the manager of one of his launderettes. Back then, I thought I could make it big in the protection racket. I read The Godfather
and thought that was for me. So I went into this launderette, and told the manager it was ten quid a week or his windows were in, and after that his face. And then the real Godfather came to the launderette to see me: Tony Manson. He was younger then, and not quite as smooth as he
was later on. The hardest man I'd ever seen. It just radiated off him. He never said a word, just looked at me, and I knew that this man could kill me, and would if it came to it. So I said, "Sorry, I didn't understand. I won't bother this place again," and Tony said, "That's good. I like a quick learner. Sit down." And he talked to me. He asked me about myself, and I told him. We sat there for about three hours, cracking a few beers and talking, and at the end of it Tony offered me a job. He said he fancied making me his secret weapon.

`Most folk, aye even someone like you, look at a big guy like me, and all they see is size and muscle.' Lennie tapped the side of his head. 'They can't cope with the idea that there's anything going on in here. Tony wasn't like that. He realised that I could think as well as punch people's lights out, but he knew that I needed control. So he put me to work where he could keep an eye on me, and he began to teach me. Gradually he told me more and more, till I knew almost everything about his business. He even began to ask what I thought about things. It was a sort of test, I suppose, but once or twice I'd suggest ideas that he hadn't thought of, and he'd accept them. When you folk got lucky and I went to jail, he was gutted, but I said "What the hell. I'll put the time to good use." And I did.'

Did he tell you about Ainscow's operation?' Skinner queried. The great head nodded in the dark. 'Aye. He asked me what I thought.'

`What did you tell him?'

`I said "Do it. It sounds okay." I said that it was a clever way of generating a pile of black money from a clean source, and that if Ainscow wanted a few quid to get started, he should give it to him. But I told him that, if it was ever tumbled, he should cut his losses and get his dough back. Tony's great secret was in
keeping the money separate. Too many guys like him pump money from legit business
’
, again, the giant laughed softly in the dark, taking Skinner by surprise,
‘
or more or less legit, like knocking-shop saunas — straight into the other side. He never did that. He lived well from the pubs and the casinos and the rest, and he put the profits back into that side of the business, or into the stock market. If he'd used a penny of it on a drugs buy, you guys would have had a chance of tracking it down. All the drugs money was black, from armed robbery, extortion, stuff like that. When Ainscow came along with a long-term scheme for generating a million in funny money, it was a natural for him.'

Skinner shifted from one foot to the other. 'How did Ainscow know to come to Tony?'

'He was a casino punter. And he used to deal in a small way. Tony's organisation supplied him.

`Mmmm. Did Tony have anything to do with the Spanish business?'

`Absolutely not. He gave Ainscow the money and told him to get on with it. Dick Cocozza was the only link. He was supposed to check on it occasionally. But there was never anything on paper. No correspondence. The cash that Tony gave him came from the black side.'

`Where did he keep that sort of money?'

`Switzerland. Tony used to go there every year, with a party from the curling club. He'd run a bus, and every year he'd just take it out in a suitcase and stick it in a bank account. Then, after a couple of years, he'd move it into a private investment trust in Liechtenstein. Guess who owns that trust now?'

`So that's what was in the will,' said Skinner. 'That's your legacy, Lennie?'

`That was the will, Mr Skinner. A document transferring the trust to me in the event of Tony's death. It's worth millions. The pubs, and all the other stuff over here, they didn't matter. As far as we were concerned, they could pass to the Crown, like with any death where the estate's unclaimed. Wonder how the Queen'll take to living off the earnings of a string of dodgy saunas?' The big man chuckled again. 'My name's not Plenderleith any more, of course. I'm somebody else now, and now that I've tied off all the loose ends here, that's who I'll be from now on.

`There's one big obstacle to that, Lennie.

`Not too big, though, Mr Skinner. There's room in that pond for two.'

They stood there in silence in the silver moonlight, for several seconds. And then the giant took a pace forward. `Why did you kill Alberni?'

The question stopped Plenderleith in his tracks. He seemed to stand even taller in the dark. 'How did you know about that? I thought it was perfect.'

Skinner chuckled. 'You might be bright, Lennie, but nothing planned by the human mind is ever perfect. Remember Alberni's dog, in the garden?'

Lennie nodded. 'Yes, I was going to feed it, only I couldn't find anything to give it. Then I heard a car coming, so I got off my mark.

`Christ,' said Skinner
,
life's full of it. If you had fed that dog, I'd have bought the suicide. The investigation would have stopped right there and we wouldn't have linked Cocozza and Ainscow, at least not until far too late. You'd have been free and clear — if you'd just found a can of dog-food!'

He saw the big man smile and shrug his shoulders.

`But that's history. What happened? How did you wind up in L'Escala?'

`Tony came to see me in Shotts. We'd already set up the trip to Spain to look over that Rancho place. I was going out first —then Linda.' He paused. 'She was going to join me. But Tony said that there'd been a change of plan. He told me that he had found out, by accident, from a guy at the curling club, that the InterCosta thing was going to be rumbled. He said that he'd sent Cocozza to tell Ainscow to wind up the show and give him his dough back — plus profits, of course. He told me to pull my cash out of the
b
ank as soon as I got to Spain, then go to L'Escala and tie off the loose end. Tony told Ainscow at the start that he should cut the guy in on the deal, but he wouldn't. He was greedy. So the wee Spaniard had to go. Shame, but there it was.'