Thursday legends - Skinner 10 (35 page)

He
looked at her, a little doubtfully. 'Okay, Sarah. But he must have some
recovery to get through still.'

'With
which she can only help him,' she replied. 'Andy is a very strong man, both
mentally and physically. The only worthwhile things you can do for him are to
fix him up with some private counselling with Kevin O'Malley, to head off
any
possibility of post traumatic stress, and to wish him and Karen the best of
luck.'

'He's
got both of those. Christ, after seeing it, I think McGuire and I should have
counselling too.'

'Hah!
This from the man who swore he'd never again let O'Malley or anyone else inside
his head. No, you take those two boys for a walk, as you said you would; that's
the best form of counselling. While you're doing that, I will phone Alex, as
Andy asked me to.'

Bob
nodded. 'You're right.' He called back into the house. 'Mark, Jazz, come on.'
He picked up his younger son's carry-frame, slipped his arms through the straps
and fastened it across his chest.

The
two boys came rushing through the hall: Mark, incredibly bright for a boy just
verging on eight, cut out already for academia rather than athletics; James
Andrew, still short of three but a toddler no more, a sturdy child with his
mother's eyes and the promise of developing his father's physique.

'Where
are we going, Uncle Bob?' asked Mark, the adopted son. 'The beach?'

'The
beach will be mobbed today; no, we'll go for a long walk round by Luffness to
West Fenton, then back up to the village. You can see the horses and the
cattle, and look out for the different sorts of birds, then look them up in
your book when we get home.'

He
loaded Jazz into the carrier, up and over his head, then set off down the drive
on the forced march. Beyond the gate, Hill Road was lined with parked cars; he
saw a red Ford, a silver Toyota, a big black off-roader of some sort with
impenetrable smoked glass windows, a Mercedes, and more lined all the way up
the slope past the Diddler's house. It had
been
abandoned finally by the journalists who had kept vigil there the night before,
hoping for a glimpse of the grieving Edith. The vehicles were parked all the
way up to the golf course gate. Either the Bents car park was full, or drivers
were avoiding the small charge. Whatever, Skinner noted mentally, there was trouble
heading the way of the local traffic warden.

He
forgot the nuisance almost at once as he walked the boys out, down Sandy Loan,
right and across the main street then westward, out of the village. Mark
chatted incessantly as they headed down and round the bend in the road, Jazz
joining in as they reached the part where the walkway was wider and he could be
lifted safely out of his carrier. Eventually, they passed Luffness New Golf
Club with its commemorative cairn outside, passed the sweeping Luffness corner
itself, and turned into the rarely used road which twisted through the farmland
and up to West Fenton.

'This
is where we saw the albino squirrel, Uncle Bob, remember?' Mark called out,
walking with Jazz a few paces in front. Bob smiled as he remembered the odd
little animal, with its pink eyes.

'Want
to see it, Dad,' James Andrew shouted. 'Want to see
it.'

'I
doubt if it will still be here, son,' he answered. 'It was so white that it
might as well have been wearing a sign saying "Eat me" on its back. There
are hawks and owls around here, looking for small game like that.' Never in his
life, had Bob Skinner told a 'cute furry animal' story to any of his children;
he believed in teaching them about nature rather than cartoon characters.

They
walked on, past the stream which ran on their left through a narrow stretch of
woods, round a curve, past an isolated, white, art deco house, planted
bizarrely on the edge of the fertile farmland like a great iced cake, then out
into a straight stretch of road, between two flat fields, one ploughed, the
other sowed.

'What's
that, Uncle Bob?' There was something subdued about the boy's tone.

'Barley.
It'll be harvested in August then sold to a brewer.'

They
walked on until they reached the old railway bridge; the railway itself had
been gone for sixty years, but the bridge over the ghost line still stood,
fulfilling no function other than to offer a better view of Gullane from its
crest. Bob picked up Jazz and reinstalled him in his carrier, for the climb at
least.

They
stopped at the top, and looked back up towards the village, even though Mark
could barely see over the iron parapet. 'Uncle Bob,' he asked as they walked
on. Jazz was still in his carrier, his brother a few yards in front, so Skinner
strained to hear. 'Will that albino squirrel really be dead?'

He
cursed himself for a fool at his abruptness. The child's parents had met
violent ends; death was still a dangerous topic with him.

'Maybe
yes, maybe no,' he replied as they descended the far slope of the bridge.

Change
the subject. What? Anything.
'What
do you want to be when you grow up, Mark?'

'Alive.'

The
maturity, the perception, the sadness of the boy's response; all of them
stunned him, left him staring speechless at the back of his little bowed head.

'You
will be, son, you will be,' he promised.

And
then a sound broke in, the sudden revving of an engine, a big powerful engine.
Tyres screamed as they took a grip of the rough, tarmac road, gathering pace.
He swung round, looking back over his shoulder, seeing nothing but the big,
black vehicle and the sun reflecting off its dark, smoked windscreen, a quick
blinding flash as it roared over the hump of the railway bridge and hurtled
downwards, racing straight and unmistakably for him.

As
fast as he could, yet feeling as if he was running on soft sand rather than
tarmac, he turned back and raced towards Mark. He stretched out his right hand
and scooped the boy up, throwing him up and over the roadside fence and the
bush which was twined through it, into the field beyond. Then, in the same
movement, with the roar of the car sounding ever louder in his ears he threw
himself, and his burden, after him.

He
was in mid-air when he felt the blow on his left leg, harder than a Mcllhenney
tackle; it spun him round in his flight, sending him even further through the
air, even further into the sanctuary of the field.

He
lay there for a second, aware of Mark crying beside him. He tried to stand, to
catch a glimpse of the vehicle's number plate as it roared away, but his leg
was numb, and gave way under him. And then he realised that the carrier on his
back was empty. He looked around and saw Jazz, yards away, lying on his back in
a ploughed rut, motionless, looking up at the sky.

Desperately,
he crawled and scrambled across the field towards him, over the newly turned
land, until he reached him. Ignoring the growing pain in his leg, he pushed
himself to his knees.

There
was a light smile on the little boy's lips as he gazed upwards. Bob's mouth
twisted into the start of a scream
..
.

Until
James Andrew looked at him and chortled. 'That was good, Dad. Can we do it
again?'

53

Janine
Bryant had insisted that Pringle meet her at the Daybelge offices in Melville
Street. He assumed that she did not want a policeman, even one out of uniform,
calling at her home on a Sunday, but when he arrived for their appointment, he
found that the place was a hive of activity.

'All
of the partners and the senior people are in,' the tall, trim woman told the Superintendent,
as she carried two cups of coffee into the main meeting room, laying them on
white coasters on the long table. 'Mr Johnston-White has been appointed acting
head of the firm, and he's instructed everyone to call round their contacts and
reassure them that our operations and strategies will be unaffected by Mr
Shearer's death.'

She
frowned. 'Whether or not they believe us; that's something else.'

'Won't
Mrs Shearer have a say in what happens?' the detective asked. 'I've been
assuming that her husband's share of the business will pass to her.'

'It's
not as simple as that,' said Ms Bryant. 'The firm has a Keyman insurance policy
in place which provides funds for the purchase of the interests of a deceased
partner, and the partnership agreement incudes an undertaking to sell which is
binding on the heirs.

'Not
that Edith will be thinking about that right now, though. I spoke to her this
morning before I came here. The
poor
woman; she's distraught. We all are, of course, but for her
...
Their son is catching a flight from
Sydney around now, but it'll be the middle of tomorrow before he gets home.'

'Give
me the flight time,' Pringle said. 'I'll have a car meet him and take him out
to Gullane.'

He
sipped his coffee, then picked up a chocolate digestive biscuit. 'So Mrs
Shearer will be looked after by the firm?' he continued.

'Mmm.'
The secretary nodded. 'That's the theory of it. There is one big practical
difficulty, though. The Keyman policy pays out at various levels, depending
upon who the deceased partner is, but there's a cap of five million pounds.
That's the amount which will be available to Mrs Shearer.

'The
problem is that when he died, Mr Shearer was about to conclude the sale of the
partnership to the Golden Crescent Bank of Malaysia for eighty-five million
pounds. Since he owned sixty per cent of the partnership equity, that rather
makes a nonsense of the Keyman policy cap.

'The
surviving partners are still keen that the sale should go ahead. In fact, Mr
Johnston-White is flying to Kuala Lumpur tonight for a meeting with the Golden
Crescent people. If it does, then Mr Shearer's estate will benefit accordingly.
But if it doesn't
...
it can still be
argued that the negotiations have established a valuation of his holding which
is far in excess of the sum available from the Keyman policy.

'The
business is cash-rich, but it couldn't afford an extra forty-five million
pounds, not to buy back its own equity, at any rate.'

'I
see what you mean,' murmured the detective, through his moustache.

'Who
knew about this deal?' he asked.

'The
industry has known for some time that Golden Crescent was in the market for an
independent British fund manager, to kick-start a European expansion programme.
There have been newspaper references, and, obviously, as the leading investment
house in Scotland, Daybelge has been the subject of a lot of speculation.

'Other
firms have been mentioned too, of course. Mr Shearer was aware that Golden
Crescent had been talking seriously to another Edinburgh house, but he saw them
off.'

'How
important was Mr Shearer personally to this deal?'

Janine
Bryant looked into her coffee cup as if it was tea, and she was trying to read
the future in its leaves. 'We'll find that out when Mr Johnston-White gets to
Kuala Lumpur. He's worried enough to be taking Mr Laidlaw, our solicitor, and
one of his partners along. My feeling is that he was almost essential. Golden
Crescent may well look elsewhere.'

'Where?'

'I'm
afraid they may be tempted to go back to Paris Simons, the house they turned down
in favour of us.'

'So
Mr Shearer's death could turn out to be worth a hell of a lot of money to their
partners?'

The
woman gave him a knowing look. 'Oh yes, Mr Pringle, it could indeed.'

54

'We've
got to stop meeting like this, pal, or people will talk,' said Bob Skinner,
grimly, as Andy Martin looked down at him on his hospital bed, in a small
private room in Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. 'A couple of days ago and it was me
doing the sick visiting.'

'What's
the damage?' his friend asked, gesturing at his left leg, which lay outside the
sheets, encased in plaster from the knee down.

'They're
not sure yet, although they say there's nothing broken. It could be no more
than severe bruising, but there's the possibility of ligament damage in my
ankle. They've put this pot on for a week, to immobilise it and keep me from
putting weight on it.'