Thursday legends - Skinner 10 (41 page)

He
lay back and settled down on the divan, leaving his plastered leg hanging over.
'I think I'll go into the office tomorrow,' he said. 'I'll get a car to pick me
up.'

'And
hobble around, putting weight on that leg?' she exclaimed. 'No, you will not.'

'God,
you're a hard woman. I wonder if Alec Smith's wife was like you; maybe that's
what made him such a morose bugger.'

She
snorted. 'People like the late DCI Smith are not made:
they're
born. This may not be very scientific, but I do believe in human nature.' She
took off her dressing gown and slipped, naked, into bed beside him. 'Take our
younger son, for example; he's you in miniature, already.'

He
smiled as she switched the light off. 'I wonder how the new one will turn out?'

'Ahh,'
said Sarah. 'She'll be like her mother; a more placid and co-operative baby I
have never seen. Let's hope that the next two are like her.'

'The
next two?' he gasped. 'One, okay, but
...
It's tough, paying university fees out of a pension, and I'll be retiring by
the time Seonaid's at that stage.'

'I'd
sort of hoped you'd be retiring before then.'

Suddenly
she was aware that he was sitting bolt upright in the dark. 'What is it?' she
asked, anxiously.

'It's
you. Something you said. Oh, you little cracker.'

He
switched on the light once more and scrambled for his address book in the
drawer of the bedside table. She watched as he flicked through the pages until
he reached the 'Mc' section, then picked up the telephone and dialled.

'Mario,'
he said at last. 'DCC here. Sorry if I woke you, but it'll be worth it. I've
just remembered something Alec Smith said to me a long time back. I was
quizzing him one day about SB security.

'I
remember it now, as clear as day. He gave me a long look and he said, "The
only way anyone'll ever crack my safe, sir, is if they know my mother's Co-op
number". Alec's mother lived in Lochgelly, in Fife. She died four years
ago. I wonder how long the Co-operative Society holds on to the records of
departed members?'

64

'What
have you got for me, Jack?' Dan Pringle's heavy moustache bristled as he looked
across at his sergeant.

McGurk
laid a folder on the Superintendent's desk. 'Mr Luke Heard, sir. Age
forty-four, senior partner of the firm of Paris Simons; married, wife's name
Gwendoline, nee MacDonald, one daughter aged seventeen and two sons, aged
fourteen and twelve. Educated at George Watson's and Edinburgh University; the
kids are all at Watson's too. He's a member of the New Club, Drumsheugh Baths
Club, Edinburgh Sports Club, and the Merchant Company of Edinburgh.

'His
salary at Paris Simons is one hundred and seventy thousand pounds per annum; in
addition, as an equity partner he shares in profits. As well as his involvement
with the firm, he holds non-executive directorships in a few firms in which
he's invested. One's a software development house in Livingston, another's a
design consultancy, and a third specialises in the disposal of clinical waste.

'He's
also chairman of a company called Linton Heritable Trust; it's an investment
vehicle based in Liechtenstein owned by a man called Dominic Jackson.

'Heard's
last tax return declared total income of four hundred and ninety-one thousand
pounds.'

'Fuckin'
hell,' Pringle growled.

'Well
put, sir. Yet he's not as wealthy as he should be. His pension's healthy but
his house is still mortgaged, and looking
at his
bank accounts he isn't as cash rich as you'd expect. Our Mr Heard's a bit of a
gambler; he goes to the casino out at Maybury quite a bit. He isn't a big
loser, but he's consistently in the red.

'He
told the manager there that his ambition was to be very rich and retired by the
time he was fifty. If the Golden Crescent deal had gone through, that would
have realised it for him.'

The
Superintendent nodded. 'Aye, he must really have been pissed off with Shearer.'
He frowned. 'This man Dominic Jackson; what do we know about him?'

A
slow, slightly smug, grin spread over the Sergeant's face. 'That's where it
gets really interesting, sir. I asked the police national computer that very
same question, and it came up with only one answer. Dominic Jackson is an alias
of one Leonard Plenderleith, currently resident in HM Prison, Shotts, serving
three consecutive life sentences.

Pringle
seemed to sit bolt upright. 'Big Lennie Plenderleith! Tony Manson's minder!'

'Manson's
heir, sir. When Terrible Tony was murdered, he left Plenderleith all his
offshore cash; it's still there, untouchable, and it's growing. Heard visits
him in Shotts every three months with investment reports.'

'For
his sake, I hope they're good.'

'They
are, sir. Big Lennie directs the investments himself; he's very conservative
and he gets a good growth rate.'

'How
did you find that out?'

'The
Governor of Shotts told me; he and Plenderleith are on friendly terms.'

'What
else did he tell you about him?'

'Quite
a lot,' said McGurk. 'For a start, he said that he's bought a hell of a lot of
equipment for the inmates. Not just

pool
tables and tellys but PCs with educational programmes. He's also set up a
hardship fund, for inmates with family problems. He provides the money and the
Governor deals with applications for assistance.

'In
the nick, big Lennie is a god. After what he did for Tony Manson, he's held in
a sort of awe, and even the hardest guys in there are terrified of him. Yet he
rarely speaks to the other inmates, and when he does, it's usually to put a
stop to potential trouble. If anyone has a grievance they can go to him and
he'll raise it with the Governor, but he will not allow any nonsense. He's working
towards the day, in ten years or so, maybe less, when the Parole Board comes to
review his sentence, and he wants to be sure that when it does, no-one has a
bad word to say about him.

'So
he studies
...
he's on the verge of a
PhD in criminology
...
he writes
...
his first novel's due out in two months
...
and he works out in the gym. The
only people who ever visit him are Heard, his lawyer and his accountant
...
oh, and occasionally, DCC Skinner.'

'...
who locked him up in the first place,' Pringle muttered. He looked at McGurk.
'Jack, are you trying to tell me that big Lennie could have had Howard Shearer
killed as a favour to Heard?'

The
tall Sergeant shook his head. 'From what I've been told, that's unlikely;
Plenderleith's still a relatively young man, and he's far too clever to
jeopardise his future by doing something like that. But maybe, maybe
inadvertently, he mentioned a name to Heard during one of their meetings, a
name from his past, who might be up to something like that.'

'Maybe,'
Pringle conceded. 'Do Heard's bank accounts show any unexplained cash payments
to anyone?'

'They
show cash withdrawals, sir, but he's a gambler, remember. If he did hire
someone, he could have paid him out of winnings and we'd have a hell of a job
proving it.'

'That's
true. Tell me something Jack. Do you fancy Heard for this?'

'Who
else have we got, sir?'

'True,
but
...
If there's one thing I've
learned in my thirty-something years in this job it's never to trust it if it's
too fucking easy.

'So,
son, you're going to have to do this the hard way for a

while.
Have you got that tail on Heard?'

McGurk
nodded. 'Ray Wilding's watching him now' 'Good. You get out there and join him.
Follow the bugger

to
the toilet, even. Meantime I'd better speak to the Boss

about
his pal, big Lennie.'

65

'Big
Bob,' muttered McGuire, fervently, to the empty room, 'you may be
constitutionally incapable of keeping your hands off your officers'
investigations, but every so often you do come up with a beauty.'

He
cradled the phone, stood, and walked out of his office into the Special Branch
room outside. Alec Smith's squat, grey, ugly safe stood in the middle of the
floor. Maggie sat on the edge of a desk, making conversation with a middle-aged
man in a brown suit, who had not been there when McGuire had left to make his
telephone call.

'Mario,'
she said. 'This is Mr Evans from Guardian Security; he's their top locksmith,
so the company told me.'

The
little man smiled in what was meant to be a self-deprecating way, but the
Inspector knew that he was not about to disagree with the description. 'I do my
best,' he said, lamely.

'Nothing
else will do, Mr Evans,' McGuire boomed. 'Nothing else.' He looked at his wife
and smiled. 'The Scottish Co-operative Wholesale Society came up trumps; the
late Mrs Mary Eglinton Smith, of Morocco Lane, Lochgelly, was indeed a member,
to the day she died
...
you might
even say to the day the Co-op undertaker put her in the ground. Her membership
number was five
...
three
...
six
...
four.' Maggie noted the four digits down as he spoke.

'There's
nothing else for it, sir,' he said to the locksmith.

'We'll
have to go with that as the combination. Can you open it for us?'

Mr
Evans frowned. 'It's not just the numbers,' he said. 'This is a classic circular
combination lock, not one of these shoddy keyboard jobs - you have to know the
direction as well. Four digits, possibly in random order, either right or left,
not necessarily alternately. Yes, that cuts the odds against guessing right
down to around one hundred thousand to one.

'Forget
all that stuff you've seen in films, too, where the safecracker uses a
stethoscope to listen for clicks as the mechanism works. This lock is silent;
when you key the first digit you have to hold it in position for five seconds
before it engages, with the next it's six seconds, then seven, and finally
eight.

'Yes,'
Mr Evans said, proudly. 'It's a clever little bugger.' McGuire's face fell. 'So
we're no further forward,' he muttered.

'In
theory.' The little man beamed. 'But in practice
...
I
built this thing
and although I didn't tell my colleagues, I did include one little fail-safe,
against the outside possibility of a situation such as this arising.'

'Like
what?'

'I
programme my own signature into the locking mechanism of every safe I build.
It over-rides the owner's combination. Naturally, I have never breathed a word
of this to a soul, not even within the group. If my small secret leaked out,
I'd be a prime target for kidnap, wouldn't I?

'So
as far as anyone outside this room is concerned, when you gave me Mr Smith's
combination, we just got lucky.'

He
turned, bent over the safe and twirled the dial of the
lock
for a little over a minute, then straightened up. With a soft hiss, sounding almost
like a sigh, the door swung open.

'There.'
His voice rang with pride. 'Behold! A ton and a half of useless metal; using
the override knackers the lock completely.'

Maggie
looked at him, eyes narrowed just a shade. 'Thank you, Mr Evans. You do realise
that if anyone ever does succeed in cracking a Guardian safe, you're going to
need a hell of a strong alibi?'

'No-one
ever will, Chief Inspector. I believe I can promise you that.'

'We'll
hold you to that,' said McGuire, with a grin, as he escorted the little
locksmith to the door. DC Cowan was waiting outside. 'Show Mr Evans out, Alice,
if you would, then come back and man, or woman, the phones. The DCI and I have
some reading to do in my office, and we're not to be disturbed.'

As
the general office door closed on the Constable and the visitor, he turned back
to the safe; Maggie had already swung the door open fully. It was massive, but
moved easily and noiselessly on well-lubricated hinges.