Autographs in the Rain Read online

  to overshadow either, yet that was what Skinner seemed to do. He was

  rarely seen in public in uniform. He was not the Chief Constable. And yet

  whenever anyone in Edinburgh . . . anyone in Scotland, probably, many

  people in England, perhaps ... thought of a policeman, they were likely to

  think of him.

  In his heart of hearts, Ted Chase disapproved of devolution. He was

  British first, Cumbrian second, and like many of his compatriots, English

  third; he had a niggling fear of anything which threatened the composition

  of the flag he saluted, and a downright dislike of anything which claimed

  to be an alternative to the National Anthem, which he took pride in bellowing

  lustily on public occasions.

  However, he had accepted the political situation, and the prospect of

  working in a devolved Scotland, when he had decided to apply for the

  Edinburgh job. He had reasoned that it gave him his best chance of

  rising to command his own force. Now that he was in place, he had

  come to realise how different Scotland was, and how great was its

  potential for change. Virtually all of its institutions were under the

  control of a new breed of politician, able to tackle their manifesto

  objectives with none of the constraints of parliamentary time which had

  bedevilled the old Scottish Office at Westminster.

  In particular, he had come to realise how easy it would be for his own

  views on policing, which had held sway under the old regime, to be swept

  away by the new administration, which he saw as a soft-centred coalition, committed to reform for its own sake. Nothing was beyond them.

  And who better to serve as a model for a new Scottish breed of policeman

  than the home-bred hero, DCC Robert Morgan Skinner?

  Chase was nobody's fool; he saw the danger more clearly than the man

  himself . . . and there, he saw also, might lie the saving grace. Skinner's

  intense dislike of politicians was a matter of record, certainly within the

  police force, and to an extent in the wider world, thanks to the circumstances

  which had led to his giving up his former responsibility as security adviser to the Secretary of State.

  Yet what political power he could command through his reputation and

  his public profile, if only he realised it... 'Thank God,' the ACC thought, 'that he doesn't.'

  He was so immersed in contemplation that he gave a small, involuntary

  jump when the phone rang for a second time. He picked it up, expecting

  Skinner once again, only to hear the voice of the security man on weekend

  duty at the main entrance.

  'There's a UPS guy, here, sir, wi' a delivery for the Chief Constable.

  Since you're here, dae you want to sign for it?'

  The ACC frowned. 'I suppose so. I'll be down in a moment.'

  He left his secretary's office and walked briskly along the Command

  corridor, then down a flight of stairs which led more or less directly to the

  front door. The brown-suited messenger stood waiting, with a big brown

  envelope and the inevitable clipboard.

  'Print your name there, sir, then sign ablow it,' he said.

  Chase made a mental note of yet another Scots word, and did as the man

  asked, thanking him as he took the package. He glanced at it as he walked

  back upstairs, his curiosity aroused. The address was clear and simple:

  'Chief Constable Sir James Proud, QPM, Police Headquarters, Fettes

  Avenue, Edinburgh', and it bore two red stamped injunctions, one 'Urgent',

  the other, 'Confidential'.

  'But not, "personal",' he murmured to himself as he stood at Gerry

  Crossley's desk, holding the envelope poised over the in-tray. 'And Bob

  did say that the Chief isn't in tomorrow.'

  He picked up a letter-opener, slit the envelope open and slid out its

  22

  AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN

  contents, three A4 pages, stapled together with a covering letter, on

  Metropolitan Police notepaper.

  He was frowning as he began to read. By the time he was finished, he

  was wide-eyed and his mouth was hanging open in astonishment.

  ,23

  7

  'Was that the first time you'd ever seen anything like that, Sam?' Detective

  Chief Superintendent Andy Martin asked his aide.

  'Not the first time I've ever seen a body, sir,' the recently promoted

  sergeant replied. 'You know what it's like when you're in uniform. One

  way or another, you have to look at quite a few.'

  He shuddered, looking older, suddenly, than his twenty-seven years. 'But

  it's the first time I've ever seen one like that; in that condition I mean.

  Lying there in the bath, the poor old bugger looked like...' His face twisted

  as he struggled to find words. 'Like a statue, like a tailor's dummy, like

  something that never had been human.

  'It wasn't gross, Boss, not like something I saw once, when an old lady

  had died in front of an electric fire and lain there for about a week. There

  weren't any maggots in the eye sockets, nothing like that. But in its own

  way, it was pretty horrible, for all that.'

  'Did Ruth see him?'

  'No way. When I told her, I had to hold her back from going into the

  bathroom, but I did. She gave me bloody hell at the time, but calmed down

  pretty quickly.'

  'No nightmares?'

  'I wouldn't know, sir,' said Pye, abruptly.

  'I didn't mean her, you clown!' the Head of CID chuckled.

  The young sergeant flushed, embarrassed by his revealing slip. 'No, sir,

  not me.'

  'You will have, Sammy, you will,' Martin murmured, his smile gone.

  He had known his own nocturnal horrors; happily, marriage seemed to be

  holding them at bay.

  Til be ready for them, then.'

  'No, you won't. No one ever is.'

  Pye looked across at his boss; then changed the subject. 'How's Karen

  doing? Still being sick?'

  24

  AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN

  'No, thank Christ,' he replied, sincerely. 'She seems to have stopped

  barfing up her breakfast. She's blooming, mate, blooming; she's not showing

  yet, but it won't be long.'

  He picked up a pile of papers from his desk, and walked across to the

  meeting table. 'This is today's agenda, then?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Okay, then; on you go and see if the troops are here. If they are, wheel

  them in.'

  The Head of CID's Monday briefing with his six divisional commanders

  was a practice established by Bob Skinner and carried on by his successors,

  Roy Old and Andy Martin. Its main purpose was to keep the Chief

  Superintendent abreast of all active investigations, but it was useful also in

  that it could reveal patterns of crime across the force area, and not least in

  the platform which it provided for fresh thinking on stalled cases.

  This one was special, though.

  As the six senior detectives took their places at the table, there was one

  among them who stood out from the rest. She was the only woman among

  the six, trimly built, attractive, in her thirties, with flaming red hair which

  shone under the neon strip lighting. But more than that, there was a presence

  about her, a bearing which could not help but say to the rest, 'Don't take me

  lightly. I've made i
t this far, and I may have further to go.'

  Martin stood as the rest composed themselves, and as Sammy Pye took

  his seat on his right, notepad at the ready to take down the bullet points of

  the meeting.

  He looked along the table, and smiled. 'I'd like to begin this morning's

  meeting, gentlemen, by welcoming a newcomer in our midst. Okay, I know

  she's been here before on occasion as Brian Mackie's deputy, but this is

  her first meeting as commander of Central Division CID, only the second

  woman to hold such a post in the history of our force.

  'Congratulations, Mags. You've earned your place here by being an

  outstanding detective as well as a good leader. I'm looking forward to your

  contribution over the months to come.'

  Detective Superintendent Maggie Rose looked up at the Head of CID

  and smiled faintly, wondering whether any of the others had read anything

  into his time-frame. 'Thank you, sir. I'm honoured to be here. I know I

  have a lot to learn, but I'm surrounded by good teachers.'

  Her promotion had come about following the retirement of

  Superintendent John McGrigor from the command of the Borders division.

  Martin and Bob Skinner, feeling that a veteran would fill the vacancy best,

  had decided to move Dan Pringle south, and to promote Rose into his post

  in Central Edinburgh.

  Martin laughed out loud. 'You're off to a good start. Flattery will get

  you everywhere with these guys.'

  She looked back at him, and noted yet again the change in him. The

  strung-out, bitter man of a few months earlier had gone; returned was the

  laid-back, unflappable, pleasant colleague she had come to know and respect

  over the years.

  'Okay,' said the Head of CID, taking his seat, 'to business.' He glanced

  along at Dan Pringle. 'I see from your first report from the Borders that

  you've been making an impact. I know that big McGrigor had trouble with

  the odd sheep-stealer, but what the hell's this? Trout rustling?'

  The big superintendent hunched his shoulders and tugged at the heavy

  moustache which seemed to give him a permanently mournful look. 'Pour

  scorn on me if you like, Andy,' he muttered, 'but it's been a crime waiting

  to happen.'

  'Aye, waiting for you, by the looks of it. Have you taken some of your

  old customers down there with you? Is that it?'

  'Maybe. From what John told me in our hand-over, they've a pretty poor

  and unimaginative bunch of hooligans down there. They've got a long

  history of practically signing their names to every crime that's committed.

  Not this one, though; this was very professional, very efficient.

  'It happened at a big trout farm, just off the St Boswell's to Kelso Road.

  The manager lives on site, but he was away on Friday and Saturday nights.

  When he went in yesterday morning just to check that the automatic feeders

  and water pumps were all right, he found that all the bloody tanks had been

  emptied.'

  'How, for God's sake?' chuckled Superintendent Brian Mackie. 'How

  do you nick a shoal of bloody fish?'

  'Good question, son,' Pringle grunted. 'The very question I asked Gates,

  the manager. And the answer, it seems, is that you drive a bloody big vehicle

  in there, stick a wide-mouthed pipe in each of the tanks and pump out

  water, fish and all.'

  'Jesus,' Mackie whispered.

  His colleague raised an eyebrow in his general direction. 'These boys

  lifted far more fish than the Lord had to work with. This farm, Mellerkirk,

  it's called, is one of the biggest in the region. They supply two big

  26

  AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN

  supermarket chains on a daily basis, plus they run their own smoking

  business.

  'All joking aside, the theft's a disaster for them. They're restocking from

  their hatchery as fast as they can, but it'll be a week or so before they can

  restart production.'

  'What quantity of fish are we talking about?' asked Rose.

  'Mr Gates couldn't say for sure, but he guessed around three tons.'

  'Three tons!' Martin exclaimed. 'What the hell's anyone going to do

  with three tons of hot fish?'

  'Freeze it,' Pringle replied. 'You'd have to. Anyone trying to shift that

  amount in one lot would draw attention to themselves pretty quick.'

  'Sounds like a well-planned operation, then. Apart from having the

  equipment to hoover up the stock, they'd surely have to have someone

  ready to receive and handle it.'

  'Aye, that's right, sir. They'd have to do it right away too. Gates said that

  the fish would start dying pretty quick in those conditions. He reckoned

  that they'd have been driven straight to a processor for treatment. But where?

  That's anyone's guess.'

  'What are you doing about finding out?' asked the Head of CID.

  'We've put together a list offish processors all over Scotland, and we're

  circulating it to all relevant forces this morning. As soon as that's done I'll

  want people going round all of the places on our patch. I'll need assistance

  from other divisions. That means you, Brian, you, Greg, and you, Willie.'

  He looked across the table at Detective Superintendent Gregory Jay and

  William Michaels, who commanded the Leith and West Lothian CID areas

  respectively.

  'What are our chances, Dan?'

  'Slim and none, boss. It's no' as if these bloody fish carry the owner's

  brand or anything. One deid trout looks just like another. I don't suppose

  for a minute that they'll show up in the major supermarket chains; they all

  vet their suppliers pretty thoroughly. We'll just have to keep an eye on the

  smaller outlets and hope.

  'But if these boys are as smart as they look they'll keep the stuff in a

  freezer for a while . . . till the heat's off, you might say ... then shift it in

  small quantities.'

  'One thing we can do,' Martin suggested, 'and that's let the Central

  Intelligence Unit know, so that every fish farm in Scotland can be put on

  the alert.'

  Pringle nodded. 'I did that yesterday.'

  'Good man,' said the Head of CID. He ran his fingers through his curly

  blond hair, and chuckled softly. 'What a start to the week! Three tons of

  hot frozen fish! Welcome to the madhouse, Maggie.'

  28

  8

  Bob Skinner had an aversion to St Andrew's House, the monolithic grey

  stone office building which housed many of the civil servants involved in

  the business of governing Scotland. Nevertheless, there were times when

  he had no choice but to swallow his dislike and visit the place.

  With Sir James Proud engaged in a meeting with his fellow Chief

  Constables in Glasgow, it fell to him to represent the force on an ad hoc committee set up by the Scottish Executive to plan a new crime prevention

  publicity campaign. The big detective had serious doubts over the cost

  effectiveness of government-funded media propaganda. He believed firmly

  that the whole exercise smacked of tokenism, a knee-jerk action by

  politicians who suspected, probably in error, that the public expected it of

  them.

  In his experience, the messages washed over the heads of most of the

  honest citizens
at whom they were aimed, while criminals were either too

  stupid to take notice of the warnings, or too intelligent to watch the television

  programmes on which they were normally screened.

  However, the First Minister and his lackey, the Justice Minister, had

  decreed that it should be done and had appointed Sir James Proud to chair

  the working group which would make it happen.

  The meeting, when finally it began after a preamble of coffee and chat,

  was happily brief. The Scottish Executive Information Department's Head

  of Publicity, acting as secretary to the committee, introduced a hapless

  advertising agency team, who presented proposals which impressed none

  of the five policemen gathered around the table, and were sent away to

  think again.

  Skinner smiled as he stepped through the great doorway of the building,

  which stood on the site of the old city jail, glad to be rid of an unwelcome

  chore. He was still nodding, grinning unconsciously, as he looked into Gerry

  Crossley's office and offered the young man a brisk, 'Good morning'.

  'Good morning, sir,' the Chief Constable's secretary replied, but with a

  frown. 'ACC Chase asked if you would look in on him when you got in.'