The Roots of Evil (Bob Skinner) Page 5

  ‘You haven’t spent enough time in uniform,’ his companion told him. He had donned another sterile suit, after the DI had asked the crime scene officers to take a break to give them access. ‘Neatness is obligatory, with the station commander on the prowl all the time. Unlike your average CID office, which is a fucking shambles.’

  ‘Maybe in your day . . .’

  Skinner beamed. ‘My day . . . Jeez, slide the Zimmer over will you. Listen, if a CID office is spotless, it means everybody has time to keep it that way and that means you’re not doing the job properly. What are we looking for here?’ he asked, moving on.

  ‘Anything that links Griff and Coats.’

  ‘I doubt that would be in plain sight.’ He looked at the immaculate single-pedestal desk. The only paper on it was a printout of the station’s duty rota over the Christmas period. He leaned over and tugged the smaller of the two drawers; it slid open easily, revealing nothing more than a box of tea bags, three pens, a comb, a pair of nail scissors, tweezers, a pack of Kleenex tissues, a tin box which claimed to contain a multipurpose credit-card-sized tool, and a spectacle case bearing the RayBan logo. He opened it and found a pair of glasses; he took them out and held them up. ‘I never knew he needed these,’ he murmured.

  ‘Reading glasses,’ Haddock said. ‘He didn’t like to be seen wearing them. I called in here one day unannounced. He whipped them off sharpish.’

  Skinner examined them, weighing them in his hand. ‘He still shelled out for lightweight designer frames though. You won’t get much change out of four hundred quid for these. I know this because I looked at them or something similar last year and wound up going for a cheaper option. How old was Griff? I can’t remember.’

  ‘Thirty-nine.’

  ‘My reading glasses came with my forty-ninth birthday, when I realised that my arms weren’t long enough anymore.’ He moved across to a tall metal locker at the back of the room; it was locked, but he took the tweezers from the desk and had it open in less than five seconds.

  The DI whistled. ‘How often have you done that?’

  ‘Not a lot since I was at your rank. If you don’t have that skill, acquire it; you’ll save a hell of a lot of time trying to find keys.’

  He looked into the locker. It contained two uniforms on hangers, trousers and tunics, one of which bore the epaulettes of an inspector, square silver pips. Alongside them were a casual jacket and a pair of jeans, hung upside down, weight to the bottom. He took them out and examined them.

  ‘Hugo Boss,’ he murmured reading the jacket label. ‘And going by the logo, these jeans are Armani. I bought a pair of those in Girona; a hundred and seventy euros. Maybe I’m out of touch; an inspector’s on just over fifty grand these days, but . . .’

  ‘Griff was single,’ Haddock pointed out.

  ‘So are you. Okay, you live with Cheeky, but she’s an accountant, a good earner, and I don’t see you wearing gear like this. Marks and Spencer, as I recall, last time I saw you without sterile clothing. And you don’t have a couple of kids to support, as Griff has in South Africa.’

  He replaced the clothing and peered into the locker once again, looking at a shelf above the rail. ‘What’s here?’ He removed several items. ‘Photo album.’ He flipped it open. ‘His kids. Paracetamol. Deodorant. Condoms. Johnnies in a police-office locker?’ he exclaimed. ‘Was he banging somebody in this building? Better find out, Sauce, as discreetly as you can. And . . . what the . . .’ He paused and held up a cardboard square. ‘A pay-as-you-go SIM card,’ he murmured, curious. ‘What the fuck would a uniformed police inspector be doing, Sauce, with this in his private locker?’

  The DI exhaled, loudly. ‘I don’t know, gaffer, but I need to find out. How do you get a warrant on New Year’s Day to access somebody’s bank account?’

  ‘You waken a sheriff and get him to sign it; or her. Then you hope they don’t hold it against you in the future. Justice never sleeps, chum; it never sleeps.’

  Six

  Skinner checked his watch as he stepped from the police car into the drizzle, outside the block that held Dominic Jackson’s duplex home. It showed eight fifty-two. Deeming that to be a reasonable hour to call his wife, he dug his phone, awkwardly, from his padded raincoat and pressed ‘Home’ on his favourites list.

  It was James Andrew Skinner who answered the call, not his mother. ‘She’s still asleep, Dad,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’ The boy sounded puzzled by his absence. There was no one awake to tell him about his departure, Skinner guessed.

  ‘I had to go out on business,’ he explained. ‘I’m just about to go to Alex’s. What are you doing for breakfast?’

  ‘I’ve done it,’ his son replied. ‘Mark and I had cereal and French toast. I had to make it, as usual. He’s bloody useless.’

  ‘Language, Jazz.’

  ‘Sorry, Dad, but he is, you know that. The last time he tried to make toast he set off the smoke alarm.’

  ‘You have a point,’ he conceded. ‘Did you feed the girls too?’

  ‘Of course, although Dawn had porridge, not cereal, and juice. Seonaid cleaned up after her.’

  ‘Good for her. If you want to score some Brownie points you might make your mum some French toast too. And coffee.’

  ‘Why would I want Brownie points, Dad? I’m a Scout.’

  ‘You know what I mean, smartarse.’

  ‘Language, Dad,’ James Andrew retorted. ‘I’ll do it, but I’ll get Seonaid to check whether she’s awake.’

  Skinner smiled as he re-pocketed the mobile, but it left his face quickly as he pressed the videocall button labelled ‘Jackson, Consultant psychologist’.

  Another male voice answered, but deeper and darker. ‘Bob? What’s up?’

  ‘I need to see Alex. I’ll explain when I get up there.’

  ‘I’m not sure she’s awake,’ Jackson said. ‘Come on in and I’ll give her a shout.’

  The lift took him to the top floor quickly; it was littered with festive detritus, relics of the city’s famous and notoriously commercialised Hogmanay celebrations. The door to the duplex penthouse was open as he stepped out, his host waiting within.

  ‘Coffee, I guess?’

  ‘God yes, Dominic. Please.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No thanks. I won’t be hungry for a while.’

  ‘So what’s up?’ Jackson asked again. ‘Something big. I can see it in your eyes. You’ve got the thousand-yards stare.’

  Skinner sighed. ‘I’m sure I have. I’d be worried if I didn’t.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Pops?’ his daughter asked, from behind. ‘Have you and Sarah had a barney?’

  He turned. She was wrapped in a thick dressing gown over cotton pyjamas and wearing white slippers which bore the logo of a Barcelona hotel. As she saw his face, her expression changed, and her mood.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Is it one of the kids? Is it Aunt Jean? That’s your death look,’ she said. ‘I know it.’

  ‘No family, love, no family,’ he replied, softly. ‘It’s Griff Montell. He was dumped outside the Torphichen Place police station just after midnight, in a car with another man. They’d both been shot in the head.’

  In an instant, she went ghostly white; her hands flew to her mouth, pressing inwards, hard. ‘No!’ It was a muffled hiss. She turned to Jackson, then paused, turning back to her father. Then she stopped, as if unable to choose between them, spun round and half-ran across to the doors that opened on to the deck. She jerked them apart and stepped outside, oblivious to the rain as it grew heavier.

  Skinner followed and put his arms around her, drawing her gently back inside. She buried her face in his chest as, for one of very few times in her adult life, she let others see her cry.

  ‘Surely not,’ she whispered, when she had regained her self-control.

  ‘I’m afraid so, love.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s always the first question.’

  ‘A serving police off
icer?’

  ‘I know.’

  She looked up at him red-eyed and angry. ‘I think I’ll accept that offer to go to the Crown Office,’ she murmured. ‘I want to prosecute the people who did this.’

  ‘The Lord Advocate who’d let you do that hasn’t been born yet, Alexis.’

  ‘I’ll put coffee on,’ Jackson said. He looked as shocked as his housemate.

  ‘Thanks,’ Skinner said, ‘and maybe a shot of brandy in Alex’s if you’ve got any. Sod the hour.’

  ‘Why are you involved, Pops?’ she asked, as he sat her in an armchair. ‘Did they send you to break the news?’

  ‘No, that was my choice. Mario called me in; I’ve been there ever since. Sauce is the SIO, and I’ve been asked to lurk in the background.’

  ‘Is Sauce going to want to talk to me?’

  ‘I’ll do that for the moment,’ he replied, ‘although he probably will later. We needn’t do it now though, if you don’t feel ready.’

  ‘No, make it now,’ she insisted, ‘while my blood’s up.’

  ‘Okay, if that’s what you want. You should gather yourself together.’

  ‘Yes. I’ll throw some clothes on.’

  She left him, returning a few minutes later, wearing black, polo neck and trousers. A subconscious choice? he wondered.

  At the same time Jackson arrived with coffee on a tray, three mugs. He separated one and handed it to Alex. She sipped it and nodded.

  ‘Do you want me to leave you to it?’ he asked.

  ‘Hell, no,’ she declared. ‘I need you here.’

  Her father took a slug from his own mug, nodding approval. ‘Thanks, Dominic. I like Colombian. When did you last see Griff?’ he asked his daughter, continuing without a pause.

  ‘Two weeks ago,’ she answered briskly, back in control. ‘We met for a pre-Christmas drink at the Dome.’

  ‘How did he seem? What was his mood?’

  ‘It was a bit mixed. He was bright and brash, but not quite full on. A shade distracted. Eventually I asked him what was up. He said, “Ah, nothing really. Fucking uniform; I find it constraining.” His exact words.’

  ‘Was that all he said about it?’

  ‘No. I told him he should ask to be reassigned, but that made him turn quite morose. He said there were no vacancies for detective inspectors, not where he wanted them. “Sure, if I wanted to go to Inverness,” he said, “I might get back in there, but I don’t really fancy investigating sheep rustling in the Orkneys.” Then he was quiet for a while. I said, “Come on, what else is bugging you? Out with it.” It all came out after that. First he said that his face didn’t fit with Mario, or with you . . .’

  ‘Me?’ Skinner exclaimed. ‘What the hell have I got to do with it?’

  ‘He thought you still pulled Mario’s strings, that he was your puppet. “Super-Mario-nette,” he called him. And he reckoned that you had a down on him because of me, and the relationship that we had.’

  ‘Well, he was wrong, wasn’t he?’ he said. ‘You’re a big girl, you’re in the same situation I was when I was your age, single, not really looking for a permanent relationship, but not dead from the waist down either. You and Griff, you were like me and . . . well, Allison Higgins to name one. Didn’t you tell him that?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I did, but he said that no father has the same rules for his daughter that he had for himself. Griff’s got, had, a daughter, remember. He thought he was on your shit list. Latterly, Griff thought he was on everybody’s shit list.’

  ‘Even after he saved your life when those guys broke into your flat? He still thought I had marked his card?’

  Alex nodded. ‘Even after,’ she confirmed. ‘But that wasn’t the only reason why he thought his CID career was over. He said that everything seemed to be moving very fast as the new national police service bedded in. A few people were zooming up the ladder, and all the senior posts were gradually being filled by people who’d be in them for years. He named a few; Lowell Payne, who was a sergeant not so long ago and now runs counter-terrorism in Scotland, Lottie Mann . . . he said she’ll be a detective superintendent before her DCI badges have lost their shine . . . Sammy Pye, Sauce Haddock, who he said is being fast-tracked to succeed Mario eventually, and even Noele McClair, Sauce’s DS. Then he talked about his time in South Africa, before he relocated; that’s something he did very rarely. He said it was different there, that things were much more set, that, okay, corners were cut but that criminal investigation was a settled community . . . one big happy family, he said, even if a bit of interbreeding went on.’

  ‘That sounds pretty racist for Griff,’ Skinner said, ‘hell, it sounds racist for anybody.’

  ‘No, I don’t think he meant it that way; I didn’t see it in that way, not at the time and not now. He meant something different, I’m sure, but I don’t know what.’

  ‘He probably meant that the in-crowd looked after each other,’ her father murmured. ‘Maybe I used to do that too,’ he admitted. ‘That night, did he mention Terry Coats?’

  ‘Who’s Terry Coats?’ she asked, puzzled.

  ‘Noele McClair’s ex.’

  ‘Was he the guy who turned up at your house and punched my brother?’ Alex asked. ‘I never knew his name; Ignacio told me about it, but he never said who it was, just that it was somebody with a beef against you. I asked him if you barbecued it, and he said that you did, more or less. And no, Griff never mentioned him either. Why should he?’ Her mouth fell open, for a second. ‘Ahh . . .’ she whispered then fell silent. ‘I can think of a reason, of sorts. To get Griff out of his mood, I suggested that he get hammered. He wasn’t completely averse to that proposition, so he had a few expensive cocktails.’

  ‘Did he splash the cash often, or were you paying?’

  ‘We split it. Griff wasn’t tight in any way, he offered, of course, but I always insisted we go Dutch. Anyway, he had a few more than usual, but he had hollow legs so he wasn’t falling over or anything like that. I had a couple too, and I got . . . cool, let’s say.’ She glanced at the floor, momentarily. ‘We hadn’t been together since the night of the attack. No particular reason on my part, but we just hadn’t. Anyway, I suggested that we might go back to his place, to round off the night and maybe extend it into next morning.’ She paused. ‘Dominic and I have an agreement that I don’t bring men back here.’ She looked at Jackson.

  ‘That’s right, Bob,’ he confirmed. ‘Alex proposed that from the off, and I agreed that it might be best, for a few reasons.’

  ‘It doesn’t cut both ways,’ she added, ‘but the only woman who’s ever come here since I moved in has been the cleaner.’

  ‘Not even as clients?’ Skinner asked. ‘You consult here; it even says so at the door.’

  ‘No way; if I had a proper office and a female receptionist, yes, I’d have female clients here, but I don’t so it wouldn’t be wise.’

  ‘I get it. Carry on, Alex. He never mentioned Terry Coats, but he did mention Noele on his list of promotion rivals.’

  ‘Yes. He’d mentioned her before, as someone he knew through the job and then again that night, when he was sounding off. But the funny thing was, or it struck me as funny eventually, was that when he listed her, he just called her “Noele”, didn’t use her surname.’

  ‘What made it funny?’

  ‘I’ll get there, Pops. When I suggested that we go back to his place, he was embarrassed. I’d never seen that from him before, never, so it took me by surprise. Then he said, “No, Alex, better not, it wouldn’t be right.” I jumped straight to the conclusion that he thought that Dominic and I . . .’ She let the sentence tail away unfinished. ‘I told him that he’d the wrong idea about us. But he said “No, I haven’t, it’s more from my point of view.” He looked sort of coy and finally I caught on. “You’ve got somebody else,” I said, and he nodded, and said, “Yes, I have. Are you upset?” Of course I said no, that I wasn’t and I meant it. And then, half-pissed or not, the Skinner brain clicked into gea
r, and I thought back to what he’d said earlier and I said out loud . . . although I don’t think I meant to . . . “It’s Noele, isn’t it? Noele McClair.” He just smiled and nodded.’ She frowned, as she replayed their conversation. ‘Is that why you asked me about Terry Coats? Did you know that Griff was sleeping with his ex-wife?’

  He stared at her in silence, more surprised than he had been in longer than his memory stretched. ‘No,’ he told her, ‘I hadn’t a clue. I asked you about Coats because he was the other man found dead with Griff in that car. And what I am thinking now is that I am so fucking glad I didn’t let Noele look inside!’

  Seven

  ‘This lock is Fort Knox, pal,’ the locksmith said. ‘I know; I fitted it. In fact, I fitted the whole security system.’

  ‘He had a security system?’ DI Haddock exclaimed. ‘I thought the building was secure.’

  ‘It is, but only at the door on the street through the video entry system. Mr Montell had his own. That CCTV camera to the side of the front door, that’s his.’ He pointed to a corner of the corridor in which they stood. ‘So’s that one. There’s cameras inside too, all monitored through the Cloud. The alarm’s state of the art; it’s got sensors on this door and all the windows; serviced every year. This front door’s new too. Some of them in this building you can practically push open. No’ this one. The frame’s bolted into the wall so it can’t be jemmied out. This lock,’ he said, as he opened it, ‘they call it a Doormaster. It’s as good as you’ll get. Between you two and me, I did the security locks on the chief constable’s house. This set-up’s better than hers. Voila,’ he boomed as he opened the door. ‘Wait a minute, one more thing to do.’ He stepped into the hall and punched a code into a panel set on the wall. ‘There you are, it’s disarmed; Mr Montell can do that remotely, arm and disarm.’ The locksmith smiled as the DI and his colleague followed him inside. ‘I don’t suppose you’re gonnae tell me what he does, this guy, for you to get a warrant on the first of January to search his house. Drugs? Arms dealer? Jeweller?’