Last Resort Page 9

  ‘Skinner; Alexis Skinner. Ms.’

  I took the West Approach Road out of Edinburgh rather than risk being caught in traffic on its tedious bypass, and reached Newbridge and the motorway with time in hand to make my appointment without putting my foot down too hard. Before police unification, speed enforcement used to vary from force to force, but since my dear Andy has been in charge of the whole bloody country, it’s uniformly rigorous. Given our history, any speeding tickets I get would be irrevocable for me and potentially embarrassing for him.

  Polmont Young Offenders’ Institution has been part of the Scottish prison system for over a hundred years, and some of it was in use before that as a private school; nevertheless it presents a modern face to visitors.

  I left my eco-friendly hybrid sports car in the visitors’ car park, and went through security, where a couple of the female staff recognised me from previous visits. They’d been told to expect me, and to escort me straight to the Governor’s office.

  I’d never met Christopher Kemp before, but my father had mentioned him on a few occasions, their paths having crossed when he was Governor of Saughton Prison in Edinburgh.

  He didn’t stand up when his po-faced secretary showed me into his room. His considerable bulk stayed firmly lodged in his big executive swivel rocker, behind his big desk, as he pointed at a straight-backed chair on the other side.

  ‘Have a seat,’ he began, raising a heavy eyebrow, ‘and tell me what’s so bloody urgent.’ Then he leaned back, giving me an appraising look as I set myself down.

  ‘No,’ he exclaimed, ‘before you do that, answer me one question. Alexis Skinner: any relation to Bob Skinner?’

  I gazed back at him, without blinking, and I’m sure without the hint of a smile, for by that time I was feeling bloody angry.

  ‘I’m his daughter,’ I replied, just as he broke eye contact.

  ‘I thought so,’ he grunted. ‘You’ve got his bearing about you. You’re better-looking though, if I may say so.’

  ‘I’m not sure that you may,’ I replied, icily. ‘Why do you ask about him?’

  ‘I like to know who I’m dealing with, that’s all. I may as well tell you, Ms Skinner, your father and I don’t get on. He may have told you that.’

  ‘No, he hasn’t; he’s never said anything about you, one way or the other. What’s your problem with him?’

  ‘He was bloody rude to me once, back when he was deputy chief in Edinburgh. A high-security remand prisoner killed himself in his cell at Saughton when I was Governor there, and your father bloody well blamed me for it. He told me to my face that it was my fault.’

  The incident came back to me; the man had been a rapist, one whose guilt was so easy to prove beyond any reasonable doubt that he intended to admit it, in the hope that the judge would go easier on him for sparing his victim the ordeal of the courtroom. Dad had been pleased about that, but furious when he learned that the brute been able to spare himself too.

  ‘As you say, Mr Kemp,’ I murmured, ‘you were the Governor; who else would he blame?’

  ‘I can’t watch every bloody prisoner all the bloody time,’ he protested, ‘not personally. Someone slipped up on the remand wing; he was disciplined for it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘A formal reprimand.’

  ‘Wow.’

  Kemp bristled, and glanced at his watch. ‘You’re using up your five minutes, Ms Skinner, so get on with it. Let me warn you though: if you’re here to ask me for some sort of favour for your client, you’ll be out of luck. Your old man is history now; he’s on his way out of the force, yesterday’s man. He cuts no ice with me, not any more.’

  I smiled; if that was how he saw it . . . ‘How about Chief Constable Andrew Martin?’ I asked. ‘He’s very much today’s man. How does he rate in the ice-cutting department?’

  The Governor frowned, less sure of himself. ‘Obviously . . .’ he began.

  ‘Obviously he’s someone you don’t want to fall out with. Then take note: I’ll be cooking his dinner this evening, and he’ll probably make my breakfast tomorrow.’

  Kemp frowned, shifting in his chair.

  ‘If you really want to make this personal,’ I told him, ‘so be it. I can still play that game, but I don’t want to. I expect no favours from you. I expect you to do your job, that’s all. If what happens to that man in Saughton should happen to my client, after the information I’m about to give you, there will be no shuffling off blame, and there will be no token reprimand.’

  The man ran his thick fingers though his straggly grey hair. ‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘We’ve got off on the wrong foot, Ms Skinner. What is it you have to tell me about your client and why do you believe he’s in jeopardy in my institution?’

  ‘He’s not only my client,’ I said, abruptly. ‘He’s my half-brother.’

  Kemp’s mouth hung open for several seconds, before he snapped it shut. ‘He’s what? I’ve got Bob Skinner’s boy in here? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘Exactly that. Ignacio Centelleos is my father’s son, from a brief relationship almost twenty years ago. He knew nothing of him until a few months ago; his existence was only revealed by the investigation of the crime that put him in here.’

  ‘Now it’s my turn to say, “Wow”!’ Kemp conceded. ‘Who else knows about this?’

  ‘No more than a dozen people; outside the family, only a handful of police officers, and three scientific officers. Not even Frances Birtles, his counsel, knew who she was representing.’

  The Lord Advocate and the trial judge knew also, but I felt no need to share that with Kemp.

  Kemp nodded. ‘I can see the risk to the boy if it becomes known in here that he’s Skinner’s son, but if the loop’s so small why should that happen?’

  ‘There’s a chance that we’ve had a leak, that’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Kemp asked.

  ‘I want you to keep him safe,’ I answered. ‘How you do it, that’s your business, but if there’s as much as a scratch on him, there will be consequences, and not only for the scratcher.’

  ‘I could put him in isolation this morning,’ he suggested, then paused. ‘The problem with that is, he’s got another nine months to do. Whenever we take an inmate out of the general population, the rumour mill starts, so if you’re happy with it, my inclination is to do nothing until I have to.’

  ‘I’ll accede to your judgement on that, Governor. Hopefully you’ll never need to take action.’ I frowned. ‘Can I take it that you’re not recording this conversation?’ I asked.

  He recoiled at my question. ‘Ms Skinner . . .’ he protested.

  ‘Fine, just thought I’d ask. I haven’t known my brother for very long, but I want the chance to get to know him better.’

  ‘You will, don’t worry. I’m pleased you’ve chosen to confide in me. Is there anything else I can do for you?’

  I nodded as I rose from my uncomfortable chair. ‘Yes, two things, if you would. I’d like to see Ignacio now, and also, if anyone asks for a visiting note other than his mother or me, or asks for any information about him, I want to know, soonest.’

  ‘Are you saying I should refuse all visits other than the two of you?’

  ‘Not necessarily. I want to know about them, that’s all.’

  ‘How about his father? Will he be visiting?’

  ‘No, because that would raise eyebrows in security, and people would talk.’

  I didn’t need to go any further.

  ‘Understood, understood. Let me set up your visit, Ms Skinner. We’ll call it a legal consultation, shall we?’

  In his new spirit of cooperation, Mr Kemp arranged for me to see Ignacio in a small room in the office area of the institution, rather than in the hall where visits normally take place.

  As he stepped through the door, my half-brother wore an expression of puzzlement, which changed to surprise when he saw me. ‘Alex,’ he exclaimed, as his escort closed the door behind
him, waiting in the corridor outside. We were really favoured; privacy is a rare privilege for people visiting prisons.

  The Governor had even arranged for coffee; two mugs and a plate of biscuits had been delivered on a tray a few minutes earlier. ‘This was not expected,’ Ignacio said, as he took a mug in one hand and a Jaffa cake in the other. He frowned, as he added, ‘There is no bad news, is there?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Something’s come up, that’s all.’

  ‘The screw said that it was legal business.’

  I laughed. ‘The screw, indeed; you’re picking up the slang quickly enough. They prefer to be called prison officers.’

  ‘Not by us. Prisoners call them Sir or Miss . . . apart from me; to me they are Señor or Señora.’

  Ignacio was born in Spain and raised there, but his mother made sure that he grew up bilingual. His English is excellent, but a little over-formal, and his strong accent gives away his roots.

  The meeting room had a window with a view of the area beyond the prison; he stood by it, mug in hand, looking at a world he was not due to see again for months. His profile still gives me goosebumps; I could be looking at a younger version of my dad, as I remember him from my childhood. He’s the same height, a couple of inches over six feet, slimmer, although it struck me that his frame seemed to have thickened a little since the first time I’d met him three months before in the Polmont remand wing following his extradition.

  ‘How is mi madre?’ he asked me, quietly, still gazing through the window.

  ‘Your mother’s fine,’ I assured him. ‘Her new radio show is very popular.’

  ‘That is what she said when she was here at the weekend; we can’t get her station here. I have heard her on radio in Spain; she is like another person. On air she is very . . .’ he looked for a word, ‘confident, but not so much at home. There she is much more anxious.’

  That struck a chord with me; on the few occasions in my teens that I’d seen my father in a professional situation, it struck me that he wasn’t the man that I knew at home, but another, more confident, assertive, at ease with himself.

  Christ, Pops, I thought, was I that much of a burden?

  ‘Is everything okay in here?’ I asked.

  He turned and looked at me, eyebrows raised, with a light, quizzical smile.

  ‘They lock me up every night, and four times during the day too; that is not okay. But the food is better than I expected, the uniform,’ he glanced down at his blue shirt and brown trousers, ‘is clean and it fits, and they change the sheet on the bed once a week. I am in Dunedin Hall so I am allowed outside for an hour every day, and I exercise in the gymnasium too. There is education, so I am studying chemistry, physics, English and maths, to sit the Scottish examinations next year. Our father said I should, even though I did my baccalaureate in Spain last summer. I have a television in my room, and I watch the news to learn about Scotland. I even watch River City to learn about Glasgow.’

  ‘That’s more than I do,’ I laughed. I have never quite taken to the BBC Scotland soap, or any other for that matter.

  ‘Alex,’ he said, ‘I am here; I have no choice but to be okay, as you say. If it wasn’t for you and Señora Birtles, I might have been here for many years, not just one.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I told him, ‘and I’m glad to hear it, but do you feel physically safe? You’re a stranger here, in a way; an outsider in the midst of some bad young people.’

  ‘Hey, hermana, I know where I am. Yes, when I came here I was worried. I’ve heard stories of prisons in Spain. They say that in some, half the people have AIDS and the rest will have soon. It’s not like that here. Yes, there are a few guys here who are not nice, but most of them are like me, just trying to get through with no trouble.’

  He smiled. ‘I am not a pussycat, Alex,’ he said. ‘I am not yet nineteen but I can bench press one hundred and fifteen kilos, that’s about one and a half times my body weight. That means something in here. And besides,’ he frowned for a second or two, then grinned, ‘I am just a little bit of a legend among the inmates, even though it’s for a terrible reason. I’m the kid who killed his own granny.’

  As quickly as his smile had come, it disappeared. ‘Not that I ever talk about it. People have asked me; I tell them all politely to fuck off. I don’t tell them that it was her or my mother, and maybe me too. I don’t tell them that she was a crazy woman or that mi madre had nightmares all the time I was growing up, about her and the life she had left in Scotland.’

  ‘You understand why Dad can’t come to visit you?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course. Alex, I would understand if he didn’t want to know me, ever. Jesus, he hardly knew my mother, yet here I am.’

  As I looked at my brother, I felt a great sadness for him. He was a nice lad made older than his years by his casual parentage and by an upbringing over which he had no control, and which had led him to a terrible place. I felt the guilt that I know is within my father.

  Ignacio moved away from the window, drained his tea and put the empty mug back on the table. ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘what is the legal matter the screw . . . sorry, the officer, told me about?’

  I decided not to tell him the whole story; if Linton Baillie or anyone else leaked the truth about him he would know soon enough, but by that time Kemp would have taken action.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I said that so that it won’t count against your monthly visit ration; I was passing on my way to a meeting and I blagged my way. Otherwise I wouldn’t have got to see you before Christmas.’

  I gave him a sisterly hug, and opened the door to call his escort. Less than five minutes later I was pulling out of the car park, knowing that I’d put Ignacio’s security in Kemp’s hands, and trusting that the Governor’s ego wasn’t so big or his enmity towards my father so great that he would be unable to resist the temptation to talk about it.

  Nine

  Stop one hundred people and give them one hundred seconds to tell you what deoxyribonucleic acid is, and you will receive at least ninety-five blank stares.

  Ask the same hundred what DNA is, and most of them will tell you in a variety of ways that it’s a long molecule from which every individual’s genes are made, the architectural drawing that determines what we are. It contains the hereditary information that’s handed down from one generation to another.

  That’s the signature that we leave behind us everywhere we go, every time we lay down a fingerprint, or leave a follicle behind on a hairbrush.

  It’s the means by which Ignacio Centelleos was determined, not once but twice, to be the son of Robert Morgan Skinner. The first test was done in Spain, when Mia managed to get hold of samples of Dad’s DNA . . . she’s a cunning and devious woman.

  The second he commissioned himself, although he was in no real doubt given the likeness between Ignacio and him. There is no such thing as certainty in a positive DNA test, only in a negative, but he chose a lab that offered the smallest possibility of error.

  Forest Gate Laboratory Services is in the centre of Glasgow, close to the university of which I am a graduate. It’s existed for decades and in its earlier days was the go-to place for people accused of driving under the influence, to have their half of the blood or urine sample independently tested.

  Those customers declined in number with the introduction of breath testing, but the drop-off was more than replaced by the DNA business.

  I found the office without difficulty. It’s just another name on a brass plate in a long Victorian terrace where residential use has given way almost exclusively to commercial.

  The lady receptionist gave me a sweet, comforting smile as I approached her desk. Her hair was just too jet-black to be natural and she wore spectacles with an ornate winged frame. Her face seemed familiar, until it struck me that she had a strong resemblance to an auctioneer I’ve seen on daytime telly since leaving CAJ.

  ‘Good morning, madam,’ she greeted me, in what I recognised from my Glasgow student days as
the twisted twang of a Kelvinside accent. ‘How can we help you today?’

  She glanced at my capacious shoulder bag. ‘I hope you haven’t brought samples for testing . . . because if you have, you might have had a wasted journey. Many people do, but for security, our technicians have to take them personally from the people involved, or they have to be certified by a lawyer.’

  ‘I am a lawyer,’ I told her. ‘Does that mean I can certify my own sample?’

  ‘Well, eh, no, eh,’ she drawled, the smile still in place.

  ‘Maybe that’ll be useful knowledge at some point in the future,’ I said. ‘But it’s not an issue right now. My father commissioned a test here, three months ago. He arranged it through your director, personally, and delivered two DNA samples . . . which were not taken by your techies, incidentally, because the identity of the donors was confidential. You were asked to confirm the relationship between them.’

  ‘Did that happen?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, it did; you certified that the two were father and son, with a margin of error of no more than one in one hundred thousand.’

  ‘Very good.’ She nodded, pleased with herself. ‘How can we help you today? Do you want to commission another test?’

  ‘No, but I do need to speak with your director. I’m sorry to turn up on the doorstep like this, but it is urgent.’

  Kelvinside Woman smiled again; I sensed that it wasn’t just painted on, that there was genuine kindness behind it. ‘Then let me see, dear, what I can do. Dr McGrane is very busy, but I can usually twist his arm if I have to. You haven’t given me your name yet.’

  ‘It’s Skinner, Alexis Skinner.’ I took a business card from my bag and handed it to her. I had them printed the day after I left the firm, my first gesture of independence.

  ‘Take a wee seat then, dear, I won’t be long.’

  I settled into a leather bucket chair in the small waiting area; there was a table littered with past copies of OK, What Car, and some golf magazines, the kind I’ve seen in every doctor’s or dentist’s surgery I’ve ever been in. I settled on a year-old copy of Golf Monthly, because Rory McIlroy was on the cover and he has a nice smile.