Thursday legends - Skinner 10 (17 page)

'You
were talking earlier on about what the Boss did to that big Russian. I know
what he did; Dan Pringle told me. I'd have done much the same in his shoes,
except I might have given him an extra kick in the balls, just for luck.
Between you and me, I think the way Smith handled the Basra business was just
bloody wonderful. You've seen the file; you know what he did to that kiddie.
The London murders were exactly the same. The man was an animal. Good for Alec
on that one.' 'But still
...'

'Aye,
I know. You could argue that sometimes the real strength lies in not using your
power. But that man Basra deserved to be in the ground. As for Lawrence
Scotland, ask yourself this? How many lives did Alec save when he put the fear
of God in that bloke?'

'Maybe,
Mario. But maybe, too," the fear of God wore off and cost him his own
life.'

'Let's
find out. That's your lot, then?'

'Yes.
What have you got?'

'Eff
all
...
that I fancy at any rate.
Let's work our way through the rest, although the further back in time we go,
the less we'll get, I'm sure. We'll do it though, report progress to Maggie and
then take a real close look at Gus Morrison, and Lawrence Scotland.'

20

Dan
Pringle sat behind his desk, like a bear in his lair, when there was a single
sharp knock on the door. Before he could call out, 'Yes', it swung open and
Alan Royston, the police force's Media Relations Manager burst into the room,
clutching a newspaper. Royston was a mild-mannered man; the Superintendent had
never seen him roused to anger before. Still, he reacted to being on the end of
it.

'What
the hell's this, Alan?' he demanded as the door closed. 'You might have fucking
wakened me, bursting in like that.'

'I'm
sorry about that, Dan,' the Press Officer retorted, 'but I do not like it when
officers go behind my back, making unauthorised statements to the media. It
undermines me and, frankly, it makes me look like a bloody Charlie.' He waved
the tabloid in the air; Pringle could see from the mast-head that it was a copy
of Edinburgh's 'other' daily, the
Evening
News.

He
unrolled it and laid it on Pringle's desk. There, on the front page, was the
e-fit likeness which the Superintendent had sent for publication a few hours
before. 'They gave us a good show,' he grunted.

'Fine,'
Royston snapped. 'But look at the heading,
Do you know him? Police fear they never will.
Look at the copy too, at this line in particular.'
He picked up the paper. 'Listen!
Senior
officers investigating the case admitted privately that they are pessimistic
over their chances of ever identifying the
mystery
man, far less finding his killers?
And this.
The
victim
's
face was battered to a
pulp, he had multiple fractures and several toes and fingers had been cut off.
None of
that stuff came from me, Dan, none of it. I used only the statement that we
agreed, saying that we were confident of a speedy identification and of further
progress thereafter. I said that the man had died of serious head injuries, and
no more than that. I didn't give any details, far less all that material.
You've got a tip-off man on your team.'

Pringle
nodded, his own anger simmering now. 'Aye,' he growled. He stepped over to the
door opened it and crossed the corridor to the CID general office. He threw the
door open. 'Sergeant McGurk,' he bellowed, 'My office!'

The
tall young sergeant followed him, crossing the corridor in a single stride.
Pringle grasped the
News
and thrust it at him. 'Read that
crap,' he barked, 'and tell me if any of it came from you. Because if it did,
the Head of CID and I have made a big mistake and you're in for the fastest
demotion in the history of this fucking police force!'

McGurk
went white as a sheet; he tore the paper from Pringle's grasp and began to
read. 'None of it, gaffer,' he exclaimed when he had finished. 'Not a word of
that came from me. I swear on a stack of Bibles.'

The
Superintendent stared up at him, eyes narrowed. 'A big stack?' he growled.

'As
big as you like.'

'Do
you know the guy who wrote the story?' McGurk nodded. 'Paul Blacklock. He's my
brother-in-law.' 'Then get him to phone me and swear the same thing. Do it
right now, Jack: get going.'

The
Sergeant nodded, and left the room on the double.

'Anyone
else?' Royston asked.

'Only
the divers and the ambulance crew, and they're hardly
senior officers investigating.
I'll check them all out though. Apart from them,
as far as I can remember, the only people who got a close look at that body
were the Head of CID and me. I'm really sorry about this, Alan.'

The
Press Officer smiled. 'In that case, do something for me. Call Andy Martin and tell
him about this; rather you than me.'

21

The
Head of CID looked around the outer room of his office suite. Detective
Sergeant Karen Neville and Detective Constable Sammy Pye looked back towards
the doorway in which he stood. 'What's odd about this picture?' he asked.

'Tell
us, sir,' Sammy Pye replied.

'You
two are both back behind your bloody desks.' He laughed. 'Even if it is only
for a short time. Come on in here, both of you and tell me about the vets.'
Neville and Pye stood and followed him into the inner office.

'We've
just finished writing up a summary for DCI Rose,' the Sergeant began as they
all took seats at the meeting table. 'We've spoken to every bloody vet in
Edinburgh and West Lothian. Most of them, nearly all of them keep supplies of
this stuff, but they hardly ever use it. Not one of them was aware of any being
missing. 'We've checked out their College too - The Royal Dick Vet.'

'Where
do they learn about the other bits of the animals, though?' Pye asked, drawing
a frown from Martin.

'Shut
up, Sammy.' Neville carried on, quashing the interruption. 'We spoke to a
professor there. He told us that they only teach the theory, not the practice,
so they don't keep stocks at all. He told us all about the theory, though - for
example the quantities you'd use to knock down a man would be the same as you'd
use for a large chimpanzee.'

'As
for administering it, that would depend on the animal,' said the DCS.

'Let's
just assume that big Alec Smith would have been a pretty dangerous animal if
you'd come at him with a hypodermic in your hand.'

'In
that case, you'd have shot him with a tranquilliser dart, usually from a
specially-adapted air rifle or air pistol. None of them was missing either,
anywhere.'

'How
about the zoo?'

Neville
shot him a quick, private, chastening look. 'We checked that, of course - and
the travelling circus that was pitched out in Livingston last weekend - and an
ostrich farm down in the Borders. Nothing missing from any of them.'

'Only
one other thing to do, then,' Martin muttered.

'We've
just finished doing it. The names of all the vets, all the professional staff
at the Royal Dick Vet, and all the zoo and circus people have been fed into the
PNC, looking for anything that might connect them back to Alec Smith.

'A
complete blank, I'm afraid, sir. Vets are straight-A people to the point of
boredom. That really is as far as we can go. Like I've said, we've just
finished our report for Ms Rose.'

The
Head of CID nodded. 'Right; she's at the divisional HQ today, in Brian Mackie's
office. Take it along to her, Karen, and run through what you've done, just in
case there are any areas that you and her people might not have covered between
you. After that, I want you both to report to Superintendent Pringle down
atTorphichen Place. He's short-staffed and needs all the help he can get to put
a name to the-Saturday-night floater.'

'How
about Tony Manero?' Pye suggested. Martin and

Neville
stared at him. 'You know, the guy in
Saturday
Night Fever?'

'Jesus,
boy,' said the Head of CID, 'you need a spell as a Blue Meanie, out on the
street persecuting motorists, to cure that sense of humour. For the record,
this guy was not wearing a white suit when we fished him out, nor was he in any
condition to go dancing.

'You
get off to see Mr Pringle right now. Karen'll join you once she's been to St
Leonard's.' Pye nodded and left the room with what looked like a quick disco
shuffle. Neville turned to follow him, but Martin laid a hand on her sleeve.
'Hang on a minute, Karen.'

She
sat down once more at the briefing table. 'You doing anything tomorrow night,
after work?'

'Afraid
so. I'm going down to Cockburnspath to see my mother; I'm staying over and
driving back in the morning.'

'How
about Thursday?'

She
shook her head. 'Sorry again; I'm baby-sitting for Neil while he and the Boss
kick each other around
...
not that I
should be calling Lauren a baby. She's carrying the load amazingly well.' She
paused. 'He'll be back before eleven, though. You could always come round to my
place later.'

'Nan,
that wouldn't do.'

'Andy,'
she asked, 'what's up?'

He
gave her a wry smile. 'My head, that's what's up. Completely fucked up. I need
someone to talk to, someone close, someone who can help me get my priorities
right.'

Karen
looked back at him, not smiling; not at all. 'That's a coincidence. I need much
the same myself. Yes, let's have a joint shoulder-soaking session. But not this
week, eh?' She stood and kissed him, quickly. 'Sorry,' she said. 'Improper in
the office and all that. 'Let's make a date for next week; if you still want to
talk to me by then.' 'What d'you mean?'

'I
mean that you're going out with Ruth McConnell on Saturday night. She let it
slip in the girlies' room this afternoon.'

'Damn!'
he swore. 'That's part of the problem; but only part.'

'And
what about me?' she asked him, quietly. 'Am I part of it too?'

'I
thought you and I were like-minded,' he said, eyes narrowing. 'I thought you
wanted us to be the way we are.'

'You
can't always get what you want
...
Am
I?'

He
sighed and walked towards the window. The view was not as panoramic as Bob
Skinner's, but he could still see the front door. Sammy Pye was leaving the
building, his light sports jacket slung over his shoulder. 'Yeah,' he murmured,
at last. 'Yes, I think you are.'

'In
that case,' she replied, 'don't be so crass as to think you can use me like
that. In that case, I only want to talk to you when you've got something to
tell me - or ask me. There's no point in having a sounding board who has an axe
to grind - or plant in your head, as the case may be.'

He
looked back at her, seeing things in her eyes that he had never seen before. No
more steady, reliable, good buddy Karen; no more hot nights and hot breakfasts,
with no complications.
Should
have known better, Martin. It always gets complicated, sooner or later.

'I'm
off to St Leonard's, sir,' she said, suddenly businesslike. 'Then to
Torphichen. When do you want me back here?'

'Whenever
Dan gets a result,' he answered. 'Karen, I'm sorry. I know I'm a fucking idiot
where my private life's concerned. I'll talk to you, soon.'

'Maybe;
just don't promise what you can't deliver. I'll call you from Torphichen, when
I've seen what Mr Pringle has lined up for us.' She left the room; he was
relieved when she closed the door quietly behind her.

He
turned and threw a punch at the wall; pulling it less than an inch short of
making a fist-sized dent in the plaster. Swearing quietly to himself, he sat
behind his desk, trying to restore some semblance of order to his mind. At once,
he knew the first thing that he had to do. He picked up the telephone and
punched in an internal number.