Thursday legends - Skinner 10 (2 page)

Mitchell
Laidlaw: managing partner of Edinburgh's biggest legal firm, a legendarily
successful litigator of formidable determination, which he brought with him on
to the football courts.

Grant
Rock: the man about town - in this case, North Berwick - of the group, local
Government official, Rotarian, and like many of the group, a golf addict.

David
McPhail: a successful advertising executive, his roots, like those of Skinner,
were in the west of Scotland, but he had transplanted successfully to Gullane
more than a quarter of a century earlier.

Spike
Thomson: in a sense the odd man out, the senior disc jockey on one of
Edinburgh's commercial radio stations, the nearest thing North Berwick had to a
resident celebrity.

Howard
Shearer: the Diddler - Mcllhenney had often wondered where the nickname had
come from, but had still to ask - the most enthusiastic, if least skilful
member of the squad. A high-ranking fund manager, whose secretary arranged his
diary to ensure that he was always at home for the five-a-sides on Thursday
evenings.

And
on his right, Bob Skinner: boss, friend, benefactor, whatever
...
the man who had brought him into the
squad, at a moment in his life when he had needed it most, killer squash
player, karate maestro, golfing shark, but rough-and-ready footballer.

'The
real high point of my night, though,' - the Diddler's high-pitched voice broke
into his thoughts - 'was shifting big Mcllhenney here off his feet.'

'Ye'd
better bring some extra padding next Thursday night then,' Grant Rock told him.
'The sergeant's going to be looking for you.'

'No
need for padding, Grock,' said Neil. 'Not with an arse like he's got.' He
drained his glass and stood up, waving across to Lauren and Spencer. 'Got to
get these two home, lads. See you next week, and thanks once again.'

'He's
a good bloke, that,' said Andrew John, moving his seat closer to Skinner, as
the door of the lounge bar closed on the father and his children. 'You did well
bringing him along here. Hellish shame about his wife.'

'Aye,
it was that.'

'How
long's it been now?'

The
big policeman scratched his chin. 'Let's see. He's been with us for five
months, since January, and she died about six

weeks
before that. Yes, just over six months.' 'What was she like?'

'Olive?
Simply the best, like the song goes. A tremendous woman.'

'Cancer,
was it?'

'Aye,
in the lung. She gave it her best - they both did - but it was too much for
her.'

'And
how's he settled down since? It must be difficult for him with the two kids.'
The banker paused. 'Of course, you would know that, wouldn't you?'

'That
was a long time ago, Andrew, and I was only left with one - wee Alexis. You
could argue that having the kids will have helped ease the loss, in a way, but
it's not true. It occupies you, but you never forget; not for a second.'

'This
boys' club of ours must help him too.'

'It
does. Gets him out of the house once a week at least.'

'He's
not a bad footballer.'

'Better
than that. He played Junior, for Armadale, before he joined the force.'

Andrew
John's eyes lit up with a new respect. 'Why d'you not bring him before, then?'

Skinner
grinned. 'Never thought to. Anyway, he'd gone to seed. Since Olive fell ill
he's lost a couple of stone at least, and got himself back into training. His
father died of a heart attack a few years back; it's all the more important to
Neil now that he stays fit, for the kids' sake if nothing else.'

'Talking
about kids,' John continued, 'how's your new one getting on?'

The
grin turned into a beam of delight. 'Our wee Seonaid? She's absolutely great.
Sleeps all the time, unlike her brother.' 'And Sarah? How's she?'

'Loving
it. For the first time in her adult life, she isn't thinking about work at all.
The day after Jazz was born she insisted on being picked up from the Simpson to
go to a crime scene. Not this time, though. Motherhood's finally got to her
...
thank Christ for it too, with three on
our hands.'

The
banker nodded. 'Of course, your adopted lad. He's settled in.'

'Fine,
thanks. He's an intense wee boy, very clever; to see Jazz and him together
you'd never know that the two lads weren't natural brothers.'

'Your
older daughter, how's she?' John grinned. 'Might as well ask about them all,'
he added.

'You'd
be better asking Mitch Laidlaw about our Alexis. He sees more of her than I do;
ten hours a day in the office at least. She's living in Leith now; nice wee
flat she has.'

'No
romantic entanglements?'

Skinner
looked at him and sighed. 'I never ask, my friend. I never ask.'

3

Andy
Martin stared at the wall. He had become familiar with it since moving into his
town house in Dean Village. One or two friends and colleagues had asked him why
he had bothered, since his new home was less than half a mile from his
Haymarket flat; but those who really knew him needed no explanation.

Since
his break-up with Alexis Skinner, the detective had been focused almost
completely on his work. Sure, there had been the odd night out with his team.
Sure, Bob Skinner and he remained as close as ever, and if Andy suspected that
his friend was secretly pleased that the engagement was over, neither of them
ever discussed the matter. Sure, on more than the odd occasion, he had dipped
into his old address book for dates and the odd one-night stand, instant flings
which more than anything else had served to show him that he had virtually no
friends outside the job. And even they, or most of them, tended to be just that
bit more distant now that he was high on the ladder, and on the fast track for
Chief Officer rank.

He
had never thought of himself as a lonely man; now he realised that, before
Alex, he had been just that and, without her, he was once more. The Haymarket
place had become intolerable for him. The part of him which mourned her loss
saw her in every shadow; but the part of him, the stronger part, which could
never forgive her, could never forget either, never forget the shock of
discovery or the choking, blinding,
deafening
rage which had overwhelmed him when she had told him, in that damned house,
that she had aborted their child.

So
he had sold it, to a young, upwardly mobile couple, as they had been once, and
had moved into the modern three-storey end-terraced house with a living room on
the first floor, a small balcony overlooking the Water of Leith, and with at
least one bedroom more than he felt he would ever need. And the wall had become
his companion.

Of
itself, it was nondescript, without windows, painted in a pale pastel colour, a
barrier between his solitude and the busy life of his neighbour, a pleasant,
middle-aged woman with a senior job in the Scottish Government administration,
two daughters and a Vauxhall. But since moving in he had hung it, and most of
the others, with his collection of paintings by contemporary Scottish artists,
acquired over the years from galleries and sale rooms in and around Edinburgh,
and on one or two occasions, from exhibitions at the city's respected College
of Art.

Each
one had for him its own personality, and said different things to him. They
were his friends, although they were still acclimatising, blending into their
new surroundings as he moved them around, finding the arrangement within the
room's differing patterns of light which showed all of them at their best.
'Maybe now they're right,' he said aloud as he sat in his armchair and gazed at
them. It occurred to him that he had not felt as peaceful for months, not for
more than a year, when all was serene with Alex and him, before their conflicts
had arisen; yes, maybe now they were indeed right.

The
ladies liked them too; he grinned at the recollection of his pleasure at
showing his collection to someone for the first
time.
Sally, an old flame, had been bowled over by them -literally, as it had turned
out - only a week before. So had Jane, a month or so back. Karen Neville had
never seen them, though, and he doubted if she ever would. The others were
...
safe; Karen was trouble waiting to
happen.

He
and the spectacular sergeant had come together in the wake of violence and of
two vastly different personal tragedies. They had both meant it to be a
one-off, but there had been a repeat performance, then another, and another,
until finally he had allowed the relationship simply to fade away, before it
reached the point at which he would have been obliged to move her out of her
job in his office. He liked Karen, and undoubtedly they were great together
under the duvet, but the memory of Bob Skinner's indiscretion with a member of
his personal staff was too strong for him to push away.

The
paintings seemed to gaze back at him; he grinned as he wondered if they might
be trying to tell him that they needed a wider audience. There was the girl
next door for a start. Rhian Lewis, the older of the civil servant's two
daughters, was a medical student at Edinburgh University; she was tall, blonde
and athletic, and she had that look in her eye. He had seen her running at
weekends; once, indeed, he had overtaken her on the Water of Leith Walkway, and
they had jogged back to Dean Village together.

Yes,
Rhian would like the collection, he was sure; and the paintings would like her.
But
...
the girl next door? Fraught
with problems, he told himself at once. And she was so young; younger even than
Alex. He'd be a real idiot to make the same mistake twice, would he not?

'Yes,'
he said aloud. 'A real idiot. No more twenty-anythings for you, Martin. You'll
play in your own age group from now on. Starting this weekend.' He pushed
himself up from the chair, picked up his cordless phone from the coffee table,
and dialled a number, plucked from his memory. 'Hi, Janey,' he began, as the
call was answered. 'Andy. You doing anything tomorrow night?'

'Washing
my hair,' the woman on the other end of the line said, tersely.

'On
a Saturday night? That sounds like the bum's rush to me.'

'You
could be right there, Mr Martin. Tell you what, why don't you ask that Sindy Doll
I saw you with in George Street last weekend?' The line went dead.

'Ouch,'
he said, staring at his handset. 'You get away with nothing in this bloody
city, do you?' he complained to the paintings. He started to dial Sally's
number, but paused. Two weeks on the trot could lead to a third, and so on;
these things could come about almost by default. He and Sal had been live-ins a
few years before and, nice as she was, he didn't fancy going there again.

'Bugger,'
he swore, and began to whistle tunelessly, an old Sinatra song about lonely
Saturday nights. And then he had a brainwave. He picked up his Filofax and
flicked through its telephone listings, until he got to the 'Macs' section. He
found the number at once; scrawled in over the one which it had replaced, and
dialled it up.

The
ringing tone sounded four times, before it was replaced by a honey voice.
'Yes?' she said, cautiously; the tone of a woman living alone. 'Ruthie?' he
asked, although he knew that it was her. Ruth McConnell, Bob Skinner's secretary,
a Kim Basinger lookalike with legs which went all the way up to her bum;
gorgeous and currently single.

'Yes?'

'It's
Andy Martin. Listen, this is a bit of a cheek, so don't worry about blowing me
out, but I'm at a bit of a loose end tomorrow night. I wondered if you fancied
dinner.'

Only
three or four seconds, but seeming twice as much. 'Andy, I'd love to,' she
answered. He could tell from her tone that she meant it; he could tell also what
she would say next. 'But I can't. I'm going through to Ayr tomorrow to visit my
Mum. She's just come out of hospital.'

This
is not your day, son,
he
thought. 'Ahh, too bad,' he said. Still, there had been that hint. 'How about
next weekend?'

'That
would be great.'

'Okay
then. I'll see you sometime and you can give me directions for picking you up.'