Thursday legends - Skinner 10 (4 page)

He
finished his third and last pint of the evening, and they left their third and
last port of call, walking out into William Street, into the still, mild summer
evening. She took his arm as they turned into Walker Street, quiet at
ten-thirty, even on a Friday night. She was silent on the walk home, along
Rothesay Terrace and down the hill towards the Village.

'Thanks,
Andy,' she said at last, as they arrived at their neighbouring homes. 'This has
been nice
...
even though you have
been blocking me out all night.'

'I
haven't,' he lied; she was perceptive, this girl-woman.

'Oh
no? Ask me in for a coffee, then.'

He
looked at her, temptation on legs, in the gloaming of the June Scottish night,
lit by the blue glow of the northern sky. And then he thought of the paintings.
'Do it,' they seemed to whisper to him.

'Okay,'
he said. 'Would you like a coffee?'

She
seemed to twinkle at him. 'Well, just the one
...'

He
unlocked the door and stood aside for her; the houses in the terrace were
identical in lay-out, so she headed straight upstairs to the first-floor living
area, above the garage, laundry and store rooms. He flicked a light switch and
watched her as she stopped, as soon as she reached the top and stepped into the
living room.

She
was gazing at the paintings as he stepped up beside her. 'How do you like my
friends?' he asked.

'Andy,
they're really lovely. Are they all originals?'

'Sshh,'
he said. 'You'll offend them, just by asking that. Stay here and get to know
them; I'll give you the guided tour once I've made the coffee.'

He
stepped through to his kitchen and made a pot of filter coffee, then brought
two mugs back to the living room. 'I guessed no sugar, okay?' She nodded as he
set them on a low table. She was standing by the cabinet which held his hi-fi
equipment, holding a CD case.

'Who's
this?' she asked.

'Mary
Coughlan. Irish; what you'd call a torch singer.' He picked up a remote, and
pressed a button; a few seconds later a smoky voice sang out into the room.
'Right,' he said. 'Andy's art gallery.'

He
walked her round the pictures one by one, explaining the history of each and of
its artist. The collection was a blend of modern and traditional art, oils,
acrylics and watercolours. 'They're all beautifully framed,' Rhian commented.

'Most
of them have been refrained to my taste. I can't paint for toffee, so I sort of
see that as my stamp on them. Many artists will put any old cheap crap around
their work, so there's plenty of scope.'

She
turned to face him. 'So this is the man you've been keeping back from me all
night. A secret lover of art and very sexy music' She put her arms around his
neck, and kissed him.

'Hey,
hey,' he whispered. 'Rhian, this isn't
...'

She
pressed herself against him, provocatively; he was rock hard, no disguising it.
'Mmm, like I said. Not an ounce of fat.'

'Come
on kid,' he protested. 'Don't rush your fences.'

'Ahh,'
she said, softly. 'So the fence is there to be cleared
...'

'I
didn't say that. Look, you're very attractive, and all that—'

'But
I'm only a kid. Don't kid yourself. You wouldn't be the first man I've slept
with
...'
She paused.'... or the
oldest either.'

'No,
but I'll be the first who lived next door.' 'What's that got to do with it?'
'Ask your mother.'

'It's
got nothing to do with her. Andy, I'm past my twenty-first. I'm a grown woman
...
damn well-grown at that. Now shut up
and kiss me again.'

Oh
shit!
said the voice in his
head. His hands, which had been together loosely at the small of her back, slid
up under her tee-shirt. Her skin felt silky and smooth,' as he drew her close
against him. Her lips were soft, her full breasts loose, her nipples hard,
rubbing against him even through two layers of clothing.

He
gave himself up to Trouble, and in that moment didn't give a damn.

Andy
Martin had long held the irrational theory that telephones are a malevolent life
form, one which chooses to interfere in its creators' business at pivotal
moments, out of cussedness. But when his cordless phone rang out, he
thought that, for once, it might have decided to save him from himself
.
                                                                            
•

He
extricated himself from Rhian's embrace. 'That's probably your mother,' he
muttered, as he picked up the handset.

The
girl shook her head. 'Probably one of your Saturday night women,' she laughed.

'Martin,'
he said into the receiver. It was a woman, but one of the Monday-to-Friday
sort. 'Andy,' a familiar voice replied. 'It's Maggie.'

He
looked back across the room and put a finger to his lips. 'Yes, Chief Inspector
Rose. What can I do for you?'

'I'm
at a crime scene: a suspicious death.' He heard her pause. 'No, let's forget
police-speak, a murder. I'm sorry to bother you with it, but I guessed you'd
want to know about it.'

'Why's
that?'

'Because
it's a right nasty one
...
and
because the victim's an ex-copper.'

'Shit.
Where are you?'

'North
Berwick. A house called Shell Cottage, in Forth Street.'

'I'll
be with you inside an hour. I've had a couple of beers so I'll need to round up
a driver.'

He
ended the call and looked at Rhian. 'Sorry, love. It's the job; I've got to go
and look at a body. You see? You don't really want to be involved with me: this
sort of thing happens all the time.'

'Don't
worry. It happens to doctors too. Can I come with you?'

'No
way,' he answered, firmly. 'Then I'll wait for you.'

'No.'
He frowned at her. 'Seriously, you should go next door. If for no other reason
than that this could take all night.'

'Ann,'
she sighed. 'In that case, I'll see you tomorrow. I could take all night too.'

4

Once
upon a time, North Berwick was known as 'the Biarritz of the North' - a term
coined, or so Detective Chief Inspector Maggie Rose had always thought, by
someone who had never been to Biarritz.

In
fact the term came from the Victorian era, when the small East Lothian town had
been the main weekend and holiday resort for the merchants and financiers of
Edinburgh. Even at the dawn of the new millennium, its beach-front area was
little changed from those days, although the modern community which unrolled
from it had become a dormitory for the city and an internationally recognised
golf resort.

Maggie
Rose was standing at the front door of Shell Cottage, between two uniformed
constables, when Karen Neville's Nova drew up behind the ambulance and police
vehicles, and the Head of CID stepped out of the front passenger seat. It was
forty minutes past midnight. 'Hi, Mags,' he said. 'Sorry I didn't get here
sooner, but I decided to ask Karen to bring me out, rather than take a patrol
car off duty. ACC Elder gets humpty about that sort of thing.'

He
saw her eyes narrow slightly and guessed that the DCI thought that they had
been together when she had called. 'It took her a few minutes to get down to
pick me up,' he added, pointedly.

Maggie
flushed slightly, embarrassed that her mind had been read. 'Hello, Karen,' she
said, as the detective sergeant approached.

'The
man inside,' Martin asked. 'Who is he?'

'His
name's Smith, Alexander Smith, and he's the only elector registered at this
address. There are some papers inside which told us that he was a police
pensioner
...'
She paused as she saw
the DCS's face change. 'You know him?'

'Of
course I do. I succeeded him as Head of Special Branch. Don't you remember him?
Alec Smith; he was a DCI when he chucked it, like you are now. Jesus, this puts
a bit of a spin on it. Have you told the Boss?'

Red
hair swung as she shook her head. 'No. I left that to your judgement.'

'Let's
have a look at him first. Are Dorward's scene-of-crime team here yet?'

'No,
but the MO's here. He's still inside. I came out for a breath of fresh air. I'd
have opened the windows, but I didn't want to touch anything unnecessarily
before Arthur's lot have been over the place.'

'Lead
on then.' Rose nodded and turned to go back indoors. Before following, Martin
paused for a moment to look at Shell Cottage. It was a two-storey house, built
of locally quarried red stone, with a pan-tiled roof, and separated from the
pavement by a narrow garden. Taller buildings stood on either side, their walls
adjoining.

'I
never knew Alec lived here,' he murmured, absent-mindedly, then stepped past
the uniforms and into the house, into a narrow hall, Neville at his heels.

Maggie
Rose was waiting for them at the foot of a flight of stairs. 'He's up there, in
his living room, or study. Whatever

you
want to call it.' She looked at the Sergeant. 'Karen, it's bad,' she warned.

'I've
seen death before,' the other woman replied.

'Not
like this, you haven't.' Rose led the way upstairs. 'Trust Brian Mackie to be
on holiday when we get one like this,' she murmured. Four doors opened off the
upper landing, which was lit by a skylight. Three led to rooms overlooking
Forth Street; a tall man in his early thirties stood outside the other.

'This
is Dr Brown, the duty medical examiner,' said Maggie. 'Dr Brown; DCS Martin and
Detective Sergeant Neville.'

The
Head of CID shook hands with the doctor, noting that the fresh round face was a
touch pale. 'Pleased to meet you. Been doing this job for long?'

'No,'
the doctor replied. 'I've only just joined your panel.' Martin caught a light
Irish accent. 'Right now, I'm having second thoughts.'

'Have
you got a cause of death for us?'

'Heart
failure, technically; it'll take a bloody good pathologist to tell you what
the principal contributory cause was.'

'Fortunately,'
muttered Martin, 'I know one
...
if I
can persuade her to do it, that is. Let's have a look at poor old Alec, then.'
He pointed to the fourth door. 'In here, yes?'

'Yes.'

He
opened it, took a pace inside, then hesitated, as if he had been checked
physically by the smell which greeted him, a mix of blood, faeces and something
else. Experienced policemen will assert that terror leaves a stench of its own;
Martin caught it as he looked at the man into whose shoes he had once stepped.

Alec
Smith's study stretched the full width of the house. The wall facing the door
seemed to be one big, north-facing window. Although its slatted, vertical
blinds were closed, Andy could still see in his mind's eye the view outside;
the wide beach, the harbour, the old granary, now converted into desirable
apartments, Craigleith, the Bass Rock, and in the distance the outline of the
East Neuk of Fife.

The
lights were off, but the glow of the northern sky in midsummer was strong
enough to imbue the blinds with a pale blue pallor, and to let the Head of CID,
and Karen Neville as she stepped in behind him, see the full horror of what was
in the room. A beam split the high ceiling, from gable to gable. Into its side,
at around the mid-way point a big hook was sunk. Alec Smith was suspended from
it, on the tips of his toes; he hung by his wrists, which were lashed together
with blue nylon rope, tied in turn to the hook. He was naked and his back was
to the door, his head lolling forward on his chest.

'Outside,
Karen.' Martin's voice was little more than a whisper, but she obeyed, without
argument. As the door closed again, he crossed the room and adjusted one of the
blinds, allowing a little more light in. Then he took a deep breath and turned
to take his first close look.

For
all his experience, for all that he had seen, his stomach heaved instinctively,
and he felt a beery taste in his mouth; he was glad that he had not switched on
the array of lights which were positioned along the beam. Smith had been disembowelled;
his entrails had burst from a diagonal rip across his abdomen and hung down to
the floor. Andy clenched his teeth and looked closer. Behind the exposed,
rumbling intestine, he could see that the man's genitals were badly burned, as
were his nipples, and large areas of his chest and lower torso. A blowlamp, he
guessed. Steeling himself once more, he raised the man's heavy head and looked
at his face. The mouth was gagged with several strips of broad, brown gaffer
tape, and the eyes had been burned out.