Quintin Jardine: Skinner's rules

The Advocates’ Library is situated in Parliament House, on the far side of the Great Hall, the finest public room in Scotland. It is barely 200 yards from the mouth of Advocates’ Close.

Skinner and Martin walked the short distance, entering the Supreme Court buildings through the unmarked, anonymous, swing doors. They had almost passed the brightly-uniformed security men — known colloquially as the High Street Blues — when Martin stopped. ‘Hold on a minute, boss.’

He stepped over to the reception desk where a registration book lay open. Names, locations in the building, times of arrival and times of departure ran in four parallel columns. He scanned backwards through the list of signatures.

‘Here we are. Mortimer signed in at 9.11 p.m. and out at 4.02 a.m. Signed off for good about a minute later, I should think. I wonder what kept him working all night.’

‘It’s not all that unusual, Andy. The Library’s open twenty-four hours a day for advocates’ use, and these are busy people as a rule. The younger ones often live in small flats, and like to use this as an office as well as just a reading room.’

They walked across the Great Hall, beneath the magnificent hammer-beam roof, and past the stained glass window which reminds visitors that the Hall was, in centuries gone by, the home of Scotland’s Parliament.

The clock stood at only 8.22 a.m., but Roy Thornton, the Faculty of Advocates’ Officer and front-of-house manager, stood in his box at the Library entrance, resplendent in the formal uniform which was his working dress. It suited him. He had been, in an earlier career, Regimental Sergeant Major of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers.

He was a dark, trim man, with a neatly clipped moustache, and a face which gave a hint of his fondness for malt whisky. He and Skinner knew each other well, and the big detective respected the ex-soldier as the fountainhead of all knowledge about the head office of Scotland’s law business.

Thornton smiled in greeting. ‘Hello, Bob. Bit early for you, is it no’. Or have you not slept since that football team of yours was stuffed on Saturday!’ Thornton laughed. Football rivalry was another link between them. Roy Thornton was a Heart of Midlothian fanatic, while Skinner retained a boyhood loyalty to Motherwell. Both were Premier Division sides, and on the previous Saturday, Hearts had beaten Motherwell in a close and controversial match in Edinburgh.

Skinner grunted. ‘Had the ref locked up. He’s up in the Sheriff Court at ten o’clock. Charges are daylight robbery, high treason, buggery and anything else that I can think of between now and then.’

Thornton rocked back on his heels as he laughed. ‘So what brings you here, big fella. Looking to nobble an Advocate Depute?’

Skinner dropped the bantering tone. ‘No, Roy, what brings me here is bloody murder, most foul. Know a boy called Mortimer, one of yours?’

The term ‘boy’ is used widely in Scotland to denote any male person who is above the age of consent, but younger than the speaker.

Thornton nodded, his smile vanishing. ‘Young Mike? Aye, he’s a good lad. Why, what’s up?’

‘About four and a half hours ago, someone separated young Mike from his head — and I mean that — across the road in Advocates’ Close.’

The colour drained in an instant from Thornton’s face. ‘Sweet suffering Christ!’

Skinner gave him a few moments to absorb the news. ‘Listen, Roy, say no to this if you have any sense, but if you could make a formal identification now it could save the next of kin a load of grief.’

‘Sure, I’ll do that.’

Ten minutes later, they re-entered the building. As they crossed the Great Hall, Thornton said to Skinner: ‘In the army once, in Ireland, I had to clean up after an explosion, so I’ve seen things like that before. But it’s part of the scene there.

‘This is Edinburgh. This is a safe, kind place. What sort of a bastard is there in this city that would do a thing like that. A loony, surely.’

Skinner looked sideways at him. ‘I hope so, Roy. Because if whoever chopped up your boy Mike is sane, it doesn’t bear thinking about. Tell me what you know about Mortimer.’

There was little to tell. Mike Mortimer had been thirty-four years old, and had been at the Bar for four years, after five years in the Procurator Fiscal service in Glasgow and Stranraer. He had grown a successful criminal practice quickly, from scratch. He was unmarried, but was widely believed to be sleeping with Rachel Jameson, an advocate a year or two his junior, both in age and in service at the Bar.

In common with most advocates, his family background was non-legal. His father, Thornton recalled, worked in a factory in Clydebank.

‘Nice people, his Mum and Dad. I remember them at Mike’s Calling ceremony. They were so proud of him.’ He shook his head slowly and sadly.

‘Look, Bob, you’d better see the Dean.’

‘Of course, Roy. But give me a second.’ He turned to Martin. ‘Andy, will you talk to the security guards. The night shift will be away by now. Find out who they are, get their addresses and have someone take statements.’

Martin nodded and recrossed the Hall.

Thornton left Skinner for a few moments. On his return, he motioned to the detective to follow him, and led the way through the long Library, past rows of desks under an up-lit, gold-painted ceiling, to a door halfway down on the left.

David Murray, QC, recently elected as Dean of the Faculty of Advocates following his predecessor’s elevation to high judicial office, was a small, neat man, with a reserved but pleasant manner, and enormously shrewd eyes, set behind round spectacles. He was a member of one of the legal dynasties who once formed the major proportion of the Scots Bar. He was held in the utmost respect throughout the Faculty and beyond, and his election, although contested, had been welcomed universally. He was a man of stature in every respect other than the physical.

While Murray’s practice was exclusively civil, he had enjoyed a spell in criminal prosecution as an Advocate Depute. During that time Skinner’s evidence in a number of spectacular trials had helped him to maintain an undefeated record as Crown counsel. He greeted the detective warmly.

‘Hello, Bob, how are things. Thornton tells me you want to see me. None of my troops been up to mischief, I hope.’

‘David, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but one of your people has been murdered. It happened just a few hours ago. He seems to have been on his way home from the Library when he was attacked in Advocates’ Close.’

Murray stood bolt upright. ‘Good God! Who?’

‘A man named Michael Mortimer. Roy Thornton just confirmed our identification.’

‘Oh no, surely not.’ Murray ran a small hand through what was left of his hair. ‘You said murder. Is that what it was, strictly speaking, or do you think it was a mugging gone wrong?’

‘David, not even you would have accepted a culpable homicide plea on this one, believe me.’ Skinner shuddered at the memory, still vivid in his thoughts. He realised, with a flash of certainty, that it would never leave him completely.

‘Listen, I know it’s early, but do you have a spot of something? I feel the need all of a sudden.’

The Dean’s room was lined with books from floor to ceiling. Murray walked over to a shelf and removed a leather-bound volume with the title Session Cases 1924 printed in gold on the spine. He reached into the darkness of the gap that it had left and produced a bottle of Glenmorangie. He removed a glass bearing the Faculty crest from a drawer in his octagonal desk, and uncorking the bottle, poured a stiff measure.