Quintin Jardine: Skinner's mission

Skinner nodded. ‘Fair enough. But how come you’re here? You’re Head of CID. What the hell do we have divisional offices for? Haven’t I taught you anything about delegation?’

‘No,’ said Martin, cheerfully. ‘Not a single, solitary bloody thing! All I’m doing is following the example you set when you were in this job.’ His soft smile faded. ‘But seriously though, I’ve got a standing order in place that anything involving Jackie Charles is reported immediately to my office. Like I heard you say to Arthur Dorward, he’s been Number One on our target list for years, or at least since Tony Manson got killed.’

‘And you want the glory of banging him up?’ Martin looked at him sharply, surprised. ‘Only joking, Andy!’

‘As a result,’ said the Chief Superintendent, heavily, ‘when the night duty man in Dave Donaldson’s office logged in the Fire Brigade report, he did the right thing and phoned Sammy, who takes the night calls for me.’

Skinner smiled sympathetically at the young man. ‘We’ve all had to do night telephone duty in our careers, son. But I’ll tell you a strange thing. The higher up the tree we get, and the more we have willing lads like you to shield us from the middle of the night calls, even so the fucking phone seems to ring more and more.’

He looked back at Martin. ‘So what about Jackie? Has anyone called his house yet, to see if he’s in?’ He pointed downwards. ‘Or are you assuming that we’re looking for a new public enemy Number One?’

‘The Fire Service phoned him as soon as the blaze was reported. There was no reply, but there’s a Porsche outside, with Jackie’s personal number, “N1JJC”, on it.’

The DCC frowned. ‘I see. Still, let’s not jump to conclusions. He could have left it here for a service.’

‘Sure, but then again. .’ Martin looked at Skinner, very slightly askance.

‘To answer your question, boss, I haven’t sent anyone out to his house yet,’ he said. ‘I know you’re as interested in Charles as I am. That’s why I told Sammy to call you, even before I knew there was a body involved.

‘Hope he didn’t wake the baby,’ he added.

‘No. Master Jazz sleeps through the phone these days. Just as well. I’m in deep enough shit with the wife as it is.’

The Chief Superintendent looked at him, sharply once again, but decided that it was not the moment to follow up the remark. Instead he said, ‘I thought we might go to the Charles place together, sir, to pay a call on Jackie, or possibly, probably even given that car, on his widow.’

Skinner sighed. ‘The lovely Carole, eh. I haven’t seen her in years.’

‘You know her?’

‘Too right I know her! Years ago Jackie and Carole used to live in Gullane, not that far from me. There he was, living the life of a respectable young motor dealer, and there was I, a young blood in the CID, knowing that he was one of the biggest villains in Edinburgh, and a part of the team that was trying to put him away.’ Again, Martin glanced at him in surprise.

‘It was more than a wee bit embarrassing at the time. A couple of times Myra and I were invited to parties, and the Charleses were there.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I stopped going to parties. Eventually the Charleses moved up to Edinburgh, but by that time Myra was dead, and I wasn’t getting party invitations anyway.’

‘Eh?’

Skinner nodded. ‘Don’t look surprised. A single man, especially a widower, is a very awkward guest at married couples’ parties. All the guys watch him like a hawk around their wives.’

Martin stared at him. ‘I’m single, and I’ve never noticed that.’

‘Aye, but when were you ever stuck for someone to take to a party? Anyway, enough of my past. Doctor, how’s the sift through the ashes coming along?’

The middle-aged Banks pushed himself awkwardly to his feet. ‘That is more or less what it is. All the features and genitals have been obliterated, most of the flesh has been reduced to ash and what’s left is roasted.’

‘Could this be Jackie Charles, the owner of the showroom? ’

‘Yes, Mr Skinner, it could. But it could also be just about anyone else on the surface of the planet. I will need to open the body up before I can even tell you the gender of the victim. As for identification, that will have to be done through dental records. Even that might be difficult, since most of the fillings in the teeth seem to have melted.’

Skinner looked closely at the body for the first time, and felt his stomach lurch. Apart from the blackened, grinning skull, there was nothing that was recognisably human.

‘Do what you have to, Doctor, as soon as you can.’

‘Sir.’ Sammy Pye spoke without moving from his corner. ‘You won’t see it where you are, but there’s a wedding ring beside the body.’

‘Pick it up, then, Constable, and let’s have a look.’ The DCC glanced at Martin. ‘Who says I can’t delegate?’ he muttered.

Taking a deep breath and holding it, the young Pye bent over the black, stinking, sodden mass, and picked up a small, approximately round object with his thumb and second finger. He held it up for Skinner and Martin to see, then placed it on the DCC’s outstretched palm.

‘A man’s ring?’ asked Skinner.

‘Could be,’ Martin replied. He produced a torch from his tunic and shone it on the band. The fire had distorted it until it was almost oval but it still gleamed in the light. He picked it up and shone the beam around the inner surface. ‘Bugger,’ he whispered. ‘No inscription, only a hallmark.’

‘Even that might tell us something. Come on, let’s get out of here and leave Doctor Banks to his work.’

The DCC led his two colleagues back through the showroom and out into the forecourt, which was lined with undamaged cars, all high-value used models, if less costly than those which had gone up in flames. The policemen stood there, protected from the drizzling rain by their tunics, and looked down Seafield Road, the recognised heartland of motor car retailing in the City of Edinburgh, at the lighted logo towers of more than a dozen car dealerships, which advertised among them almost every manufacturer in the marketplace.

‘Quite a set-up,’ said Skinner quietly. ‘You want any sort of car, odds on you can get it here. Twenty-five years ago there was virtually bugger all on this road but for whisky bonds, the bus depot and the Dog and Cat Home.

‘Now there are God knows how many millions turned over on this strip every week in the year. And you could argue that Jackie Charles started it all.’

He broke off and turned to Pye. ‘Right, Sammy,’ he said. ‘It’s oral examination time. What can you tell us about Jackie Charles?’

Alarm at the snapped question showed in the young Detective Constable’s eyes, but for no more than a second. Then he nodded, and it vanished to be replaced by cool confidence.

‘John Jackson Charles, sir,’ he began, as if reading from a page in his mind. ‘Known to all his friends and associates as Jackie. Aged forty-eight, and born in Edinburgh. He was an only child and his parents were thoroughly respectable middle-class people. His father, Martin Charles, was sales manager with the main Ford dealer in the city until he retired twelve years ago. Mr Charles senior is seventy-seven years old. He and Mrs Charles senior, who is seventy-five and who has always been a full-time housewife, now live in a cottage in St Andrews owned by their son.

‘The Charles family lived in a small bungalow in Corstorphine, and Jackie was educated at the Royal High School. He left school at eighteen with a clutch of Higher passes, but didn’t choose to go to university. While he was at school his father had given him holiday work at the Ford dealership, and when he left, he insisted on starting there full-time.