Quintin Jardine - Skinner's trail

`How would he have got in?'

With the postman, maybe. It must have been while Cocozza was at his office, and our two weren't here. There were stairs back in the hall leading to basement storage. He could have hidden there till everything was quiet, then picked Cocozza's Yale. From what the boss was saying, it looks like Lucan.'

`Maybe. Let's see-what he thinks. I'll call him now. When he sees this mess he'll wish he hadn't eaten that lunch at the Balmoral!'

‘Poor little guy. The last half-hour of his life doesn't bear imagining. Tied up and systematically tortured, then finally dispatched like an animal in a badly-run slaughterhouse.'

Sarah turned to the ambulance crew. 'Okay. If the photographers and technicians are finished, you can take him away now.' At a nod from Skinner, they set to work, noisily ripping off the tape which bound Cocozza's body to the chair.

He put an arm around Sarah's shoulders and, led her from the flat, away from the scene and from its smell, which had grown overpowering. 'Thanks, love, for coming down. Let's get back.' As soon as he had digested Martin's call, he had rushed to Dean Village, calling at home to pick up Sarah and to drop off his beaming secretary as a very willing baby-sitter for Jazz.

They climbed back into Skinner's car. As he drove up the steep incline of Bell's Brae, out of the Village, he glanced towards her. 'Any idea from that back there as to whether our man was waiting for Cocozza inside the flat, or whether the wee chap answered the door?'

`It is essential that you know?'

`No. It's just a small detail but, if I can, I like to know all the answers.'

Sarah was silent for a few seconds. 'Well, don't stand me up in court and ask me to say this, but there was a single bruise behind the right ear that didn't look like all the rest. It was a different shape. I'd say that whoever it was had been waiting inside the flat already. When Cocozza came in, he stepped up behind him, slugged him, stuffed the towel in his mouth, ripped off his clothing and trussed him up. Then he picked up the hammer, and began to give him tender loving care. So do you think it was your runaway Frenchman taking revenge for his brother?'

As the BMW crossed the high Dean Bridge, Skinner gestured with his left hand. 'The picture fits the frame. Norrie Monklands said Lucan blamed the Scottish end for their being nicked. If Vaudan told him all the detail, who was who, and so on, he'd know who to look for, and probably where to go.'

Sarah looked across at him doubtfully. 'Even down to the address?'

He smiled. 'Research document number one: the telephone directory. There aren't too many Cocozzas in the phone-book. Once he got to Edinburgh, he'd have had no problem pinning down the address.

She leaned back in her seat. Her smile was teasing. 'So why don't you believe it was him?'

He grinned back. 'Who says I don't? All the evidence points to Lucan, and I have to go on evidence, not hunches, don't I?' He gripped the steering wheel. 'Tell you one thing. I'm going to find Mr Ainscow, come hell or high tide, and, when I do, he'll sing his heart out just to stay alive. Otherwise I might just let him go — to take his chances with Cocozza's unexpected caller.'

‘Boss, since yesterday we've interviewed everyone we can find who knows Ainscow, his other golfing buddies apart from Norrie Monklands, the people in his business, both here and in Spain, bankers, lawyers, everyone. Since he disappeared, there hasn't been a trace of the man, not even a withdrawal from a cash machine. We've got nothing else to go on. There were no address books in his house or his office.'

Skinner and Martin, with Maggie Rose as their guest, were lunching in the senior officers' small dining room in the Fettes Avenue Command corridor.

`What about Lucan? What are we doing there?'

Maggie Rose leaned forward to answer Skinner's question. `Just before we came here, I had a call from Crown Office giving us the go-ahead to release a photograph of Lucan to press and television, and to issue a "Do not approach" warning to the public. The ACC Operations has put every one of our traffic cars and pandas on the look-out, and he's arranged for every other force in the UK to do the same. We're watching ports and oil terminals and we're trying to contact every major haulier in the UK, including companies with big in-house lorry fleets, to get them to warn their drivers. Once Alan Royston's press release appears, then the sightings are bound to come rolling in, although you know there's only a slim chance of a result there. Can't think of anything else that can be done

Skinner nodded in agreement. 'Yes, that covers it, all right He paused as a waitress served his salad. 'Thanks, Jessie.'

He waited till his companions had their main course before them, then looked at Martin. 'About Ainscow, Andy, you said we'd covered all his contacts. Does that include the Powderhall Sauna?'

The detective superintendent looked up sharply. 'God, no it doesn't. Of course, we followed him there twice, and we’ve heard that he has a liking for rough trade, in the female department. I'll have it checked out this afternoon.'

`Do it yourself, Andy. Lean on the guy with your rank. And take Maggie along with you. You might find that some of the girls are more likely to talk about a punter to another woman It's probably just another piece of routine, but you never know’

Martin nodded. He took a mouthful of steak and kidney pie, then glanced up at Skinner. 'How are we doing on formal identification of Cocozza?'

Not too well. He didn't have any partners in his practice only a qualified assistant and a secretary. As far as we can find out, there's only one relative, a brother. He's an on-course bookie in the south of England. All the race meetings down there are being covered this afternoon. Once we find him we'll fly him up to complete the formalities. Until then all can say is that we're investigating the murder of an unnamed man. Officially, no one knows yet that Cocozza's dead!'

You know how it is, Mr Martin. Punters come, and punters go-'

`So they say,' Martin interjected, with a slight grin. The manager acknowledged, feebly, his slip of the tongue.

`Aye, but the last thing you're going to do is ask their name, if you want them to come back. Paul Ainscow, you said? Means nothing to me.

Martin shook his head. 'I don't buy that. This guy had a business connection with Tony Manson. We're certain he knew Cocozza. We followed him here twice, and on the first occasion Cocozza was here too. So were some other people whose names you sure wouldn't want to know. This wasn't any other punter, mate. This was one of the home team. Just to jog your memory, take a look at this.'

He handed over a blown-up photograph of Ainscow in a dinner jacket, copied from a group shot which Mcllhenney had found in Ainscow's empty house. The manager took it from him, and nodded after barely a glance. 'Aye, okay. He's been here. Has he done a runner, then?'

'Never you mind. You just keep your mouth shut about this visit. Did he use the girls here, or was he only here for meetings?'

The manager glanced nervously at Maggie Rose, then back towards Martin. 'He spent time with the ladies.'

`Any favourites?'

`He used to like Linda.'

'Hall,' said Martin. 'You mean the one you told us you'd never heard of!'

The man flushed. 'What else could ah say? You know the score.'

`Forget it. Was it only Linda?'

`No. Sometimes he'd take on two or three at a time. A beast for his executive relief is Mr Ainscow.'

`Any of those girls here now?'

`Aye, most of them.

`Right, send them in.'

‘But what if they're workin'?'