Quintin Jardine: Skinner's ghosts

The doctor set the clear plastic covers in place over the dead fingers, securing them with elastic bands, snapped into place around the weals left in the wrists by the binding cable. He stood up, beside the DCC.

'Well?' asked Skinner.

'Whoever did this wasn't messing about,' said Banks. 'She was raped, and sodomised, pretty savagely, thumped around a bit, then strangled. Don't worry about fingernail scrapings,' he said dismissively.

'You'l find al the DNA you need in other places.'

Astonishingly, he smiled at the detectives, from one to the other.

'The press'11 have a field day with this. I expect I'll be all over the telly when I come to give evidence at the trial.'

Skinner felt himself come to boiling point, but it was the normally unflappable Andy Martin who exploded first. 'Are you enjoying this, Banks?' he shouted. The DCC stared at him in surprise, unable to remember ever having heard his friend raise his voice in anger.

'You know something, you little shit,' barked the Head of CID.

'I've never liked you; nor has anyone else on our team. You turn up late at crime scenes, then you give us half-arsed reports which don't usual y help us one bit. But the worst thing about you is your total lack of respect.

'We knew that lady lying there, Mr Skinner and I. This is a personal tragedy for us. She was worth a dozen of you, and in death she wil be treated with honour, not as a vehicle to advance your personal reputation.'

He stepped close to the doctor and prodded him in the chest with his broad right index finger. 'You can bet on this, Banks. You wil not be cal ed as a witness in the trial of Leona's killer. The pathologist's evidence will be enough. And you can bet on this also. You're at your last crime scene in this city, and with this force.

'First thing tomorrow, I will see to it personally that your name is removed from our list of medical examiners. Now, I think you'd better leave… before you make me lose my temper.'

Doctor Banks' face went from white to red in a couple of seconds.

'You can't do that,' he spluttered.

Skinner leaned forward, took him by the arm, and led him towards the door, past an astonished Inspector Dorward. 'Too fucking right he can, mate,' he said. 'Too fucking right.' He eased the doctor out on to the landing. 'Send the mortuary people up as you leave,' he ordered, and closed the door in his face. His mouth was set, tight and grim, as he turned back to Martin. 'Good for you, son,' he said, softly.

'Couldn't have done better myself.'

He glanced across at the red-haired inspector. 'Right, Arthur. Let's have your observations.' A sudden thought struck him. 'No, before that. Where are Mcllhenney and Pye?'

'I sent them off to see the grandparents,' said Martin, 'to check whether Mark's with them.'

Skinner nodded. 'Good. You could hardly have telephoned, right enough. Okay, Arthur, sorry. Carry on.'

Dorward coughed, clearing his throat. As he did so, the door opened, and two dark-uniformed mortuary workers, a man and a woman, entered, carrying a brown plastic coffin.

The three policemen stood aside. As the bloody, naked body of Leona McGrath was lifted and placed gently in its makeshift container Skinner turned away and looked out of the bedroom window into the street, lit by the summer evening sun, which shone on a smal crowd of around a dozen onlookers, and on a larger number of reporters, photographers and television cameramen. Their number had doubled since his arrival. He guessed that the tip-off industry had done its stuff once again. As he watched them he saw a camera raised and trained upon him. Quickly he reached across and pul ed the curtains closed.

When he turned back the coffin was gone. 'Arthur,' he said. 'At last.'

'Yes sir,' said Dorward. He paused for a few seconds, then went on. 'The only relevant comment I have to make is that Mrs McGrath must have been surprised in this room. Look over there.' He pointed 12 to a wardrobe door, which lay open. 'And there.' He pointed to a dressing-table drawer from which items of underwear hung. 'And there.' He pointed to a chair, across which denim jeans and a white blouse had been laid neatly.

'There are no signs of a struggle downstairs,' said Dorward, 'and precious few in here. No torn clothes, nothing like that. If you look in the en suite bathroom, you'l find a damp towel. I'd guess that Mrs McGrath was getting ready to go out when she was attacked.

'Her assailant burst in on her and found her virtual y naked. Maybe rape wasn't on his mind till then.'

'Or their minds,' Martin interrupted.

'That's true, sir,' Dorward agreed. 'But semen testing will tell us whether there was more than one rapist.'

'So what was on the kil er's mind… singular or plural?' asked Skinner. 'Robbery?'

Dorward shrugged. 'It doesn't look like it, boss. There's a handbag downstairs, in plain view on the kitchen table, so that the intruder must have walked past it. There's about a hundred and fifty quid in there, in cash. There's an antique clock on the mantelpiece in the living room that's worth a couple of grand. There was a diamond engagement ring stil on her finger, and more jewel ery on the dressing table. There's a briefcase in her study, but no papers seem to have been disturbed.

'No sir. Not robbery. That's pretty certain.'

'Then what?' Skinner barked the question, not at Dorward, but at the ceiling, feeling an uncomfortable nagging knot forming in the pit of his stomach as one possible answer grew larger in his mind.

He glanced across at Martin. 'Who was it found her?'

'Her constituency chair, a woman cal ed Marks. She was just babbling nonsense when I got here. Banks gave her a sedative, and I had her taken home. With luck we'l get sense out of her tomorrow.'

'Let's hope so. We've got people interviewing neighbours, yes?'

'Yes. Clan Pringle's people are doing that.' Skinner nodded approval. Detective Superintendent Clan Pringle was Divisional Head of CID for the greater part of the City of Edinburgh. With him in charge there would be no chance of sloppiness.

'Where will you base the investigation?'

The DCS shrugged. 'Headquarters, I thought, rather than the Divisional Office. We've got everything we need at Fettes, plus we have more room to handle the press. With the political involvement, this wil be no ordinary murder enquiry.'

'I can't argue with that,' said Skinner. 'When are you going to see the press?'

'I've told Alan Royston to set up a briefing for seven thirty. Do you want to take it?'

The older man shook his head. 'No. You're Head of CID. That's your job.'

'They'll expect you,' said Martin doubtfully.

'Well they're not fucking having me, and that's an end of it. You take the first press conference, then leave the later briefings to Royston. That's what he's paid for.'

'Okay.'The DCS paused. 'Here,' he asked, casually, 'd'you know if Royston's still involved with Pam Masters? I know he was for a while. Did she mention anything when she worked for you?'

Inwardly, Skinner gulped. He stared at Martin, looking for anything devious in his eyes, yet seeing nothing. 'That finished a long time ago,' he said at last. 'What made you bring that up?'

Martin smiled. 'Plain old-fashioned curiosity, that's all. I've never known an officer who keeps her private life as private as she does.'

'So much for Pam s notions about Alex and Andy's shared conclusion,' he thought. He might have told his friend the truth there and then had not Neil Mcllhenney's shout drifted up from the hal way.

'Sir? You still up there?'

'Yes,' Skinner called out in reply, suddenly relieved by the interruption. 'We're on our way down though.'

Leaving Dorward to carry on his painstaking work in the bedroom, the two senior officers descended the staircase. Detective Sergeant Mcllhenney, Skinner's personal assistant, stood waiting in the hall with Detective Constable Sammy Pye, one of Martin's staff officers. The two flanked a tal man in his seventies, silver hair, pale and shaking.