Quintin Jardine: Skinner's ghosts

'Terrorism?' said ACC Elder.

'Who can say at this stage?' growled Skinner. 'The only certainty just now is that here we all are, as we've been a hundred times before, in the middle of the night, without a bloody clue.'

Pamela stirred and looked at the bedside alarm. Its red digits told her that it was 1.34 a.m. as Skinner slid into her bed.

'Sorry, pet,' he whispered. 'I didn't mean to wake you.'

She kissed him, feeling the harsh stubble on his chin. 'That's all right. I wasn't sure whether you'd come here.'

'I almost didn't. I thought of going to Fairyhouse Avenue. I even thought of crashing out in the office. But then I thought of you. and I realised that I needed to be with you.'

In the dark, she stroked his cheek. 'Was it bad? In the house, I mean.'

She felt him shiver, although the summer night was hot. 'I've never been good at a murder scene,' he muttered. 'But this one – someone I knew; someone I admired; someone who's had enough tragedy in her life.' She felt the touch of his forehead on hers, and his arm slip around her.

'I tell you, lover. When we catch this guy, I hope I'm there, and I hope he resists arrest. Because I want the privilege of personally tearing out his heart.'

'Shh! Shh!' she whispered, quickly. 'Don't say that. I hope you never get near him, in that case. You're too good a man to have anyone's blood on your hands, even his.'

She was shocked, even a touch frightened, by his sudden ironic laugh in the darkness. 'You think that, do you, Pammy? God, lass, but you don't know me as well as you think!

'Andy, now. He's shot someone dead, and it's broken his heart.

Brian Mackie: he's had to do it, and never given an emotional twitch.

But me, now: I've had to kil in the course of my career, more than once. And each time, when I've looked at the body at my feet, this person inside me, this voice, has said clear as you like, "Quite fucking right too!"

'Believe this, if you've ever believed anything. Whoever killed poor wee Leona had better never give me a clear shot and legal justification, or I'l shoot him like a dog and say "Got you, you bastard".'

She leaned away from him, trying to see his face in the faint light which crept into her bedroom from the city outside. 'Bob,' she said, 22 with surprise in her voice. 'I'd never have put you down for a supporter of capital punishment.'

She saw the gleam of his white teeth as he smiled. 'That's the thing,' he muttered, more gently now. 'I'm not, in the judicial sense.

I couldn't hurt a fly in cold blood. But in the heat of action, there's something in me that takes over. Between you and me, it scares me shitless. I'm just glad I'm on the right side of the fence.'

He drew her to him once more. 'But enough of this black talk. Let me feel the warmth of your body, and let's both get some sleep. For at six thirty, we're both off out again, in the vain hope of finding wee Mark.

'I saved his life once before, you know. I pray that I or one of Skinner's finest gets the chance to do so again.'

'I've sent Pamela to be an observer at the post-mortem,' said Martin, casual y. The search for Mark McGrath had just been declared exhausted, and the Head of CID and Skinner were sharing an early lunch in the senior officers' dining room.

The DCC felt his stomach churn, involuntarily, but al that his col eague saw was the raising of his eyebrows.

'It's part of the job. Bob. She has to take her turn. Young Pye's gone with her.'

'Fair enough,' said Skinner. 'She's on your team.' He took a deep breath.

'Listen Andy,' he began. 'Wil you andAlex be free this evening?'

Martin looked at him. 'Aye, sure. Are you fed up eating alone? Is that it?'

The DCC shook his head. 'No. There's something I've got…'

'Excuse me, sir.' The voice came from the doorway. Both detectives glanced across, to see a tal thin man in a sergeant's uniform. 'You told me to let you know, Mr Martin, when the media were ready,' said William Rowland, Alan Royston's deputy.

The DCS stood up at once. 'Yes, thanks Bil.' He looked down at Skinner. 'I'm going to carry on taking the briefings, sir, until you've resolved the Royston situation. It wouldn't be fair to leave it to Sergeant Rowland.'

'Fair enough. Listen, will you get someone to tell Royston to be in my office at ten on Monday morning. I'd better have it out with the guy.'

Martin nodded. 'I think that's best.' He headed towards the door, where Rowland still waited.

'Come to dinner tonight, why don't you?' he paused, and said,

'Our place; make it around half-seven. That'll give us time to get ready. To tell you the truth, I think Alex has been working herself up to talk to you about… wel, everything. I know she's not happy about the situation between you and Sarah. Those two are like sisters, you know.'

Skinner grunted. 'Tell me about it! That's part of the problem. But my daughter's right, I haven't been talking to her nearly enough.' He picked up his coffee. 'Okay. I'l see you then.'

'What are the chances of finding the child alive, Chief Superintendent?'

The radio reporter looked barely more than a child himself.

Looking at him, Andy Martin wondered whether he might be on a work-experience placement, used by the station as a cheap way of providing Saturday news cover.

'There's every chance, Mr…?' His voice tailed off.

'Braden, sir.'

'… Mr Braden. In fact, we're very hopeful of finding Mark alive.

Our ground search has run its course, and so far we've had plenty of support from the public. Sooner or later we'l get a lead.

'What I am doing today is renewing my request to property-owners to check garages and outbuildings – anywhere that a frightened child might be hiding. Also, I'm asking everyone who was in the Trinity area of Edinburgh on Friday afternoon to think hard, just in case they saw anything unusual, particularly if it involved a child and a grey car.'

The boy looked eagerly at the detective. 'Is that your most positive lead so far, a grey car?'

'To be unusual y frank with you, it's our only lead so far.'

John Hunter waved a hand. 'So kidnap's now becoming a probability, is it, Andy?'

Martin nodded. 'With every passing minute. We're being as positive as we can in our search, of course. If you're an innocent motorist in a grey car, I apologise in advance for the inconvenience of being stopped by the police. But I'm sure you'll realise that we're only doing what's necessary.'

He looked at the assembled media. 'That's al I have for you today, folks. Same time tomorrow, unless anything breaks. If that happens you'll be contacted.'

John Hunter fell into step with the detective as he left the room.

'Where's Royston?' he muttered.

'Don't ask,' Martin whispered in return.

'Oh. I see.' The old journalist paused. 'Listen, Andy. I saw that wee shite Salmon in the bar of the Bank Hotel last night, after you had flung him out of here. He wasn't letting on why, but he looked as

happy as a two-cocked dog in a stand of trees.

'He's up to something, and whatever it is, I have a feeling that your lot aren't going to like it.'

Joseph Hutchison, Professor of Pathology at Edinburgh University, knew Deputy Chief Constable Skinner well enough to know of his loathing of post-mortem examinations. So while he recognised the big policeman, despite his surgical gown and cap, as soon as he stepped into the theatre, it was natural for him to look up in surprise.

'Hello, Bob,' said the twinkling-eyed little scientist. 'This is a rare honour, having you visit my workshop.'

Skinner grunted a response, as he strode over to stand between Pamela Masters and Sammy Pye, who seemed to be positioned as far as possible from the post-mortem table. Clearly, the examination had been under way for some time. He glanced down at Pamela: she was slightly pale, and her cheekbones stood out a little more than usual, but otherwise she was impassive.