to overshadow either, yet that was what Skinner seemed to do. He was
rarely seen in public in uniform. He was not the Chief Constable. And yet
whenever anyone in Edinburgh . . . anyone in Scotland, probably, many
people in England, perhaps ... thought of a policeman, they were likely to
think of him.
In his heart of hearts, Ted Chase disapproved of devolution. He was
British first, Cumbrian second, and like many of his compatriots, English
third; he had a niggling fear of anything which threatened the composition
of the flag he saluted, and a downright dislike of anything which claimed
to be an alternative to the National Anthem, which he took pride in bellowing
lustily on public occasions.
However, he had accepted the political situation, and the prospect of
working in a devolved Scotland, when he had decided to apply for the
Edinburgh job. He had reasoned that it gave him his best chance of
rising to command his own force. Now that he was in place, he had
come to realise how different Scotland was, and how great was its
potential for change. Virtually all of its institutions were under the
control of a new breed of politician, able to tackle their manifesto
objectives with none of the constraints of parliamentary time which had
bedevilled the old Scottish Office at Westminster.
In particular, he had come to realise how easy it would be for his own
views on policing, which had held sway under the old regime, to be swept
away by the new administration, which he saw as a soft-centred coalition, committed to reform for its own sake. Nothing was beyond them.
And who better to serve as a model for a new Scottish breed of policeman
than the home-bred hero, DCC Robert Morgan Skinner?
Chase was nobody's fool; he saw the danger more clearly than the man
himself . . . and there, he saw also, might lie the saving grace. Skinner's
intense dislike of politicians was a matter of record, certainly within the
police force, and to an extent in the wider world, thanks to the circumstances
which had led to his giving up his former responsibility as security adviser to the Secretary of State.
Yet what political power he could command through his reputation and
his public profile, if only he realised it... 'Thank God,' the ACC thought, 'that he doesn't.'
He was so immersed in contemplation that he gave a small, involuntary
jump when the phone rang for a second time. He picked it up, expecting
Skinner once again, only to hear the voice of the security man on weekend
duty at the main entrance.
'There's a UPS guy, here, sir, wi' a delivery for the Chief Constable.
Since you're here, dae you want to sign for it?'
The ACC frowned. 'I suppose so. I'll be down in a moment.'
He left his secretary's office and walked briskly along the Command
corridor, then down a flight of stairs which led more or less directly to the
front door. The brown-suited messenger stood waiting, with a big brown
envelope and the inevitable clipboard.
'Print your name there, sir, then sign ablow it,' he said.
Chase made a mental note of yet another Scots word, and did as the man
asked, thanking him as he took the package. He glanced at it as he walked
back upstairs, his curiosity aroused. The address was clear and simple:
'Chief Constable Sir James Proud, QPM, Police Headquarters, Fettes
Avenue, Edinburgh', and it bore two red stamped injunctions, one 'Urgent',
the other, 'Confidential'.
'But not, "personal",' he murmured to himself as he stood at Gerry
Crossley's desk, holding the envelope poised over the in-tray. 'And Bob
did say that the Chief isn't in tomorrow.'
He picked up a letter-opener, slit the envelope open and slid out its
22
AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN
contents, three A4 pages, stapled together with a covering letter, on
Metropolitan Police notepaper.
He was frowning as he began to read. By the time he was finished, he
was wide-eyed and his mouth was hanging open in astonishment.
,23
7
Chief Superintendent Andy Martin asked his aide.
'Not the first time I've ever seen a body, sir,' the recently promoted
sergeant replied. 'You know what it's like when you're in uniform. One
way or another, you have to look at quite a few.'
He shuddered, looking older, suddenly, than his twenty-seven years. 'But
it's the first time I've ever seen one like that; in that condition I mean.
Lying there in the bath, the poor old bugger looked like...' His face twisted
as he struggled to find words. 'Like a statue, like a tailor's dummy, like
something that never had been human.
'It wasn't gross, Boss, not like something I saw once, when an old lady
had died in front of an electric fire and lain there for about a week. There
weren't any maggots in the eye sockets, nothing like that. But in its own
way, it was pretty horrible, for all that.'
'Did Ruth see him?'
'No way. When I told her, I had to hold her back from going into the
bathroom, but I did. She gave me bloody hell at the time, but calmed down
pretty quickly.'
'No nightmares?'
'I wouldn't know, sir,' said Pye, abruptly.
'I didn't mean her, you clown!' the Head of CID chuckled.
The young sergeant flushed, embarrassed by his revealing slip. 'No, sir,
not me.'
'You will have, Sammy, you will,' Martin murmured, his smile gone.
He had known his own nocturnal horrors; happily, marriage seemed to be
holding them at bay.
Til be ready for them, then.'
'No, you won't. No one ever is.'
Pye looked across at his boss; then changed the subject. 'How's Karen
doing? Still being sick?'
24
AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN
'No, thank Christ,' he replied, sincerely. 'She seems to have stopped
barfing up her breakfast. She's blooming, mate, blooming; she's not showing
yet, but it won't be long.'
He picked up a pile of papers from his desk, and walked across to the
meeting table. 'This is today's agenda, then?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Okay, then; on you go and see if the troops are here. If they are, wheel
them in.'
The Head of CID's Monday briefing with his six divisional commanders
was a practice established by Bob Skinner and carried on by his successors,
Roy Old and Andy Martin. Its main purpose was to keep the Chief
Superintendent abreast of all active investigations, but it was useful also in
that it could reveal patterns of crime across the force area, and not least in
the platform which it provided for fresh thinking on stalled cases.
This one was special, though.
As the six senior detectives took their places at the table, there was one
among them who stood out from the rest. She was the only woman among
the six, trimly built, attractive, in her thirties, with flaming red hair which
shone under the neon strip lighting. But more than that, there was a presence
about her, a bearing which could not help but say to the rest, 'Don't take me
lightly. I've made i
t this far, and I may have further to go.'
Martin stood as the rest composed themselves, and as Sammy Pye took
his seat on his right, notepad at the ready to take down the bullet points of
the meeting.
He looked along the table, and smiled. 'I'd like to begin this morning's
meeting, gentlemen, by welcoming a newcomer in our midst. Okay, I know
she's been here before on occasion as Brian Mackie's deputy, but this is
her first meeting as commander of Central Division CID, only the second
woman to hold such a post in the history of our force.
'Congratulations, Mags. You've earned your place here by being an
outstanding detective as well as a good leader. I'm looking forward to your
contribution over the months to come.'
Detective Superintendent Maggie Rose looked up at the Head of CID
and smiled faintly, wondering whether any of the others had read anything
into his time-frame. 'Thank you, sir. I'm honoured to be here. I know I
have a lot to learn, but I'm surrounded by good teachers.'
Her promotion had come about following the retirement of
Superintendent John McGrigor from the command of the Borders division.
Martin and Bob Skinner, feeling that a veteran would fill the vacancy best,
had decided to move Dan Pringle south, and to promote Rose into his post
in Central Edinburgh.
Martin laughed out loud. 'You're off to a good start. Flattery will get
you everywhere with these guys.'
She looked back at him, and noted yet again the change in him. The
strung-out, bitter man of a few months earlier had gone; returned was the
laid-back, unflappable, pleasant colleague she had come to know and respect
over the years.
'Okay,' said the Head of CID, taking his seat, 'to business.' He glanced
along at Dan Pringle. 'I see from your first report from the Borders that
you've been making an impact. I know that big McGrigor had trouble with
the odd sheep-stealer, but what the hell's this? Trout rustling?'
The big superintendent hunched his shoulders and tugged at the heavy
moustache which seemed to give him a permanently mournful look. 'Pour
scorn on me if you like, Andy,' he muttered, 'but it's been a crime waiting
to happen.'
'Aye, waiting for you, by the looks of it. Have you taken some of your
old customers down there with you? Is that it?'
'Maybe. From what John told me in our hand-over, they've a pretty poor
and unimaginative bunch of hooligans down there. They've got a long
history of practically signing their names to every crime that's committed.
Not this one, though; this was very professional, very efficient.
'It happened at a big trout farm, just off the St Boswell's to Kelso Road.
The manager lives on site, but he was away on Friday and Saturday nights.
When he went in yesterday morning just to check that the automatic feeders
and water pumps were all right, he found that all the bloody tanks had been
emptied.'
'How, for God's sake?' chuckled Superintendent Brian Mackie. 'How
do you nick a shoal of bloody fish?'
'Good question, son,' Pringle grunted. 'The very question I asked Gates,
the manager. And the answer, it seems, is that you drive a bloody big vehicle
in there, stick a wide-mouthed pipe in each of the tanks and pump out
water, fish and all.'
'Jesus,' Mackie whispered.
His colleague raised an eyebrow in his general direction. 'These boys
lifted far more fish than the Lord had to work with. This farm, Mellerkirk,
it's called, is one of the biggest in the region. They supply two big
26
AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN
supermarket chains on a daily basis, plus they run their own smoking
business.
'All joking aside, the theft's a disaster for them. They're restocking from
their hatchery as fast as they can, but it'll be a week or so before they can
restart production.'
'What quantity of fish are we talking about?' asked Rose.
'Mr Gates couldn't say for sure, but he guessed around three tons.'
'Three tons!' Martin exclaimed. 'What the hell's anyone going to do
with three tons of hot fish?'
'Freeze it,' Pringle replied. 'You'd have to. Anyone trying to shift that
amount in one lot would draw attention to themselves pretty quick.'
'Sounds like a well-planned operation, then. Apart from having the
equipment to hoover up the stock, they'd surely have to have someone
ready to receive and handle it.'
'Aye, that's right, sir. They'd have to do it right away too. Gates said that
the fish would start dying pretty quick in those conditions. He reckoned
that they'd have been driven straight to a processor for treatment. But where?
That's anyone's guess.'
'What are you doing about finding out?' asked the Head of CID.
'We've put together a list offish processors all over Scotland, and we're
circulating it to all relevant forces this morning. As soon as that's done I'll
want people going round all of the places on our patch. I'll need assistance
from other divisions. That means you, Brian, you, Greg, and you, Willie.'
He looked across the table at Detective Superintendent Gregory Jay and
William Michaels, who commanded the Leith and West Lothian CID areas
respectively.
'What are our chances, Dan?'
'Slim and none, boss. It's no' as if these bloody fish carry the owner's
brand or anything. One deid trout looks just like another. I don't suppose
for a minute that they'll show up in the major supermarket chains; they all
vet their suppliers pretty thoroughly. We'll just have to keep an eye on the
smaller outlets and hope.
'But if these boys are as smart as they look they'll keep the stuff in a
freezer for a while . . . till the heat's off, you might say ... then shift it in
small quantities.'
'One thing we can do,' Martin suggested, 'and that's let the Central
Intelligence Unit know, so that every fish farm in Scotland can be put on
the alert.'
Pringle nodded. 'I did that yesterday.'
'Good man,' said the Head of CID. He ran his fingers through his curly
blond hair, and chuckled softly. 'What a start to the week! Three tons of
hot frozen fish! Welcome to the madhouse, Maggie.'
28
8
Bob Skinner had an aversion to St Andrew's House, the monolithic grey
stone office building which housed many of the civil servants involved in
the business of governing Scotland. Nevertheless, there were times when
he had no choice but to swallow his dislike and visit the place.
With Sir James Proud engaged in a meeting with his fellow Chief
Constables in Glasgow, it fell to him to represent the force on an ad hoc committee set up by the Scottish Executive to plan a new crime prevention
publicity campaign. The big detective had serious doubts over the cost
effectiveness of government-funded media propaganda. He believed firmly
that the whole exercise smacked of tokenism, a knee-jerk action by
politicians who suspected, probably in error, that the public expected it of
them.
In his experience, the messages washed over the heads of most of the
honest citizens
at whom they were aimed, while criminals were either too
stupid to take notice of the warnings, or too intelligent to watch the television
programmes on which they were normally screened.
However, the First Minister and his lackey, the Justice Minister, had
decreed that it should be done and had appointed Sir James Proud to chair
the working group which would make it happen.
The meeting, when finally it began after a preamble of coffee and chat,
was happily brief. The Scottish Executive Information Department's Head
of Publicity, acting as secretary to the committee, introduced a hapless
advertising agency team, who presented proposals which impressed none
of the five policemen gathered around the table, and were sent away to
think again.
Skinner smiled as he stepped through the great doorway of the building,
which stood on the site of the old city jail, glad to be rid of an unwelcome
chore. He was still nodding, grinning unconsciously, as he looked into Gerry
Crossley's office and offered the young man a brisk, 'Good morning'.
'Good morning, sir,' the Chief Constable's secretary replied, but with a
frown. 'ACC Chase asked if you would look in on him when you got in.'