Deadlock

Book 33: BOB SKINNER

by Quintin Jardine

Genres: International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

The gripping new mystery in Quintin Jardine's bestselling Bob Skinner series.

Sir Robert Skinner's stock is rising - after retiring from the police service he's been promoted to head an international media organisation. Yet a series of unexplained deaths on his home turf in Scotland threaten to bring him crashing back down to earth.

As Skinner helps the elderly in his local community, several residents seem to die of natural causes. But when a gruesome discovery is made in a Glasgow flat and one of Skinner's long-time friends - an aspiring politician - emerges as the prime suspect, things become very murky indeed.

After unpicking clues that go nowhere, Skinner and his team are left grappling the most baffling conundrum they have ever encountered - is there a mystery at all?

(P) 2021 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: November 25, 2021

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

‘I’m still on your shit list, then,’ Sir Andrew Martin said.

‘I don’t have one, Andy,’ Sir Robert Skinner replied, less tersely than before. ‘I never had. If I have an issue with someone, either I confront it and sort it, or I decide it’s not worth bothering with and forget about it.’

‘I guess I’m in the second category.’

‘No, you’re not,’ he sighed, softening. ‘Granted, when you and my daughter started a relationship behind my back, that was an issue between us. When you restarted it, not so much. She was older and second time around she was in control. Truth is, Andy, when I look back on you and Alex, I feel a shade guilty.’

‘You?’ Martin exclaimed. ‘Guilty?’

‘Yes, for not telling you the truth, either time.’

‘That being?’

‘That you bored her, Andy,’ Skinner told him. ‘That’s the truth of it. Oh, back then you were the great ladies’ man, before Alex, and before your wife. But before them, you never had a long-term relationship, and you had no idea how to run one. After the first couple of dates with a woman, you didn’t know what to do, other than the obvious, and it takes a bit more than that. I could see that, I could see it while it was happening, but I never said anything.’

‘I never read you as a relationship counsellor.’

‘I don’t pretend to be one, but over the years I’ve acquired a degree of self-awareness. I could see you making exactly the same mistakes as I did with Alex’s mother, but I never said anything. I took Myra for granted; I was more focused on the job than on her. She craved attention and when she didn’t get it from me, she went looking elsewhere. So did her daughter, with you, first time around.’

‘You were happy when Alex and I split, though.’

For the first time since he had taken the call, Skinner felt himself smile. ‘Of course I was fucking happy. It would have been an expensive wedding.’

‘If it’s not Alex, what is your issue with me?’ Martin persisted. ‘And don’t tell me you don’t have one.’

‘I don’t. I did, but it fell into category two, not worth bothering my arse about. I was more than annoyed by the bollocks you made of it when you finally got into the chief constable’s chair. It was as if you asked yourself at every turn, “What would Skinner have done here?”, then did exactly the opposite. When you got behind that desk you must have deleted my number, for I never heard a word from you. You were still involved with Alex at the time, yet you never called me.’

‘Did you call Jimmy Proud when you took over from him?’

‘Of course I fucking did!’ Skinner exclaimed. ‘At least twice a week. In the beginning I hadn’t a clue what I was doing with much of the non-CID stuff that makes up the bulk of a chief constable’s workload. But I learned, and it was Jimmy that helped me. You never thought to ask.’ He paused. ‘That, of course, is petty and egotistic on my part, but it’s how I felt. Legacy’s an over-used word, but most of us like to think we’ve left something behind us when we move on. The feeling I got was that in your eyes my legacy wasn’t worth having.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Martin said quietly. ‘You’re probably right. I admit I was determined to do it my way, not least because I knew that some people saw me as Bob Skinner’s bag man, even after I headed the Crime Agency. I wanted to prove them wrong, didn’t I? When I got into difficulties, I should have reached out to you, but I didn’t. Instead I jumped into a lifeboat, rowed all the way to America, and left Maggie to pick up the bits. How is she, by the way?’

‘She was burned out in the end,’ Skinner told him. ‘She did pick up your pieces and got the force running properly, but it took its toll on her. Cancer survivor, widowed, single parent, it was inevitable. She got out at the right time, though, and she’s got it together again. I see her often and she’s happier than she’s been since Stevie died on duty. Pre-lockdown she visited us quite often. She took her Stephanie and our girls to the beach. She has a couple of non-executive directorships to keep the wolf at bay, and she hopes to find herself a part-time job, lecturing, like you did in the US.’

He sighed. ‘It’s my turn to apologise, Andy. I shouldn’t have taken the hump at you keeping your distance. Neil’s just told me, very gently, that he intends to do the same.’

‘Has he now?’ Martin murmured. ‘I confess I’m still amazed by McIlhenney going all the way to the chief’s office. I still think of him as a big lumbering plod, always in McGuire’s shadow.’

‘Then maybe that’s another reason why the job wasn’t for you, Andy. You can have the best admin skills in the world, but if your people management isn’t up to scratch, you’ll never succeed. I understand what you’re saying about Neil, but you need to reject first impressions and look beneath the surface of everyone, and everything. Mario’s a great detective, and always was. Neil’s made himself a great all-round police officer. If anyone can make something of the misbegotten national force, he’s the man.’ Skinner paused. ‘Now,’ he boomed, ‘as I asked you earlier, what the fuck do you want? If it’s just to congratulate me on getting over Covid, you could have messaged me.’

‘You’ve had Covid?’

‘Just finished isolation, both Sarah and me. I was exposed visiting Spain on business. The fact you didn’t know about it tells me that you don’t follow Alex on Facebook. She told the world this morning.’

‘I don’t follow anyone on Facebook. I don’t have a presence there. You don’t, do you?’

‘No, but I don’t need one. I can keep an eye on everything through the Intermedia presence.’

‘Of course,’ Martin said, ‘you’re a newspaper magnate. I was forgetting.’

‘I’m an employee,’ Skinner corrected him. ‘Xavi Aislado owns the show, and he runs it. That said, he has other things on his mind now. He just lost his wife. God knows how that will affect him. Come on, though,’ he continued, ‘back to the question. What’s up?’

‘I think I’m being stalked.’

‘Stalked? You?’

‘I can’t explain it, but that’s how it feels. Things have been happening to me, and around me. I first noticed it when I put an envelope of shredded mail in my recycling box, and saw that it had been disturbed.’

‘What do you mean? How could you possibly tell that?’

‘I’m neat, Bob, to the point of being OCD. I don’t just put stuff away, I do it very carefully, and I consider what should go where. Once I’ve done it, I don’t forget.’

‘I’ll grant you that, Andy,’ Skinner admitted. ‘That photographic memory of yours. I used to lean on it from time to time. Go on.’

‘There’s that, then there’s the stuff that’s been arriving through the post, things addressed to me that I never ordered. Shoes for a wee girl. A kid’s book, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. A Black Sabbath CD, for Christ’s sake; I hate them. I tried to return them all but I couldn’t because they don’t show on my account. Then I had a mailshot from an undertaker the other day, not an email, a brochure through the letter box. I called the number and asked them what the hell they were playing at; they said it had been sent in response to a website enquiry. See what I mean, Bob?’

‘That last one could be a simple system screw-up.’

‘Could be but it’s not.’

Skinner frowned. ‘Which Black Sabbath CD?’

‘Can’t remember. Hold on. It’s in the living room.’ There was a short silence, then Martin came back online. ‘It’s called Paranoid. Second studio album, it says.’

‘Had to be that,’ he grunted, ‘if your fear’s justified. Okay, I’ll buy into your stalker. How can I help?’

‘I’m not afraid, Bob, I’m fucking angry. I need advice, I suppose; just to talk it through with me. Tell me what you’d do in my place.’

‘I’d probably rage for a couple of days, then I’d do the sensible thing and call the police. Where are you living now, Andy?’ he asked. ‘You’re on a UK mobile number, but that doesn’t even tell me what country you’re in. Are you still in America?’

‘No,’ Martin replied. ‘I gave that job up last summer, and moved back to Scotland to be near Karen and the kids. They’re in Hamilton; I’ve got a place in Motherwell.’

‘Sounds cosy. Are you getting back together, you and Karen?’

‘No; not yet, at any rate, but we’re getting on. I haven’t got anyone else in my life.’

‘Has she?’

‘I don’t ask; she doesn’t say.’

‘Like me with Sarah when we were getting close again,’ he said. ‘Is it on the cards? You and she?’

‘We’ve never discussed it head on. I’ve told her that I miss being a family man. She tells me I always will be, but she knows what I mean.’

‘And let me guess, you’ve got a toothbrush at hers.’

‘Yes,’ Martin admitted. ‘But only because I stay over sometimes to look after the kids, if Karen’s working late.’

‘Is she still in uniform? I’ve lost touch with her career.’

‘No, she’s a detective chief inspector; promoted last year. She works in Lowell Payne’s operation now, counter-terrorism, intelligence and the like. Okay, she’s a spook of sorts but it’s remote surveillance, mostly. For a lot of the time that the kids have been off school, she’s been able to work from home.’

‘So tell her about your problem,’ Skinner suggested. ‘Surely that’s the thing to do?’

‘I don’t want to do that. If I did she might be nervous about letting me near the kids.’

‘If the situation was reversed, wouldn’t you feel that way?’ Skinner asked.

‘I suppose I would,’ Martin admitted, ‘but there’s no risk to them, so I’d prefer it if Karen didn’t know.’

‘Your choice, but I’d be telling her. Regardless of that, the first thing you should do is beef up your own surveillance. If somebody’s going through your bins, it tells me you don’t have cameras.’

‘I’m ahead of you on that one. I called in the guy who installed my alarm system; I’m having him fit six of them all around the house. I’ll get alerts every time someone comes on to the property.’

‘Have you pissed off anybody lately?’

‘Not since I’ve been back, not that I know of. My profile’s low, Bob. I’m not like you.’

Skinner felt his hackles stir. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You’ve never backed away from the limelight. You’ve always been media friendly. You can’t deny it.’

‘I suppose not,’ he admitted. ‘Once I reached senior rank, I always believed in speaking for myself rather than through spokesmen. It left less room for misunderstanding.’

‘Nothing’s changed, from what I’ve seen. You still have a high profile.’

‘You seem to know a lot about me for a guy who was out of the country for a while.’

‘I kept an eye on you.’

‘And on Alex?’

‘Yes, I admit that too. I took an interest in her career; it’s still there.’

‘Andy.’ Skinner’s tone carried a warning.

Martin read it and reassured him. ‘Only from a distance.’

‘Keep it that way. You focus on Karen. She’s a lovely girl and if you want my advice, if she’ll take you back, don’t waste a second. It’s worked for Sarah and me. We’ve never been as happy: I’ve never been as happy. As for Alex, don’t worry about her. The Montell business hit her very hard, but she got over that with the help of family and friends; well, friend really, Dominic. She’s back on form and God help the guilty. Which brings us back to your stalker. Do you have the faintest idea who it might be? Have you gone back over your CID years? Has anybody been released that might be carrying a grudge? Have you made any enemies since you’ve been back?’

‘None. I’ve hardly met anyone since I’ve been home. As for the old days, you and I never left anyone feeling better for having met us, but there’s nobody who comes to mind with the subtlety to enact what’s been happening.’

‘I’ll do some thinking too,’ Skinner promised. ‘If any names come to mind, I’ll reach out and see what I can find out about them. Mind you, most of them are either dead or have no wish to cross either of us again. Keep in touch . . . and Andy,’ he added, ‘it’s good to have the old you back.’

The Maps feature on McClair’s phone led the officers directly to Redway Court, a cul-de-sac on the small estate that had been developed on the site of the former Scottish Fire Service Training School. As PC Benjamin drew up in a parking bay beside an apartment building, a middle-aged woman, dressed in a waxed jacket, jeans and boots, strode briskly towards them. The inspector recognised her as a familiar face around the village but struggled to recall her name.

The problem was solved at once. ‘Thanks for coming so quickly,’ she said, as they emerged from the vehicle. ‘I’m Prue Granton; I’m a carer. I look after a gentleman in Number Twelve, Mr Stevens. I look in on him every day, but this morning I can’t get a response. I’ve got a key and usually I let myself in, but this morning the door’s on the chain, so I can’t open it beyond a few inches. I’ve called to him but I’m getting no response. He’s very deaf, so the chances are he’s fallen asleep in his chair and just hasn’t heard me, although that’s not like him.’

‘How old is Mr Stevens?’ McClair asked.

‘He’s eighty-six. He has arthritis, and vascular dementia was diagnosed nine months ago. Poor old chap: his wife died last September, but he doesn’t really understand she’s gone. He really shouldn’t be living alone, but his daughter’s against having him admitted to a care home. Between you and me, I think her concerns are more about cost than Covid.’

‘I don’t blame her,’ Benjamin said. ‘My granny died in one of those last year. A man was discharged from the Royal with Covid, and it just went through the place. Poor wee soul.’ Her lips pursed, and for a second, the inspector thought that she would cry.

‘Do you want to force entry?’ she asked.

‘I think so,’ Granton replied. ‘I could have, the chain’s only held in place by a couple of screws but I didn’t want to put my shoulder to it until you arrived.’

‘There’s no need for that,’ McClair told her. ‘We’ve got a bolt cutter in the car. Go get it, Tiggy,’ she ordered.

‘That’s handy,’ the carer said. She peered at her. ‘Do I know you?’

‘Possibly. Noele McClair. I live at West Fenton; my son Harry’s at Gullane Primary.’

‘I knew it. My granddaughter Kim’s there too. There’s a Harry in her class, but his name’s Coats. That’s right,’ she frowned, ‘his dad was . . .’

McClair finished the sentence. ‘Murdered. That’s right. He was my ex.’

‘Oh God, sorry,’ Granton murmured. ‘See my big mouth.’

‘Not at all.’

The awkwardness passed as the PC arrived with the cutter. The carer led the officers towards the four-storey building. They were about to step on to the pathway to the entrance door when a young male cyclist sped in front of them, all but running over the constable’s toes. ‘Hoi!’ she called after the jacket-clad youth. ‘Careful, you little—’

‘’Tiggy,’ McClair warned, ‘you be careful.’

‘Sorry, ma’am,’ Benjamin said, ‘but really; little shits like that shouldn’t be allowed on bikes.’

‘Little shits like that should be doing home schooling under lockdown, but we don’t have time to go chasing after him to tell him. If I knew who he was I’d be calling on his parents, but unfortunately I do not.’

They carried on into the apartment block and into a lift that took them up to the top floor. The door to Number Twelve faced them as they stepped out. Granton turned the handle and opened it, stretching the restraining chain and making room for Benjamin to use the bolt cutter from the police car. It took little or no pressure to slice through a link, giving them access.

‘Mr Stevens, it’s Prue,’ the carer called out. ‘Are you awake yet? I couldn’t get in and I was worried about you, so I’ve got the police with me.’ She stepped towards a door on the left, but McClair stopped her with a gentle touch on her sleeve.

‘Me first,’ the inspector murmured, switching on her body camera. ‘Is that his bedroom?’

‘Yes.’

She moved forward. The door was slightly ajar; as soon as she opened it further she could see that the room was undisturbed. ‘Do you make his bed?’

‘Every morning.’

‘Then it hasn’t been slept in. Living room?’

‘Straight ahead.’

The door had two vertical glass panels; they were opaque, but McClair could see that a ceiling light was on. Even as she stepped into the room, she knew what she would find. A white head lolled against the back of an old-fashioned armchair, and a walking stick with four small balancing legs lay on the floor beside it. The curtains were drawn, even though it was mid-morning.

Mr Stevens’ skin had a pale yellow hue. His mouth sagged open and his cheeks seemed to have collapsed inwards. His eyes were not completely closed; they were slits of blue in his head. McClair sniffed and took in the faint odour of urine. She took off her right glove and touched his forehead, feeling its coldness.

There was no need to state the obvious. ‘What was his evening routine?’ she asked.

‘Another carer was supposed to check on him at nine,’ Granton replied.

‘Do you know who that is?’

‘Not for sure. He’s got a care package in place, three visits a day. I’m his getter-upper six days a week, tomorrow, Sunday, being my day off. Somebody else looks in on him at one, to give him his lunch and have his evening meal ready so he just has to put it in the microwave. Then there’s the evening carer, to give him his medication and help him get ready for bed if he needs it . . . needed it, poor old man. We work for a company, and there’s a rota for the other two visits, so last night could have been one of two or three people.’

‘You said he had arthritis, but he could put himself to bed. How handicapped was he?’

‘He could get his outer clothes off. He slept in his vest and pants,’ the carer explained. ‘Sometimes he’d let himself be helped, sometimes not. It was his choice; it probably depended on how tired he was, or what was on the telly.’

‘If last night’s visit hadn’t happened, would you have been told about it?’

‘I would if the company knew. The other carer might have called in sick, but if that had happened, I’m sure the company would have sent another, or even called me. If she just didn’t turn up, we’d only know if Mr Stevens told us.’

‘She?’

‘More than likely,’ Granton said. ‘We only have one man on the staff.’ She smiled, sadly, and pointed to a round table on the right of the chair, on which a crystal tumbler stood. ‘At least the poor old chap had his whisky for the journey.’

‘Where’s the bottle?’ Benjamin asked her.

‘Good question; it must be back in the sideboard, where he kept it. That tells me the carer must have been in. His hands were affected by the arthritis, and there were some things it was difficult for him to do. Screwing the top off a whisky bottle was one of them.’ The carer smiled, with a look of sadness. ‘That’s why he always drank a good malt, with a cork.’

‘And yet he managed to set the chain on the front door,’ McClair pointed out.

‘Good point,’ she conceded. ‘That’s the first time I’ve ever found it like that. I suppose he must have been able to do it and undo it. He’d have been up before I got here, maybe more than once through the night. An eighty-six-year-old man usually needs to. What do you do now?’ she asked. ‘Do you even need to be here? Mind you, I need to be going myself. I’ve got another client to see.’

‘He died alone, so you’d have needed to call us anyway. I’ll arrange for a medical examiner to attend, and then for the removal of the body to the mortuary at the Royal Infirmary. You’ll need to advise your employer, and Mr Stevens’ next of kin will have to be involved. If you can give me contact details, we can let them know.’

‘Good luck with finding a doctor to attend,’ Granton murmured. ‘It’s like they’re under siege just now.’

The inspector smiled. ‘I’ve got someone in mind who might be all too keen to attend.’ She took out her phone and scrolled through her contacts until she reached ‘G’, then hit on a saved number.

‘Sarah,’ her companions heard her exclaim as her call was answered, ‘it’s Noele. How are you?’ They saw her eyebrows rise as she listened and heard her gasp. ‘Bloody hell! You’re okay though? Look I won’t bother you in that case.’ She paused again. ‘Well, if you’re sure. I’ve got a situation here, a sudden death in Gullane, and I need medical attendance. There are no suspicious circumstances, but it needs a pathologist rather than a GP. It’s not exactly your weight, I appreciate, but if you could . . . That’s great. The address, Twelve Redway Court, on the old Fire School site. You’ll see our car outside.’

She ended the call and pocketed her phone. ‘Taken care of,’ she announced. ‘Mrs Granton, you make your call now and get me the next-of-kin details, please. Then I think you can go. The cavalry’s on its way.’

‘I appreciate the thought, Pops,’ Alex Skinner said, ‘but you needn’t have bothered. Andy Martin’s whereabouts are of no interest to me. He could move in next door, far less to Motherwell, and he still wouldn’t get over my threshold. Not that we parted on bad terms second time around, but it was for good nevertheless.’

‘How would you feel about him going back to his wife?’ her father asked.

Her sudden smile seemed to light up his phone screen. ‘Smug, to be honest,’ she retorted. ‘If Paddy Power had been laying odds on it, I’d have taken them. There was a period after he and I restarted when I felt guilty about breaking up a marriage. Word got to me that someone in the Edinburgh force, a woman officer who’d been a friend of Karen’s, had described me as a disgrace to my gender.’

‘You should have told me,’ Skinner growled. ‘I’d have marked her card, and posted her to fucking Hawick.’

‘That’s why I didn’t tell you. That guilt trip didn’t last long anyway, only until I realised that it wasn’t me that broke them up. Andy would have left home anyway, Pops. The thought of being middle-aged was giving him anxiety attacks and he rebelled against it. His problem was that indeed he was fucking middle-aged, no longer the guy in the leather jacket who attracted me the first time.’ She winked at him. ‘At least you fitted another wife in between your marriages to Sarah. Andy came back to me because he was afraid he couldn’t hack it in the single’s world any longer. If he goes back to the wife and kids now it’ll be for the same reason. And you know what? The whole cycle will repeat itself. If you can pass Karen a message from me, tell her not to do it. Shag him if she feels like it, but don’t be his emotional crutch.’

He chuckled. ‘I don’t think I’ll be doing that, somehow. If the subject comes up again when I talk to Andy I might feed the thought in, in reverse so to speak. Speaking of emotional crutches, are you seeing much of Dominic?’ he asked.

‘Not under lockdown conditions, Pops. We WhatsApp like everybody else, like you and I are doing now, but that’s it. If that’s your way of finally asking if I’m sleeping with him, the answer is no. I think we both know that would be a bad idea.’

‘Probably,’ he agreed. ‘How’s the work situation?’

‘It’s good,’ she said. ‘I’m in the High Court again on Tuesday, prosecuting a forty-year-old man from Glasgow who put his fifty-two-year-old partner in a critical care ward after a domestic assault, where she contracted Covid-19 and died. I wish I could do him for culpable homicide, but attempted murder is the most we can go to.’

‘Will the fact that you don’t have a live victim to put in the witness box damage your case?’

‘No, if anything it’ll help, because defence counsel will have nobody to intimidate in the witness box. We have very specific photographic evidence of the injuries he inflicted and we have forensic evidence to back them up. The jury’ll be in a cinema, so they’ll see everything on the big screen. There was a boot print on the victim’s back, we have her blood spattered on his clothing, and there was skin, hers, under his fingernails. She was violently sodomised as well. We can’t actually prove that wasn’t consensual, so he isn’t charged with rape, but I can make sure the jury knows about it. Defence can object all he likes but once it’s out there it won’t be forgotten by them whatever the judge directs. My expectation is that on Monday I’ll hear from the defence, wanting a deal for a guilty plea to assault. The deal I’ll give him will be that I ask for a minimum twelve years instead of life. When she sees the evidence, I’ll be surprised if the judge gives him less than fifteen.’

‘Me too, from what you’ve said. Good luck with it.’

‘Luck is what the accused will need,’ she replied. ‘So long, Pops.’

The image on his screen froze for less than a second, then vanished. As it did, Skinner remembered that he had forgotten to chide his daughter for outing his Covid on Facebook. He smiled, while going to his contacts list and clicking on a number.

‘Bob,’ Assistant Chief Constable Lowell Payne greeted him as he took the audio call. ‘Welcome back to the world. I saw Alex’s post. You and Sarah really are okay, yes?’

‘Yeah, Lowell, we’re good. So good that Sarah’s just gone out on a job. Local though, here in Gullane.’

‘What, a suspicious death?’

‘No, I don’t think so. An old man found dead in his chair, as they are sometimes. She’s doing a favour for a friend really, to save her waiting at the scene all day for an ME from Edinburgh. How are you? How’s Jean?’ Payne’s wife was the sister of Alex’s long-dead mother, Myra.

‘We’re both fine; waiting for the vaccine. Jean’s stir crazy, but otherwise okay. You two won’t need the jag now, I guess,’ Payne said. . . .