The Bob Skinner Collection

by Quintin Jardine

Genres: General Fiction; City Life; Mystery; Hard-Boiled; Police Procedurals; Noir; Suspense

Synopsis

Available together for the very first time, these are the first three crime novels in the inimitable Bob Skinner series by Quintin Jardine. Skinner's Rules As head of Edinburgh's CID, Detective Chief Superintendent Bob Skinner has seen it all... but even he is shocked by the savagely mutilated corpse discovered in a dark alleyway. Further random killings in the city suggest a vicious serial killer is on the rampage. But when the first victim's fiancee is also murdered, Skinner realises that someone is in deadly earnest... Skinner's Festival An explosion rocks Princes Street in the midst of the Edinburgh Festival. Responsibility is claimed by a group supposedly demanding political separation from Britain, but as atrocities escalate Skinner realises this is no gang of fanatics, but a highly professional team. And he is forced to assemble a crack task force, carry the ball when the government fumbles on the air, and wrestle with the beast within, who emerges with periodic ferocity to foil a clever, greedy scheme involving the crown jewels and Skinner's own daughter. Skinner's Trail First the joyous birth of Skinner's son... Then the grim reality of murder in one of Edinburgh's prosperous suburbs. As the murder investigation continues without result, it seems the killer was particularly cunning in covering his tracks - leaving no clues or leads to pursue. But then another seemingly minor crime takes Assistant Chief Constable Bob Skinner in a new direction, along a tortuous and bloody trail.

Release date: May 7, 2015

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 800

Sample

As a city, Edinburgh is a two-faced bitch.

There is the face on the picture postcards, sunny, bright and shining, prosperous and smiling at the world like a toothpaste ad.

But on the other side of the looking glass lies the other face: the real world where all too often the wind blows cold, the rain lashes down and the poverty shows on the outside. That cold hard face was showing as Bob Skinner made his way to work.

The wind whistled down from the North, driving the rain across Fife, with the threat of snow not far behind. It was 6.43 a.m. on one of those fag-end of the year November days when it seemed impossible to relate the dull, grey city to the cosmopolitan capital of the August Festival weeks, or the friendly town invaded on bright, sparkling Saturdays in January by hordes of visiting rugby followers.

Detective Chief Superintendent Robert Skinner brought his Granada to a halt at the High Street entrance to Advocates’ Close. The tiny gateway, unnoticed every day by hundreds of passers-by, led into one of the many alleyways which flow from the ancient Royal Mile, down to Cockburn Street, to the Mound, and to Cowgate.

Skinner stood framed in the entry, the disapproving bulk of St Giles Cathedral, the High Kirk of Edinburgh, looming behind him. He looked as grey as the city itself. Steely hair which sometimes sparkled in the sun now flopped lustreless over his forehead. The last of the summer tan was long gone, and the face bore the lines of one wakened too often from too little sleep.

He was dressed for the occasion, in a long leather coat, black and Satanic, over a grey suit. Only the shoes, light leather moccasins, were incongruous. But even in the ungodly gloom, there was no masking the presence of the man. Standing two inches over six feet tall, he filled the gateway as he surveyed the carnage in the Close. Skinner was forty-three years old, but he retained the grace of an athlete. Power was written in every movement, and in the set of his face, where deep blue eyes, a classically straight nose and a strong chin seemed to vie with each other to be the dominant feature.

He stepped over the tape which had been stretched across the entryway. A group of men, some in uniform, stood around a huddled heap of something, lying where the Close emerged from the shelter of the building above into the open air. Daylight was only a vague promise in the eastern sky as he stepped forward into the poorly-lit alley, hunching his shoulders against the rain and screwing his eyes against the wind.

One of the kneeling men, his back to Skinner, looked over his shoulder, as if sensing his presence, and jumped to his feet.

‘Morning, boss!’ Detective Inspector Andy Martin used the form of address beloved of policemen and professional footballers. He was shorter than Skinner, but broader in build. He was fresh-faced, and looked younger than his thirty-four years. His hair, cut close, was unusually blond for a Scot, and his eyes were a bright green, accentuated by a tint in his soft contact lenses. He was dressed in black Levis and a brown leather bomber jacket.

Skinner nodded to his personal assistant. ‘Morning, Andy. Just how suspicious is this suspicious death, then?’ The whole force knew that the Head of CID did not like to be called in on obvious suicides by nervous divisional commanders.

Martin stood between him and the heap. ‘You’d better prepare yourself for this one, boss. This boy’s been chopped to pieces, literally. I never want to see anything like it again.’

Even in the dim light which crept in from the High Street, Skinner could see that Martin’s face was paler than usual.

His expression grew grim. ‘Just fucking magic,’ he muttered, and stepped forward, past the younger man, towards the lamp-lit heap, which not long before had been a human being.

The first thing that he saw clearly was the face, which seemed to stare at the truncated body with unbelieving eyes. The man had been decapitated. Even as he saw the two pools of vomit on the slope below the corpse, his own stomach churned. In all his years on the force, this was as bad as anything he had seen.

But to his people he was the Boss, and the Boss could not show any trace of weakness. So, switching off the horror, he turned his eyes back towards the scene. The head lay about four feet away from the rest of the body. It had landed, or had been placed upright. Skinner noted that it had been severed neatly, as if by a single blow. He looked again at the face and shuddered. The man, apart from the dull, dead eyes, bore a fair resemblance to Andy Martin.

‘Is everything in the position it was when it was found?’

‘Of course, boss.’ Martin sounded almost offended. Then his tone changed, to an awed murmur. ‘It’s as if the bastard left the head like that on purpose.’

‘Who found him?’

‘Two polis from down the road. One of them, PC Reilly, he’s in the Royal, in shock. The other, WPC Ross, she’s over there. Tough wee thing, eh!’

‘Maybe too tough,’ said Skinner, almost to himself.

He forced himself to turn away from the staring eyes, and from the stream of blood which wound down the close into the darkness, to look at the rest of the body. The belly had been slashed open; the intestines were wound around the fingers of the bloody left hand, as if the victim had been trying to hold them in. The right hand had been severed and lay beside the body. It had been cut off, like the head, by a single stroke, the wound running diagonally from a point two inches above the wrist to the base of the thumb.

Because of the blood, and because of his soiling himself in death or in fright, it was difficult to say with certainty what the man had been wearing. Skinner forced himself to look closely and identified black flannel trousers, once supported by a black leather belt, which had been severed by the disembowelling stroke. The shirt was of a heavyweight woollen check cloth, and had been worn over a thick undervest.

‘No jacket or coat found?’ he asked, then failed to see Martin’s shake of his head as he spotted the briefcase under the body. ‘Did the photographer get all this?’ He directed the question over his shoulder.

‘Yes, sir!’ barked a thin man, anorak-clad and carrying a camera.

Gently, taking care to spill no more innards into the close, Skinner drew the case out from beneath the corpse.

It was hand-stitched, in brown leather. The initials ‘MM’ were embossed on the lid in what looked like gold leaf. There were combination locks on either side of the handle. Skinner tried them. They stayed firmly closed.

‘Bugger!’ he swore softly.

He leaned over the body again. The check shirt had two button-down chest pockets. He undid the flap on the left side, and withdrew a small black calf-skin wallet.

A wad of notes was wound around a central clip. Four plastic cards, two of them Gold, were held in slots to the left, and to the right, under a plastic cover, was an identity card.

MR MICHAEL MORTIMER

Advocate

Advocates’ Library     67 Westmoreland Street

Parliament House     Edinburgh

031-221 5706     031-227 3122

‘Christ, that opens a thousand avenues of possibility,’ said Skinner, showing the card to Martin. ‘If this guy was a criminal advocate, and from memory, I think he was, we’ll have to check on every dissatisfied customer he’s ever had, and their relations. If anyone did that for revenge, he must have had a hell of a grudge.’

‘Too right!’ said Martin.

Skinner’s eyes swung toward him. ‘Is the doctor here?’

A slim figure heard the question and detached herself from a group further down the alley.

Skinner watched her approach. ‘Surely to Christ,’ he said heatedly to Martin, ‘they could have sent one of the old lags to a thing like this!’

The woman heard him. ‘Hold on just one minute, Skinner. I am a medical practitioner with scene of crime experience. Since not even you would doubt my qualifications, you must be saying that this is no job for a woman. That is sexist!’

But Dr Sarah Grace’s soft smile was at odds with her combative speech. As she came to stand beside Skinner and Martin, she said, ‘I just happen to be on call this month. There are no favours in this job. But just to restore your belief in the weakness of women, one of those little pools of sick down there is my breakfast!’

The duty police surgeon was young for the job, at twenty-nine. She was around five feet six inches tall, with auburn hair and dark hazel eyes, in which, Skinner thought as he looked at her, a man could easily drown. She was American. Normally she dressed with all the sophistication of a New Yorker, but in Advocates’ Close, in the chill November drizzle, she wore denims and a wraparound parka.

Skinner returned her smile. ‘Sorry, Doc, I stand chastised. Now, can you give me an estimate on time?’

‘He’s still fairly fresh. He was found at 5.30, and I’d guess from the indicators that he’d been dead around ninety minutes by then. It’s a wonder that no one found him earlier. I mean he’s just yards from the sidewalk.’

Skinner shuddered slightly. ‘Just as well. One of my lads is in shock. Imagine some poor wee cleaner on her way to work tripping over a bit of Mr Mortimer!’

He led her away from the body. ‘Can I have a formal report as soon as you can manage, please, Doctor?’ Skinner smiled again at Sarah Grace. The creases around his eyes turned to laugh-lines, and for an instant the steely hair seemed to sparkle.

She returned his request with a grin and a drawl. ‘Double quick, Skinner.’ She stripped off her latex gloves, stuffed them into a disposal bag and thrust that deep into a pocket of her parka.

Skinner looked back towards the mouth of the close. At the entrance, one or two early morning passers-by had stopped to stare. ‘Andy,’ he called across to Martin, ‘get a screen up there, will you, and move those gawpers on. And let’s have a cover over the body. It’ll be light soon; some clever bastard with a camera would get a fortune for that picture!’

Two constables, without a direct order, stripped off their long overcoats and spread them over the separate parts of Mr Mortimer, pulling the garments together so that they formed a single cover. Two more, the tallest of the officers at the scene, stood shoulder to shoulder at the mouth of the close. The two who were stationed at the foot of the alleyway moved round the corner and took up position at the head of the steps which led down to Cockburn Street.

‘Right, that’s better. Now you technicians get finished and let’s gather up this poor mother’s son for the mortuary.’ He turned back to Martin. ‘Andy. No weapon at the scene?’ Again, Martin shook his blond head. ‘No, I thought not. Ask Doctor Sarah for an opinion. Whatever it was, it was bloody sharp and handled by someone strong, and an expert at that. A mug would have put a foot in all that blood, but this boy – there’s not a sign he was ever here apart from that thing over there.’

As Skinner nodded over his shoulder towards the body, his eye caught a dark figure running up the alley towards him. He was waving something, something which shone, even in the poor artificial light.

‘Sir, sir, excuse me, sir.’ It was one of the two constables from the foot of the close. His voice was of the Islands, light and lilting, contrasting with the harder Central Scotland tones of Skinner and Martin.

The boy, for he was no more, rushed up to them. He brandished something which looked like a short sword.

‘This was stuck in a door at the foot of the close, sir. It’s one of those big bayonets from the First World War. I know because my great-grandfather brought one back with him. It’s a sort of a family treasure now.’

Skinner looked at the constable, who stood panting, like a dog awaiting a reward for the return of a stick. Martin shook his head and sighed, waiting for the thunder which he knew was about to crash around the young man.

But the Chief Superintendent spoke quietly. ‘Son, how long have you been on the force?’

‘Nine months, sir!’ The face was still expectant.

‘Nine months, eh. And in all that time, has no one told you that if you’re at a murder scene, and you find something that might be – however slight the chance – a weapon, that you leave that thing exactly where it is and summon a senior officer? Has no one told you that?

‘Don’t you even watch bloody Taggart?’

The young man’s face fell. He looked down at his big feet. ‘Och, sir, I’m very sorry.’

Skinner smiled for the third time that morning. ‘Okay, son. Let’s just say that this is your first really dirty murder enquiry, and you got excited. You’ve just learned lesson one: Keep the head.’ Christ, thought Skinner, as the words left his mouth; what a thing to say. For a second, laughter, as it sometimes can in terrible moments, almost burst out. But he checked himself in time.

‘That’s lesson one. Here’s lesson two. If you ever again come rushing up to me waving a bloody great bayonet, I will take it off you and stick it right up your bottom-hole, sharp end first. Is that understood also?’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Right, now that it is, show Mr Martin and me exactly where you found the thing. What’s your name, by the way?’

‘PC Iain MacVicar, sir.’

PC Iain led them round the corner and across to a small doorway. ‘It was sticking in here, sir, as if someone had thrown it away.’

‘Try to put it back.’

Like a uniformed King Arthur, the young man slid the brutal knife back into a deep groove in the dirty, weathered doorframe. It stayed in place.

‘Okay, Iain,’ said Skinner, ‘that’s fine. Now guard it with your life until the photographer has taken his picture and until the technicians come to take it away.’

As they walked back up the steep slope, Martin spoke. It was the first time since the arrival of his Chief that he had offered an opinion. The care which he took in weighing up a situation was a trait that Skinner admired in his young assistant. It was one of the secrets of efficient detection.

‘You know, boss, that’s a big brutal knife, all right, and it could have done the job, but anyone who did all that damage with just three swipes wasn’t just lashing out. We’re not just dealing with another nutter with a knife here, but with someone with real weapons skills.’

‘Aye, but that doesn’t stop him being a nutter as well!’

An hour later, after easing an account of the discovery of the body from WPC Ross, who had begun to react at last to the horror, Skinner led Martin out of the Close on to the High Street. It was 8.10 a.m., the sun had risen behind grey watery clouds, and the morning traffic was building up. Buses boomed past, their wheels roaring on the ancient cobbles.

Weatherproofed office workers bustled grimly through the drizzle. Some were heading for the Lothian Regional Council headquarters, a building so out of synchronicity with the rest of the historic street that most Edinburgh citizens try to forget that it is there. Others walked purposely towards the magnificently domed Head Office of the Bank of Scotland which overlooks Princes Street from its perch on the Mound, and is dominated in its turn by the mighty Castle, secure on its great rock.

‘Come on, Andy. Let’s go across and see if Roy Thornton’s in yet.’

The Advocates’ Library is situated in Parliament House, on the far side of the Great Hall, the finest public room in Scotland. It is barely 200 yards from the mouth of Advocates’ Close.

Skinner and Martin walked the short distance, entering the Supreme Court buildings through the unmarked, anonymous, swing doors. They had almost passed the brightly-uniformed security men – known colloquially as the High Street Blues – when Martin stopped. ‘Hold on a minute, boss.’

He stepped over to the reception desk where a registration book lay open. Names, locations in the building, times of arrival and times of departure ran in four parallel columns. He scanned backwards through the list of signatures.

‘Here we are. Mortimer signed in at 9.11 p.m. and out at 4.02 a.m. Signed off for good about a minute later, I should think. I wonder what kept him working all night.’

‘It’s not all that unusual, Andy. The Library’s open twenty-four hours a day for advocates’ use, and these are busy people as a rule. The younger ones often live in small flats, and like to use this as an office as well as just a reading room.’

They walked across the Great Hall, beneath the magnificent hammer-beam roof, and past the stained-glass window which reminds visitors that the Hall was, in centuries gone by, the home of Scotland’s Parliament.

The clock stood at only 8.22 a.m., but Roy Thornton, the Faculty of Advocates’ Officer and front-of-house manager, stood in his box at the Library entrance, resplendent in the formal uniform which was his working dress. It suited him. He had been, in an earlier career, Regimental Sergeant Major of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers.

He was a dark, trim man, with a neatly clipped moustache, and a face which gave a hint of his fondness for malt whisky. He and Skinner knew each other well, and the big detective respected the ex-soldier as the fountainhead of all knowledge about the head office of Scotland’s law business.

Thornton smiled in greeting. ‘Hello, Bob. Bit early for you, is it no’. Or have you not slept since that football team of yours was stuffed on Saturday!’ Thornton laughed. Football rivalry was another link between them. Roy Thornton was a Heart of Midlothian fanatic, while Skinner retained a boyhood loyalty to Motherwell. Both were Premier Division sides, and on the previous Saturday, Hearts had beaten Motherwell in a close and controversial match in Edinburgh.

Skinner grunted. ‘Had the ref locked up. He’s up in the Sheriff Court at ten o’clock. Charges are daylight robbery, high treason, buggery and anything else that I can think of between now and then.’

Thornton rocked back on his heels as he laughed. ‘So what brings you here, big fella. Looking to nobble an Advocate Depute?’

Skinner dropped the bantering tone. ‘No, Roy, what brings me here is bloody murder, most foul. Know a boy called Mortimer, one of yours?’

The term ‘boy’ is used widely in Scotland to denote any male person who is above the age of consent, but younger than the speaker.

Thornton nodded, his smile vanishing. ‘Young Mike? Aye, he’s a good lad. Why, what’s up?’

‘About four and a half hours ago, someone separated young Mike from his head – and I mean that – across the road in Advocates’ Close.’

The colour drained in an instant from Thornton’s face. ‘Sweet suffering Christ!’

Skinner gave him a few moments to absorb the news. ‘Listen, Roy, say no to this if you have any sense, but if you could make a formal identification now it could save the next of kin a load of grief.’

‘Sure, I’ll do that.’

Ten minutes later, they re-entered the building. As they crossed the Great Hall, Thornton said to Skinner: ‘In the army once, in Ireland, I had to clean up after an explosion, so I’ve seen things like that before. But it’s part of the scene there.

‘This is Edinburgh. This is a safe, kind place. What sort of a bastard is there in this city that would do a thing like that. A loony, surely.’

Skinner looked sideways at him. ‘I hope so, Roy. Because if whoever chopped up your boy Mike is sane, it doesn’t bear thinking about. Tell me what you know about Mortimer.’

There was little to tell. Mike Mortimer had been thirty-four years old, and had been at the Bar for four years, after five years in the Procurator Fiscal service in Glasgow and Stranraer. He had grown a successful criminal practice quickly, from scratch. He was unmarried, but was widely believed to be sleeping with Rachel Jameson, an advocate a year or two his junior, both in age and in service at the Bar.

In common with most advocates, his family background was non-legal. His father, Thornton recalled, worked in a factory in Clydebank.

‘Nice people, his Mum and Dad. I remember them at Mike’s Calling ceremony. They were so proud of him.’ He shook his head slowly and sadly.

‘Look, Bob, you’d better see the Dean.’

‘Of course, Roy. But give me a second.’ He turned to Martin. ‘Andy, will you talk to the security guards. The night shift will be away by now. Find out who they are, get their addresses and have someone take statements.’

Martin nodded and recrossed the Hall.

Thornton left Skinner for a few moments. On his return, he motioned to the detective to follow him, and led the way through the long Library, past rows of desks under an up-lit, gold-painted ceiling, to a door halfway down on the left.

David Murray, QC, recently elected as Dean of the Faculty of Advocates following his predecessor’s elevation to high judicial office, was a small, neat man, with a reserved but pleasant manner, and enormously shrewd eyes, set behind round spectacles. He was a member of one of the legal dynasties who once formed the major proportion of the Scots Bar. He was held in the utmost respect throughout the Faculty and beyond, and his election, although contested, had been welcomed universally. He was a man of stature in every respect other than the physical.

While Murray’s practice was exclusively civil, he had enjoyed a spell in criminal prosecution as an Advocate Depute. During that time Skinner’s evidence in a number of spectacular trials had helped him to maintain an undefeated record as Crown counsel. He greeted the detective warmly.

‘Hello, Bob, how are things. Thornton tells me you want to see me. None of my troops been up to mischief, I hope.’

‘David, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but one of your people has been murdered. It happened just a few hours ago. He seems to have been on his way home from the Library when he was attacked in Advocates’ Close.’

Murray stood bolt upright. ‘Good God! Who?’

‘A man named Michael Mortimer. Roy Thornton just confirmed our identification.’

‘Oh no, surely not.’ Murray ran a small hand through what was left of his hair. ‘You said murder. Is that what it was, strictly speaking, or do you think it was a mugging gone wrong?’

‘David, not even you would have accepted a culpable homicide plea on this one, believe me.’ Skinner shuddered at the memory, still vivid in his thoughts. He realised, with a flash of certainty, that it would never leave him completely.

‘Listen, I know it’s early, but do you have a spot of something? I feel the need all of a sudden.’

The Dean’s room was lined with books from floor to ceiling. Murray walked over to a shelf and removed a leather-bound volume with the title Session Cases 1924 printed in gold on the spine. He reached into the darkness of the gap that it had left and produced a bottle of Glenmorangie. He removed a glass bearing the Faculty crest from a drawer in his octagonal desk, and uncorking the bottle, poured a stiff measure.

‘Thanks, David.’ Skinner slumped onto the battered leather couch beneath the tall south-facing window. Outside the day was bleaker than ever.

‘Bad one, was it?’ said Murray. ‘I thought Thornton looked drawn when he came in just then.’

Skinner described the murder scene in detail. When he had finished he looked up. Without a word, the Dean, now ashen-faced, produced a second glass and poured a malt for himself. His hand shook as he did so.

Skinner watched him drain the glass. ‘David, can you think of anyone with a professional grudge against this man? Had he lost a case? Could this be a disgruntled ex-client putting out a contract from Peterhead?’

Murray thought for a moment. ‘I can’t see that. The fact is that Mortimer was very good. He’s still a junior, but he’s led for the defence in one or two quite big cases, and given the Crown a good stuffing in the process. I can think of a couple of Glasgow villains who would be doing serious time right now, but for Mike Mortimer. But do you really think that the perpetrator knew him? At 4.00 a.m., down a close, wasn’t this just a random madman?’

Skinner nodded. ‘In all probability that’s exactly what it was. But one thing bothers me. The animal got away without leaving a single pawprint behind him, yet he tossed away this huge bloody bayonet where we’d be sure to find it. Still, you’re right. Chances are it’s a nutter. I only hope that he doesn’t get the taste for it!’

‘Indeed, Bob, indeed!’

The big detective stood up, towering over Murray. He was six years younger than the Dean, but at that moment he felt much older.

‘Look, David, can I have your permission to talk to Mortimer’s clerk, and to check on past and current instructions? Just to cover all possibilities.’

‘Of course. Carry on whenever you wish. In the meantime, I’d better put a notice up in a public place. All your people across the way will have drawn attention, as will the closure of the close. Gossip spreads like flame here, so I’d better let the troops know the bad news as soon as possible.’

The two shook hands, and Skinner left the Library. He walked back across the street, to the mouth of the close. A group of journalists and photographers had gathered. They crowded round him as he approached, thrusting tiny tape recorders under his nose. A television camera and handlamp were trained upon him.

‘Any statement yet, Mr Skinner?’

‘Any ID on the victim, Bob?’

He held up his hand to silence the clamour. No point in delaying, he thought. He had always been willing to talk to the media, and this had won him their respect and their trust. It had also brought him the highest public profile of any detective in Scotland.

‘Okay, gentlemen … oh, yes, and okay, Joan …’ he began, spotting the Scottish Television reporter beside her camera crew.

‘At around 5.30 this morning, two police officers discovered the body of a man in Advocates’ Close. It was quite obvious that he had met a violent death, and a murder investigation is now under way.

‘The victim has been identified, but the name will be withheld until next of kin have been informed. Once that has been done I will make a further statement.’

Alan McQueen of the Daily Record was first with a question. ‘Have you found a weapon, Bob?’

‘We have found something near the scene which could well be the murder weapon. We are talking here about severe wounds caused by a sharp-edged weapon. That’s all I can say for now. Thank you all.’

He turned away and was about to enter the close, when McQueen put a hand lightly on his arm. ‘Any more you can tell us off the record, Bob?’

Skinner stopped and turned back. As he did so all of the tape recorders were switched off and pocketed, the television hand-lamp was extinguished and the camera was lowered from its operator’s shoulder.

He was silent for a few moments, as if choosing his words. Then he looked at McQueen directly. ‘Without quoting anyone, you can say this: senior police officers are agreed that this is one of the most brutal killings they have ever seen.

‘You can say, too, that police are anxious to speak to anyone who may have seen a person in the High Street, Cockburn Street, or Market Street area between say 3.30 a.m. and 4.30 a.m., with what might have been blood on his clothing. I don’t want to alarm the public at this stage, but I want this bastard caught and bloody quick, so any help you can give me in putting that word about will be much appreciated.’

‘Any hint on the victim?’

‘Male, aged thirties, unmarried. We should have broken the news to his parents and his girlfriend within the hour, so check with me at ten-thirty. I’m going to set up an incident room in the old police office across the road.’

‘Thanks, Bob.’ ‘Thanks, Mr Skinner.’ The group broke up, the journalists rushing off to file copy and to prepare broadcast reports. Skinner knew that his disclosure of the brutality of the killing had provided an extra headline, but if there was a maniac at large it would do no harm to put the public on guard.

He pushed aside the tarpaulin sheet which had been raised as a screen over the mouth of the close and stepped inside. David Pettigrew, the deputy Procurator Fiscal, as Scotland’s public prosecutor is known, awaited his arrival. He was a burly man with a black beard which, even in the poor light, accentuated the greyness of his face. I’ve seen that pallor a few times today, Skinner thought.

‘Mornin’, Davie. I can tell by your face that you’ve had a look under that cover.’

‘Holy Christ, Bob! Who’d have done that? Jack the Ripper?’

‘Don’t. He was never caught.’

Pettigrew shot him a lugubrious look. ‘I see you’ve found the murder weapon. Any thoughts on who might have used it? Former client connections?’

‘That’s the obvious starting point, but David Murray says no. Apparently the lad left a string of happy villains behind him. According to his description of Mortimer’s career the Glasgow Cosa Nostra would help us find whoever did this. And I might have to ask them because, apart from a bayonet which I know even now is not going to give up a single fingerprint, I do not have a single fucking clue!’

The news of the murder broke first on the 10.00 a.m. radio news bulletin on Forth RFM, Edinburgh’s commercial music station. By that time, David Murray had posted a black-edged notice at the entrance to the Library, having first sought out Rachel Jameson, and havin