But that was what I faced, sitting on that slab of volcanic debris, staring out across the water. Where was I in these two key inquiries that could make my career or wound it, maybe mortally? My fear was that I was stuffed, in both.
I looked for positives in the Marlon Watson murder hunt. On the face of it, we had an acceptable result. We had identified Milburn’s van, and McGuire’s pub manager witness, after a lot of thought, had picked Warren Shackleton from an array of mugshots as one of the men he had seen in Infirmary Street. I hadn’t been sure how he would hold up against an aggressive defence advocate, but that wasn’t a factor any more, since dead men can’t be tried. I was fairly certain also that our scientists would find evidence that would place the two of them at the scene. DNA was coming into use then and in its era everybody leaves a trace behind.
The obvious thing for me to do, in PR terms, was to issue a statement announcing that two men who had been our prime suspects, and one other thought to be involved, were those who’d been found dead in Newcastle. I knew they’d have been the top story in the Tyneside press that morning, and expected them to make the national news, if only briefly.
Yes, I would do that, but not personally, just a couple of paragraphs put out through the press office. I had no intention of exposing myself at a media briefing to follow-up questions to which I had no answers.
On the face of it, I’d be able to close the book on the case. Show the prosecutors our evidence and they’d sign off on Milburn and Shackleton as Marlon’s murderers, no further proceedings necessary. Fine, but I would know that we’d come up short, and so would my bosses. Not only that, there were half a dozen good crime reporters in the city who’d work it out too. Most important of all, though, I’d never be satisfied myself with a job half done. So, the investigation would not be closed. The search would go on, as discreetly as possible, but it would go on, and I’d be judged on the outcome.
As for the Weir-McCann murder hunt, I didn’t feel in touch with that one at all. There had been an early lead in the Watson case, but no such luck with the other. We’d established that the two had been killed by the same man, with the same weapon, but we hadn’t a clue why, and he was still out there. A third murder, and the press would have hysterics. Something had to tie the victims together, beyond the fact that they’d each survived the same sink-estate school, but we weren’t close to finding it. The press clipping about Mia? A curiosity, that was all. No… I frowned… not one, but two: the fact that he had it at all, and the question that it posed. What was a guy who worked on the shop floor in B amp;Q doing with a page torn out of a communications trade magazine? ‘Now that is interesting, Skinner,’ I murmured. ‘Where the hell would Weir have got that from?’ And who the hell’s going to tell us? I added silently, and my flicker of optimism faded. ‘Bugger!’ I sighed, as I stood up, my arse cold from its ancient seat.
I’d left my phone and my house keys in my jacket in the Discovery. A risk casually taken, I realised as I walked back; police officers have no personal immunity to theft. It was still there, though. I could see the car, intact, as I crested the rise. The two youngsters were gone; it could only have been a quickie. I checked the mobile as soon as I was back in the driver’s seat. It showed three missed calls, all from the same number: Mia. As I was looking at the readout she rang again. I hesitated before answering. Indeed, I almost pressed ‘reject’, before I gave in to her persistence and hit the green key instead.
‘Yes.’
‘Bob, it’s me.’
‘I know who it is,’ I replied. ‘I have this clever phone that tells me.’
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was way over the top this morning. You scared me, that was all.’
‘Yes, I did,’ I conceded, ‘and I’m sorry for that. But you are right, you were way over the top.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry.’
‘Accepted, for fuck’s sake!’ I snapped.
‘So you’re still mad at me.’
‘No,’ I told her, regretting my flash of temper. ‘No, I’m not. Mia, I don’t know what I am, I don’t know what to say. Nothing, I suppose.’
‘I’m not usually like that. I don’t know why I behaved that way.’ She paused for a couple of seconds. ‘But maybe I do,’ she went on. ‘Maybe I haven’t come as far from home as I thought. Do you want to give it another try?’ she asked. I didn’t hear total conviction in the question.
I didn’t have to think about the answer. ‘No, I don’t. It’s not a snub, Mia. And it’s not “Wham bam, thank you, ma’am” either. Last night was great, but this morning was not. Each of us saw a side of the other that we didn’t like, and that’s not going to go away. So best put a full stop after it.’
‘I suppose,’ she sighed, then she chuckled. ‘You weren’t so bad yourself, for a tired old thirty-something. No hard feelings, then.’
‘None. See you around. Who knows, I might even send one of my guys along to talk to your audience about the evils of crime.’
‘Mm,’ she said. ‘That DC Martin would do nicely.’
‘He’d probably agree with you. So long.’
So long indeed, I thought, relieved, and no damage done. As I drove away, it occurred to me that I might have asked her whether she could recall the names McCann and Weir, then remembered that the task was being assigned to Mackie and Steele, and let it lie.
Only McGuire was in the office when I returned, minding the phones while the rest were at lunch. ‘The press officer called, boss,’ he told me. ‘He’s had a couple of people looking for updates on Weir and McCann.’
I called Inspector Hesitant back and dictated a short statement about the Marlon suspects having turned up dead in Newcastle. ‘Don’t go beyond that,’ I warned him. ‘Stick to my script; no initiative to be shown. As for the other one, you can tell them the truth, that we’re trying to establish whether there’s a link between the two victims beyond their schooldays.’ I’d ordered him not to use his initiative; that was something he liked to hear.
I went back out to the front office and sat on the desk facing McGuire. The tailor-made suit had gone, replaced by jeans and a brown suede bomber jacket. It hung over the back of his chair. His shirt had the words ‘Hugo Boss’ embroidered on the breast pocket, and I was pretty certain that it wasn’t a fake from a market stall. I might have been worried about the young man’s expensive tastes, had I not known that he came from a wealthy family.
‘What do you think of the job so far?’ I asked him.
‘As a whole, sir, or CID?’
‘CID.’
For once in our short acquaintance he looked serious. ‘It’s where I want to be,’ he said firmly. ‘Nowhere else. When I joined the force, that was my aim. I’ll tell you, sir, my folks were not best pleased when I told them what I was going to do. I’d three different options open to me: construction like my old man, join my mother in her temp hire business, or go into the Viareggio firm with my Uncle Beppe. I did a bit in each of them, and decided that none was right for me. When it comes to building things, I’m crap. Placing secretaries by the week in banks and PR firms? Look at me, for Christ’s sake. Who could take me seriously?’ I studied his massive frame and agreed. ‘As for my papa’s businesses… I’ll always think of them as his, not my uncle’s; he’s a knobhead… I’d have fitted in there, but I’d have wound up fighting with my cousin Paula.’ I’d run across young Paula Viareggio once, in Madogs while on a date with a girlfriend of brief tenure. She looked sensational, but the word ‘feisty’ could have been coined for her. I could see that she and her cousin would be an explosive combination.