‘What about the inquiries?’
‘It’s the same story there. We’ve established that McDonnell, the missing prison officer, the man we think set the Bennetts up, caught an Air UK flight to Amsterdam yesterday. His ticket was waiting for him at Edinburgh Airport. It was a direct booking with the airline by telephone, and he paid for it there, by cheque.
‘The deaths of the Bennetts and his disappearance have closed off one line of inquiry, but there are other things we can do. It’ll mean still more sifting and analysis, but I know the very boy to do it. I’m just off to see Andy about that.
‘Once I’ve done that, I’m off down to the Borders. I’m attending the funeral of Harry Riach, the civilian victim in the Gala hold-up, with John McGrigor.’
‘You’ll represent me at PC Brown’s service tomorrow, won’t you?’
‘Don’t worry, Chief, I’ll even wear my uniform. I’ll go to Archergait’s as well. I believe the family are trying to fix it for Thursday.’
‘Sounds like a grim week, Bob. You make me feel all the more guilty to be going away.’
Skinner shot him a thin smile as he rose. ‘Listen, I don’t want to be following your coffin as well. Four weeks’ rest, man. Doctor’s orders. Give me a call when you get there, to confirm that everything in the house is okay for you.’
Sir James stood and walked him to the door. ‘Good luck, then,’ he said, ‘on all fronts.’
Outside in the corridor, the DCC turned and headed for the CID suite. He found Martin in his office poring fruitlessly over interview statements by neighbours of Hannah Bennett and by the residents of the block from which her brother had been assassinated.
‘Anything there?’
The Head of CID looked up from his desk. ‘Not a thing. Deaf, dumb and fucking blind, the lot of them. One bloke round the corner from Hannah thinks he might have seen a red car parked outside his house late in the evening, or it might have been blue, or maybe dark green. It could have been a Vauxhall, but then again, maybe a Ford.’
‘What about the woman herself? Did you learn anything new about her?’
‘She was fairly pally with the lady four doors up it seems. According to her, Hannah didn’t have a boyfriend, as such. There was one bloke she had dinner with from time to time. He was an elder in her church, but he got engaged to someone else a couple of years back. Since then, there’s been no one.’
‘What about the brother?’
‘No one seems to know much about him. A dour bugger who ignored most people: that’s how he struck the neighbours. That was how he came across in jail as well. Dan Pringle’s lot spoke to all of the untried prisoners at Saughton, and that’s how most of them described him, one way or another.’
He looked up at Skinner from behind his desk. ‘Actually, I was thinking I might ask Brian to organise some re-interviewing up at Bonnyrigg, concentrating on Nathan this time. I mean, someone there must have got to know him. I’m going to find out where he drank, and ask some questions there.’
‘Fair enough, Andy, but there’s something else I think we have to do, too. We’re agreed that these robberies were meticulously planned, yes?’
Martin nodded.
‘Okay, in that case the planner, the organiser, the Boss, if you’re right, may well have been in every one of those banks. We know that they all have video security, with recording systems. If those systems are any good, every one of those branches could have him on tape.
‘It’ll be a hell of a task, I know, but we should have someone reviewing all those recordings from at least three months before the first robbery, looking for the same face showing up, one, two, three, four times.’
Andy Martin flashed a twisted grin. ‘Who do you have in mind for that job? How about wee Mark, given the memory that he’s got?’
‘You’re probably right, but it wouldn’t say much for the strength of our resources if we had to use a seven-year-old. Actually, I was thinking of someone a bit older.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the outer office.
‘Sammy? Good idea. He’s a bright spark and he’s got the patience for the job. Why don’t you call him in, so we can give him the good news.’
26
For Bob Skinner, the rare occasions on which he was obliged to wear uniform were among the few unappealing aspects of Command rank. Nevertheless, awareness of his duty as Sir James Proud’s deputy, and a sense of respect for the bereaved, had made him struggle into the uncomfortable blue serge trousers, and into the high-buttoned tunic, emblazoned with badges of rank.
There were ribbons too, among them that of the Queen’s Police Medal, awarded in the wake of his recovery from his near-fatal stabbing. He guessed that Proud Jimmy would have worn his medals to a funeral, but he had stopped short of that.
Normally, he would have driven his own car to Galashiels, but for this occasion he had asked for a police driver, to avoid the inconvenience of parking. As he stepped out of the car a battery of TV and press cameras homed in on him. A young woman stepped forward with a microphone, but he ignored her and strode off.
John McGrigor was in uniform also as he met the DCC at the entrance to the tall-spired parish church. It might have fitted once, but now the silver buttons strained to contain the beefy Superintendent.
Skinner looked up at the red sandstone building. ‘So this was Big Harry’s church,’ he mused.
‘Very, very occasionally,’ whispered McGrigor. ‘But now he’s a hero, the minister’s welcomed him back with open arms.’
The policemen stepped inside, where they were met by an usher and shown to a pew reserved for VIPs. Skinner recognised the local MP, the Parliamentary Under Secretary of State for Home Affairs, and Councillor Marcia Topham, Chair of the Police Advisory Board. He nodded briefly to all three as he sat on the hard wooden bench seat, next to the Councillor.
She leaned her head towards him. ‘How’s the investigation going?’ she whispered.
‘Positively,’ he replied, emphatically, in a tone which invited no further questions. He glanced towards the altar, where Harry Riach’s massive dark wood coffin stood on trestles, with a single wreath on top and others laid before it.
‘The big one in the middle’s from us,’ McGrigor muttered. ‘The big fella would have appreciated the irony in that. It’s as if we were saying goodbye to a valued customer.’
Skinner looked sideways at him and was surprised to see a tear in the corner of his eye. However at that moment the organ burst into life and the congregation rose to its feet. The family entered, led by a stocky middle-aged woman in black, leaning on the arm of a tall, solidly built man in his twenties. He was wearing an army uniform, with sergeant’s stripes. Two other men, younger than the first, followed behind, each supporting an elderly relative.
‘The three sons?’ the DCC whispered.
‘Aye. The old folk are Harry’s parents.’
The service was formal and relatively short, typical of Scottish Presbyterian funerals: the twenty-third psalm, a prayer, a eulogy delivered by the minister, full of unconscious signs that he was not too well acquainted with the man he was burying, a hymn and a benediction.
It seemed no time before the congregation was filing out behind the family mourners, to form a cortège of cars behind the hearse, as it wound its way to the nearby ceremony, where, it seemed to Skinner, around half of the town of Galashiels was waiting.
The gathering parted to allow the two policemen to move to the graveside. As they approached the burial site, McGrigor touched the arm of the DCC’s uniform. ‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment, sir.’
Slowly and deliberately, the Superintendent stepped forward, handed his uniform hat to the undertaker, and took up the position of the second mourner, at the foot of the coffin as it was lowered on to two bars across the waiting grave.