Robert M. Skinner (Wonder what M stands for?)
The top dog in Scotland he thinks, come to let me know no doubt that he could have had my job for the asking. . if he only knew. Tough on him; this is the season of the bitch. Sensitive about his politician wife. Eyes went all cold when I asked about her. Wonder if he knows what I do, about her screwing the actor guy every time he’s in Glasgow. Or if he’d like me to show him the evidence. If he knew about the other one! But that definitely stays my secret, till the time is right.
Skinner’s eyes widened as he read.
The man has testosterone coming out of his pores, which makes it all the more ironic that his wife plays away, as did the one before, from what I hear. As a cop, old school. He will not be an ally over unification. Question is, will he be an opponent for the job? Think he will, whatever he says; he’s a pragmatist, used to power, and not being questioned. Also, will he stand for Scotland’s top police officer being a woman, and a black one at that? Sexist? Racist? His sort usually are, if old Bullshit is anything to go by. Must work out a way to take him out of the game. Main weakness is his wife; use what I know and work on getting more on her. Other weakness his daughter, but she’s protected by the dangerous Mr Martin so too much trouble. Summary: an enemy, but can be handled.
‘No wonder this fucking woman got herself killed,’ he murmured to himself. ‘I might have been tempted to do it myself.’
He replaced the notes and the photographs, then turned to the next envelope. It was inscribed ‘Bullshit’. It contained nothing but photographs, of Toni Field and a man. In one they were both in police uniform, but in the others they were highly informal. It was all too apparent that at least one of the participants had been completely unaware that they were being taken, most of all in one in which he was clad only in his socks.
Skinner stared. He gaped. And then he laughed. ‘Bullshit,’ he said. ‘B. S. for short. B. S. for Brian Storey, Sir Brian bloody Storey, deputy assistant commissioner then, going by his uniform, but now Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. And weren’t he and Lady Storey guests in the royal box at Ascot a few weeks ago?’
His smile vanished. Was Brian Storey a man to be blackmailed and take it quietly? Maybe, maybe not.
He moved on to the next envelope. It was labelled ‘Brum’, another collection of candid camera shots of the star of the show with a West Midlands ACC, in line with Marina’s account. Skinner knew the guy by sight but could not remember his name, a sign that the days when he might have been of use to Toni lay in the past.
The same was true of the men featured in the next two. The broadcast journalist had been a name a couple of years before but had passed into obscurity when he had signed up with Sky News. As for Chairman Mao, the only thing for which he was remarkable was the size of his penis, since Toni had been able, easily, to swallow it whole.
The fifth envelope in the sequence was ‘Howling Mad’. There was something vaguely recognisable about the man, but if he was a QC as Marina had said, he would normally be seen publicly in wig and gown, as good a disguise as the chief constable had ever encountered. In addition, he was the only one of the five who was not seen completely naked, or in full face, only profile. However, there were a series of images possibly taken from a video, in which the pair were seen under a duvet, in what looked to be, even in the stills, vigorous congress.
‘Howling Mad,’ Skinner repeated. ‘Who the hell are you, and why is that name vaguely familiar?’
His question went unanswered as he refilled the envelope and turned to the last. It was anonymous; there was no description of its contents on the outside. He upended it and more photographs fell out. They showed Toni Field as he had never seen her, out of uniform, without make-up, without her hair carefully arranged. In each image she was holding or watching over a child, at various ages, from infancy to early toddler.
He felt a pang of sadness. Little Lucille, who’d never see her mother again. One photograph was larger than the rest. It showed Toni, sitting up in a hospital bed, holding her child and flanked by Sofia and a man, Mauritian. He had given his daughter his high forehead and straight, slightly delicate nose. And how much of his character? Skinner wondered.
He was replacing the photographs and making a mental note to hand them over to Marina, after burning four of the others. . the ‘Bullshit’ file was one to keep. . when he realised that something had not fallen out when they did. He reached inside with two fingers and drew out a document.
He whistled as he saw it, knowing at once what it was even if its style was unfamiliar to him. A birth certificate, serial number ending seven two six five, recording the safe arrival of Mauritian citizen Lucille Sofia Deschamps, mother’s name, Antonia Maureen Deschamps, nationality Mauritian, father’s name Murdoch Lawton, nationality British.
In the days when Trivial Pursuit was the only game in town, Bob Skinner had been the man to avoid, or the man to have on your team. There was never a fact, a name or a link so inconsequential that he would not retain it.
‘Murdoch,’ he exclaimed. ‘The A Team, original TV series not the iffy movie, crazy team member, “Howling Mad” Murdock, spelled the American way but near enough and that’s how Toni would have pronounced it anyway, played by Dwight Schultz. Hence the nickname, but who the hell is he?’
Sarah’s iPad was lying on the coffee table. He picked it up, clicked on the Wikipedia app, and keyed in the name of the father of little Lucille Deschamps.
When Sarah came back into the room he was staring at the tablet’s small screen, his face frozen, his expression so wild that it scared her.
‘Bob,’ she called out, ‘are you all right?’
He shook himself back to life. ‘Never better, love,’ he replied, and his eyes were exultant. ‘Can you print from this thing?’ he asked.
‘Of course. Why?’
‘Because the whole game is changed, my love, the whole devious game.’
Fifty-Four
‘Are ye sure you’re all right, kid?’ Since his visit earlier in the evening he had called her three times and on each occasion he had put the same question. Lottie understood; she knew that he was hurting almost as much as she was, but was incapable of saying so.
‘I promise you, Dan, I’m okay. That’s to say I’m not a danger to myself, or to wee Jakey. Nobody’s going to break in here tomorrow and find me hanging from the banisters. Ask me how I feel instead and I’ll tell you that I’m hurt, embarrassed, disappointed and blazing mad, but I’ll get over all that. . apart, maybe, from the blazing mad bit. I’ve made a decision since you called me earlier. Jakey’s going to his granny’s tomorrow and I’m coming back to work.’
‘But Lottie,’ Provan began.
She cut him off. ‘Don’t say it, ’cos I know that I can have nothing to do with the Field investigation, but there’s other crime in Glasgow; there always is.’
‘The chief constable said ye should stay at home until everything’s sorted.’
‘As far as I’m concerned it is sorted. Scott’s been charged, right?’
‘Right.’
‘He’s no longer in custody, right?’
‘Right.’
‘And I’m not suspected of being involved in what he did, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘In that case, there is no reason for me to be stuck in the house twiddling my thumbs. The longer I do that the more it will look like I’m mixed up in my husband’s stupidity. So, Detective Sergeant, I will see you tomorrow. If the chief doesn’t like it, the only way he’ll get me out of there is by formally suspending me, and as you’ve just agreed, he doesn’t have any grounds to do that. I won’t come into the investigation room in Pitt Street. I’ll go to our own office in Anderston instead.’