A complete lap of my route is just over four kilometres. I did that easily in under half an hour, concentrating on nothing but the music from my iPod. My choice varies; it’s dependent on how fast I want to run. I had stuff to get out of my system, so that morning I chose Status Quo.
When I was done, rather than tackle another lap, I went into the village gym and spent some time on the weights. I’ve never been one for bulking myself up, but I do have levels that I like to maintain, although it’s harder now that I’m past fifty. Fifteen minutes in the sauna and I jogged home for my second shower of the day, feeling more like a human being and much less alone.
I called Sarah from the bedroom. I was taking something of a chance; the two autopsies might have gone on into the early hours and she might have been trying to grab some sleep. But no, she wasn’t. In fact, she was in her office.
Pathology is a big subject in university terms; she works entirely on the forensic side, and with Joe Hutchinson’s retirement looming, she was about to become head of a five-person unit that is part academic, part NHS, providing services under contract to the Crown Office, not only in and around Edinburgh, but in Fife and across much of the Scottish Central belt .
She could have based herself pretty much anywhere, but she had chosen the Royal Infirmary, the department’s administration centre. That’s where she was when I reached her.
‘Have you been home?’ I asked. She still has her own house, a relic from when we were still apart. It had been useful until then, but it was something we had to address.
‘Not for long,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t get cleared up in the mortuary until much before three, but I needed to be around early to take the first lab results.’
‘Everything as expected?’
‘Pretty much. There’s something in the tests that might help the guys, but then again, it might not.’
‘The guys?’
‘Sammy and Sauce. Mario’s decreed that the links between these murders and the child are so close that they’re a single inquiry.’
‘I’d have done the same,’ I admitted.
‘Yes,’ she laughed, ‘and when you were chief, if your head of CID had taken a different view you’d have overruled him.’
‘That’s how bad I was?’ I asked.
‘From everything I’ve heard . . . although I wasn’t around for much of that time. How were the kids? Good night?’
‘Better than I had. That package I got from Mario wasn’t exactly full of information. In fact it was bloody annoying; a real shoddy job done by a real shoddy operator. I know I wasn’t in Strathclyde long, but honest to God, love,’ I grumbled, ‘I should have had a better grip on it than that.’
‘So think of this as your second chance,’ she suggested. ‘Got to go now. Have a good day and I’ll see you later.’
‘With that testing kit?’
‘Yes, I promise. I’ll call by Boots on the way home.’
Downstairs there was peace and quiet in the kitchen, with all three youngsters having gone off to school in my absence. I made myself a slightly late breakfast, melon, muesli, rye toast and mineral water, then carried it to the office, on a tray, to enjoy it at my leisure.
I had finished, and was taking a second look at the online Saltire, paying particular attention to the coverage of Sammy Pye’s investigation . . . by that time the Flotterstone deaths were being reported but not labelled as homicide, or linked to the other . . . when my email alert pinged.
I checked my box and saw a message from Luisa McCracken. I opened it and read:
Mr Skinner,
Please find attached a list of all guests and other attendees at events and receptions on board MV Princess Alison over the period requested by Mr Higgins. Should you need any more information, please give me a call.
She was either a fast worker or the list wasn’t very comprehensive, I surmised. As soon as I opened it I saw that the former was the case. Her boss had been more socially active than he’d led me to believe, for it ran to several pages. I scanned through it, quickly but carefully, looking at every name that had been recorded.
Some of them were known to me, people about town, a few stars of sports and entertainment, other men and women who were there, as the list indicated, for no other reason than friendship with Eden Higgins, and one or two that he might have had reasons for being seen with himself, politicians for example, and a couple of mid-ranking members of the royal family.
The rest were all business contacts: clients of his companies, suppliers to those businesses, and executives and directors of the enterprises themselves. I studied them, looking for anything that might point me in a positive direction, but nothing jumped out at me.
‘Why didn’t you just sell the Princess Alison, Eden,’ I found myself wondering aloud, ‘and buy the Royal Yacht Britannia? That would do the hospitality job and you’d never have to leave Edinburgh.’
I sat down and went to work. I made a copy of the document, then used it to strip out all of those labelled ‘Casuals’, the footballers, the friends and the freeloaders. When I was finished, everyone who was left had a business reason for being on the Princess. That was where I would begin . . . or rather, where somebody else would.
Thirty-Three
I picked up the phone and made two appointments then went back upstairs and changed my clothes, swapping my casual gear for a dark suit and a light blue tie, my new uniform. When I’m on business, I want people to know I’m serious.
Both of my visits were in Edinburgh; I took the train from Drem, since I can’t abide driving through the chaos that generations of bad traffic management has brought to the city centre.
The first was to a small office, just off the Royal Mile, not far from the station. The name on the door was ‘CMcD Investigations’. Its occupant had been surprised by my call, and I’d made a point of letting her stay curious.
‘I need to see you,’ I’d told her. ‘I have some work for you; it’s confidential and nobody should get to know that it’s being done. It’ll be boring and tedious but it’ll need to be done thoroughly. I’ll give you the details when I get there.’
Although her office suite had only one room and a toilet, Carrie McDaniels’ door had a secure entry system. It was opened with a buzzer, once I’d identified myself through a microphone. This was in obedience to a sign that said, ‘Say your name, then state your business.’ I glanced up as I spoke and saw a tiny camera focused on me; a sensible precaution, given that she was a female lone trader in a business that isn’t without its risks.
‘How are you doing, Carrie?’ I said as I stepped inside. ‘How’s the boyfriend?’
‘I’m okay, but I can’t vouch for him,’ she replied. ‘We’re spending some time apart, so I can work out how I feel about a man who took me for a fool and proved himself right.’
Carrie and I had met a few months before, when she was on a surveillance assignment in which, unfortunately for her, I was the subject. Her route to professional private investigation had been through an insurance company and a few years in the Territorial Army Military Police. It hadn’t taught her everything she needed to know, but she had impressed me once I’d sorted out a few things between us.
‘I must admit I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again,’ she confessed.
A reunion hadn’t been uppermost in my mind either, but I don’t hold grudges. I had a job that needed doing. Time being money, the task was well below my pay grade, and it made sense to contract it out. The only question was, to whom?
I know a couple of people who did brief stints in the police service, then left to set up as private investigators. If they’d impressed me they might still be in the force, but they hadn’t so they weren’t on my very short list of candidates. On the other hand, Carrie had been a Territorial military cop for several years, and she hadn’t backed off when she’d been posted to Afghanistan. That moved her right to the head of the queue.