‘The Governor tells me you’re writing now, Lennie.’
‘That’s right.’ The huge man’s voice was soft and gentle, in complete contrast to his physical appearance.
‘Am I going to be in it?’
‘Maybe. It’s a book about Tony’s murder, what led up to it, and what followed it. But I haven’t decided yet whether to write it as my memoirs or as a novel.’
‘It should be a best seller,’ said the detective, ‘whether you do it as fact or fiction. If I can help with anything, you only have to ask. I know the story too, from the other side of the road, so to speak.’
Lennie smiled. ‘That’s kind of you, Mr Skinner. I’ll take you up on that.’
‘Done. Listen, the name’s Bob. Our professional dealings are behind us.’ He paused. ‘You all right, in here?’
‘Sure. I’ve been here before, remember. This time, I’m philosophical about it. Tony left me all his money. The things I did to get in here I see as having done to earn it. I regard it as a pension fund, and when I’m released from here, I’ll still, hopefully, be young enough to enjoy it.
‘I’ve never had a chance to say this, but I’m grateful to you for persuading the Crown not to ask the judge for a minimum sentence. That gave me a chance of seeing the outside again.’
He looked across at Skinner. ‘Why did you do that?’
The detective returned his frank stare. ‘Between you and me? Because I didn’t think that what you did was all that bad. Your wife committed a form of suicide in my book. As for the others, I’d have put them away for life. You put them away for good. Part of me wanted to let you go, you know, to let you walk away.’
Lennie guffawed with sudden laughter. ‘Too bad about the other part,’ he chuckled at last.
‘Now, Bob. What’s brought you out here?’
‘Okay,’ said Skinner, ‘let’s get to it.’ He reached into the pocket of his jacket, produced Tom Whatling’s eight by six print and handed it across to Plenderleith. ‘Know what that is?’
The giant peered at the picture. ‘It looks like a broken fluid pipe in a crashed car.’
‘Not broken, Lennie. Cut. Eighteen years ago. My Mini Cooper. My car, but my wife was driving at the time. They hadn’t even taken her body out of the car when that was taken. The photo’s been hidden since then, for all those years. Now I’ve found it, and I have to know who cut that pipe, who it was that killed her.’
Plenderleith looked across at him, genuinely stricken. ‘Your wife? Instead of you? That’s awful, for both of you.’
Skinner grimaced, as he nodded. ‘I’ve been checking the investigations that I was involved in around that time, and in the period leading up to it. From those files, the name that jumps out highest is Tony Manson. If it was him, he’s dead, and he can’t answer for it. But that doesn’t matter; I still have to know.’
He paused. ‘This thing may have happened before you went to work for Tony, but I have to ask you this. Did he ever mention anything to you afterwards, about me, or about this? And if he did, will you tell me now?’
Lennie Plenderleith closed his eyes and threw his head back, so that his thick brown hair fell on his shoulders. He sat like that for almost three minutes, as if he was searching his memory, or weighing up a decision.
At last he looked at Skinner once more, full in the eye. ‘This is between us, Bob, yes? No hidden mikes or anything. Nothing leaves this room?’
‘On my honour.’
The great head nodded. ‘Okay then,’ he said. ‘You got your timing wrong as far as I was concerned. In fact, eighteen years ago, I had just gone to work for Tony. Eighteen years ago you were indeed giving him grief. Everything was shut down, the girls, the drugs everything.
‘One day Tony called me in to see him. He said that he had had an ultimatum from his major drug supplier in London. Reopen the market or else, the guy had told him. Tony told him that he should sit tight, that the informant who was spilling his guts to you would be taken care of, and that you would run out of leads and patience. But the London man said no. He told Tony to have you killed, or else.’
Lennie smiled. ‘Tony Manson had very definite views about things, you know. He wasn’t as powerful in those days as he became, but even then, no-one threatened him, or gave him “or else” orders. Also, he had very definite views about harming policemen in general, and you in particular. He knew that if you were hit then there would be nowhere for him to hide; no, not even him.’ He paused. The smile faded and he took a deep breath, as if he were about to dive into a very deep pool.
‘Tony gave me my instructions. He sent me to the man in London to make him see sense. So I went down there, I followed the man home one night, I broke his bodyguard’s neck, and I made him see sense, the fool who had threatened Tony Manson, by driving a big knife right through his brain.’ He reached across and tapped the left side of Skinner’s head. ‘Right here.
‘I felt like a million dollars. I was just a lad, and Tony had trusted me that much, to give me such an important job.’
Skinner sat, motionless and silent, as Big Lennie in his soft voice, finished his story. ‘Tony Manson didn’t try to kill you, Bob. He saved your life. Between the two of us, you have my word upon it.’
It was the policeman’s turn to throw his head back. He hissed out a long sorrowful sigh. ‘Sssshit!’ he whispered. ‘This doesn’t get easier.’
Lennie frowned. ‘You believe me, don’t you.’
‘Hah!’ said Skinner. ‘That’s the trouble. I do. It’s just that for the second time in as many days, I haven’t had the answer I wanted. I was hoping that it was Tony, and that I could have closed the book on it.
‘Now, I have to go on, and I’m left with only one obvious alternative. My problem is, I can’t make myself believe that it was him either.’
60
‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but I can’t raise DS Donaldson, and I felt I should pass this on for further instructions.’
‘That’s all right, Maggie,’ said Andy Martin, into the telephone. ‘What have you got?’
‘Two of my Detective Constables have just finished the check of Jackie Charles’ property company, the one that owns the flats. It looks as if we’ve got a problem with the theory that Charles might have used one of them to store any records relating to his illegal business.’
‘How come?’
‘Because all the flats are occupied, sir. By legitimate, bona fide tenants with no obvious connection to Charles. They’re all managed by a reputable agent, all the tenants have rent books and tax is paid on the net income.’
‘Ah well,’ sighed the Head of CID, ‘another chased hare goes to ground. I must admit I didn’t think that Jackie would leave himself as exposed as that again, not after those two earlier tip-offs that we had.’
‘That’s one point that did emerge from our search,’ said Rose. ‘The records showed that each of the flats we raided had been untenanted for a considerable period leading up to each raid, but that both were let immediately afterwards. That does sort of hint that the theory could have been right, up to that point; at least so far as to indicate that Charles did keep flats for his private use.’
‘Mmm. Could be. That is the only property company that Charles owns now, right?’
‘Yes. He used to have three, but he rolled them into a single company a year or so back. For tax reasons, I think.’
‘Okay, Maggie, thanks for letting me know. I’ll think it through to see if there’s anything else we can do to keep that line of enquiry alive. Meantime, you concentrate on Douglas Terry. Have you found the other two Willies yet?’
‘Macintosh is in London, we believe, sir, but we’ve arrested Easson. I haven’t interviewed him yet. He knows why he’s been picked up, but I’ve left him to sweat on it, until we get McCartney and Kirkbride back up here.’