72
‘How did you get on yesterday at Falkirk?’ he asked, as soon as she stepped into his office.
Something in his voice made Pam look at him across the rosewood desk. It was barely noticeable, but there was an edge of weariness to it. His eyes gazed back at her with their usual warmth, but deep down in their blue pools, and in the creases around them, she saw traces of pain.
‘Very well, boss,’ she said, forcing herself to be brisk. ‘It couldn’t have gone better. I saw the senior partner of Watson Forbes, a Mr Jenks. He said that he was approached three years ago by a woman calling herself Jacqueline Huish. She said that she had come into some money, and wanted him to set up a company for her so that she could invest it in property. There and then she gave him two hundred and ten thousand in cash.’
Skinner’s eyebrows rose. ‘She didn’t show him any ID?’ he asked.
‘No. Mr Jenks just accepted everything at face value, especially, it seems, the money. He admits that he made no attempt to check where it had come from. He went ahead as she instructed, bought a shelf company from a legal services firm and registered it, with Jacqueline Huish as sole director and secretary.
‘She came back, gave him a list of half a dozen properties she had looked at, and told him to buy any three of them, within budget. He did, completed the conveyancing, and gave her a fee note. She settled it from the money that was left, and took the balance away.
‘I did a check with the Edinburgh City Finance Department. The Council Tax on the three properties has always been paid in cash. The taxpayer for each is listed simply as Thirty-First Nominees, of the Rankeillor Street address.
‘Mr Jenks never saw Jacqueline Huish again. . until I showed him a photograph of Carole Charles, that Alan Royston got for me from the Evening News. Then he nearly fell out of his chair.’
Skinner beamed at her. ‘That’s excellent,’ he said. ‘The Fiscal said he’d agree to search warrants if I could satisfy him that Carole Charles and Jacqueline Huish were one and the same person. I was a bit concerned about that, but you’ve cracked it. Good work, Sarge.’
She flushed, and smiled. ‘It was just luck.’
‘No. Having the nous to show him the photograph wasn’t luck. That was good police procedure. Right, I’ll speak to Davie Pettigrew and secure those search warrants. You call McIlhenney and have him here at two thirty. Don’t tell him what it’s about and tell him to say nothing to anyone else.’
She looked at him, puzzled. ‘McIlhenney?’
‘Of course. Deputy Chief Constables don’t go kicking doors in as a rule, and I wouldn’t ask you to do it.’
‘Glad about that!’ She stood up, but paused, and her grin left her. ‘How did you get on last night? Or shouldn’t I ask?’
He motioned her back to her seat and leaned across the desk. ‘Pam, you’re a friend as well as a PA,’ he said quietly, looking deep into her eyes. ‘You have a perfect right to ask, not just personally, but professionally too. In that respect, I can tell you that Skinner’s Mission is accomplished. I know who tried to kill me, and why.
‘Very soon I’ll settle that account. But first, there are some other ducks that have to be got into a row.’
He paused. ‘Personally, my life is taking a new turning. I’ll explain it all to you once the smoke clears. All I’ll tell you now is that last night we had an exorcism at the haunted house.’
Her frown deepened, so dramatically that he laughed. ‘That’s whetted your appetite, I can see. I want you to do something for me now that’ll puzzle you even more. I want you to go to personnel and pull a complete service record file for me.’
‘Right away. Whose?’
His smile vanished. ‘Robert Morgan Skinner. Deputy Chief Constable.’
73
McIlhenney thumped on the door of number 31a Rankeillor Street with the side of his clenched fist.
‘Let’s count to thirty-one, for luck,’ said Skinner. The three stood on the doorstep of the basement flat and waited, until finally, the DCC nodded.
McIlhenney picked up the big black battering ram by both handles and heaved it, as smoothly as he could. With hardly any splintering of wood, the door gave and swung open violently.
‘I didn’t hit it that hard,’ said the Sergeant, puzzled. He looked at the doorjamb and at the keeper of the five lever lock, and turned to the DCC. ‘Sir, I’d say that someone’s been in before us, with a crowbar. The door was just held on the Yale, and barely at that. It’s a wonder it didn’t open when I knocked on it.’
Frowning, Skinner led the way into a dark hallway. He ran his hand along the wall until he found a light switch and flicked it on.
Three doors led off the hall, all of them closed. He opened each in turn. ‘Bathroom. Pam, you check in there. Living room, kitchen off. Neil, you take that. This must be the bedroom. I’ll look in here.
‘Remember, don’t touch anything for now. We’re looking for ledgers, files, correspondence. If someone’s beaten us to it they won’t be here, but you never know what else we might find.’
The bedroom, like the rest of the flat, as far as he had seen in his snap look round, was furnished for functionality rather than comfort. A continental quilt, with a cheap cover and white cotton pillowslips lay on the double divan bed. He bent over the pillows and looked closely, a strange smile on his face.
The wardrobe, chest of drawers and dressing table were made of light pine, matching the headboard. A number of cosmetic items and a tall tube of hair spray lay on the dressing table, on which a thick film of dust had gathered. There were three drawers in the chest. He opened them one by one. The first was half-filled with female underwear. Skinner took out a pair of panties and held them up. He shuddered as he was reminded of the garment which Alex had worn the night before, and which he had consigned to the flames.
He closed the drawer quickly, and opened the next, revealing a few tops and sweaters, of varying weights. The bottom drawer was empty, save for a large box of condoms. He picked it up. ‘Twenty-four at a time,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Randy bugger, eh.’ He looked in the box. It was full ‘. . Or did she buy them?’
Skinner opened the wardrobe. Inside he saw, hanging neatly to the left of the rail, half a dozen dresses, three pairs of slacks, and a tracksuit. The right side of the wardrobe was empty.
He sensed Pam behind him before she spoke. ‘Nothing in the bathroom, boss,’ she said. ‘Nothing at all. It’s been scrubbed clean.’
‘So has this, in a way. I’d guess that there were men’s clothes here, recently, but not any more. One drawer’s empty, and half the wardrobe. And look here.’ He picked up one of the pillows. ‘The sheet’s been stripped from the bed, and these pillow-slips; there isn’t a single hair on them.
‘The bastard’s been thorough,’ he said with feeling.
‘Ahh, but. .’ Masters reached down and felt the coverlet of the quilt, then, slowly and carefully, turned it over. ‘Not that thorough,’ she said. ‘Nobody, but nobody can get all the hairs off a nylon duvet cover.’
She smiled up at Skinner, brightly. ‘That’s why I use cotton.
‘Look, here. And here. And here. And here.’
Skinner went to the door. ‘Neil,’ he called. ‘Through here, with those plastic envelopes for forensic samples.’
He turned back towards his assistant, as McIlhenney’s heavy tread sounded in the hallway. ‘Pam, call in for a car to pick you up and get out to the lab as quick as you can, with these strands of hair for matching and checking. The report’s for my eyes only, like before.
‘Meanwhile, Neil and I will check the other two flats. Let’s just hope that our friend didn’t know about them.’
74