Skinner's trail

Skinner nodded. 'Yes, he is. And he can only get out this way, so you've got him cornered. You can take it a bit easier from now on.

Back in his office, Skinner and Rose sat on either side of the desk and began to work their way through the great pile of folders, reports and correspondence that had accumulated in Skinner's short absence. They were only on the third item, a report from the Borders division on a recent increase in cattle-rustling, when there was a heavy knock on the door.

`Yes!'

The door swung open and Andy Martin came into the room. A slight frown line creased his forehead.

`Could be the cork's out the bottle already, boss. I've just spoken to Neil Mcllhenney. It looks as if Ainscow's disappeared'

`What! How the hell did that happen?'

`Sounds like the night-shift. Neil took over at half-eight as usual. Ainscow's car was still in the driveway, so he didn't think anything of the curtains being closed. But then the postwoman turned up with a parcel that was too big for the letter-box. She rang the bell for two or three minutes, but there was no answer. So Neil called Ainscow's telephone, meaning to say "Wrong number" if the call was picked up. Still no reply. So he went in. He hadn't heard about Lucan, remember. He just didn't fancy the feel of things. Anyway, he went round and tried the back door. It was unlocked, so he went in and searched the house. There was no sign of Ainscow, but in the main bedroom the shirt drawer and wardrobe were lying open, as if someone had packed some kit in a hurry. The bed hadn't been slept in.

`He went back outside and looked in the garden. There's a back gate from the property that we didn't know about, which leads to a lane. It looked as if the gate wasn't used very much, because leaves and stuff had gathered around it. They were scraped back, as if the gate had been opened recently. Neil looked at the lane. It leads down to the main street, and right there is a twenty-four-hour taxi office. He checked. A man with a small suitcase walked in last night around ten thirty and took a taxi to Stirling station. There are still four trains after then, including one that feeds a London overnight service, with seating accommodation. So he could be anywhere!'

Skinner stared at Martin, stone-faced. 'Magic. A back gate and we didn't know about it!'

`Boss, it was overgrown.'

`So bloody what. We're policemen Andy, not spectators.' He slapped his hand, palm down, on the table.

'What d'you think might have happened? Did he call L'Escala and get the wrong story about Vaudan?'

'I told you, no one knows the truth there except Arturo. Anyway, he'll still be recovering. No, there's a likelier explanation.' Skinner pressed his hands-free intercom. 'Ruth, get me the Leicester remand centre. I want to speak to the guy who was in charge, yesterday afternoon and last night, of the floor Monklands is on.'

Skinner, Martin and Rose sat in heavy silence for just under three minutes. When the phone sounded, Skinner snatched it up on the first ring. 'Yes.'

`Senior Officer Morgan is on the line, sir.'

`Thanks.'

Ruth switched the call through.

`Mr Morgan, you had Norman Monklands under your care yesterday. Did he make a phone-call?'

The voice on the other end had a heavy Welsh accent, 'Yes, sir, I'm afraid he did. I know he was supposed to be denied access to the pay-phone but, with it being Sunday and all, I had a couple of probationers on duty with me. One of them made a mistake, and let him make a call. I gave the lad a bollocking when I found out, mind you.'

`What time did he make this call?'

`Oh, t'would be about nine thirty in the evening.' `I don't suppose your lad checked the number.'

– 'No, sir. Well, we can't, see.'

`Right. Have someone check with BT now, and get the number that he called, just to confirm our suspicions.'

`Very good, sir.'

Skinner hung up. 'That's the answer. Norrie Monklands couldn't stop himself. He had to warn his mate about Lucan. Christ, we'll be lucky if we ever see Ainscow again.'

Martin looked crestfallen. 'I'm sorry, boss. I've blown it. I'll take the flak.

Skinner shook his head. 'Not alone, you won't. I'm to blame too. I should have put the fear of Jehovah into Monklands about what would happen to him if he made a call. And to make double certain, I should have repeated my instruction to the remand unit that he was to be kept away from the phone.'

He stood up. Only three things to do, Andy. Tell Neil to make sure that he hasn't left a trace of his presence in Ainscow's house, keep watching it — front and back — in case he comes back after a couple of days; and keep tabs on Cocozza everywhere he goes. I want a report on every step that wee man takes.'

Eighty-eight

Skinner hated the feeling of being becalmed. In his early days as a detective, a senior colleague had nicknamed him ‘jaws', not because of the voracity of his appetite but because, like a hunting fish, it seemed that he could only live if he were moving perpetually forward.

Now, as Monday stretched into Tuesday, and on into Wednesday, without a sighting of Paul Ainscow or a wrong move by Richard Cocozza, he felt a mounting frustration based on every detective's dread that an investigation, in which he requires only a single piece of evidence, had stalled. Skinner's trail had gone cold, and he hated the feeling.

He countered that by throwing himself into other work, at the office and at home. His in-tray was flattened in record time during what remained of Monday, and on Tuesday he went to Leith to begin what he intended would be a week-long tour of unannounced inspections of divisional CID offices. At home he joined Sarah in her tending of their minimum maintenance garden, where he began to build the walls of a sand-pit for Jazz.

On Wednesday morning, he had been about to leave for Hawick, when Ruth came into his office. 'Sir, the Chief called. He has a doctor's appointment this morning, and it's just been delayed by two hours. He's due to go to a civic lunch today as the guest of the Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, and he wonders if you would take his place.'

`Yes, sure. I've got nothing better to do. Where is it?'

`The Balmoral. Drinks at twelve forty-five.'

The Balmoral Hotel, which is still known to most of Edinburgh by its former name, the North British, is one of two great hotels which stand like bookends at either end of Princes Street, vying with each other constantly for the accolade of being Number One in the public perception. After a period of neglect, a multi-million-pound refit and a high-powered management team led by a Scots trouble-shooter with international experience, had restored the Balmoral to the point at which it could compete with its rival, the Caledonian, on equal terms. Its kilted doorman greeted Skinner with a professional smile, and directed him to the hotel's main banqueting hall, a long room with windows which looked westward along the length of Princes Street. He was still looking around the throng for his host, when he heard him call out, 'Bob! Over here.'

Archie Nelson was standing by the window with a glass of white wine in his hand. Skinner accepted a glass of red from the waiter at the door, and walked across the room to join him.

`Hi, Archie. Sorry Jimmy had to drop out. It's his six-monthly at the Murrayfield, and his doc was delayed. So I'm afraid you've got me instead.'

Nelson smiled. 'I suppose I can make do.' The Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, Scotland's senior practising lawyer, was a round, jolly man with prematurely grey hair and twinkling eyes which had beguiled many a witness, only to turn to gimlets as the serious cross-examination began. He had been in post for almost a year, elected in the wake of the elevation to judicial office of his predecessor, David Murray. He and Skinner were old friends, having been allies during Nelson's successful spell as a High Court prosecutor.

`I should know, Archie,' said the Assistant Chief Constable quietly, 'but what's the reason for this beanfeast?'