Skinner's ghosts

A naked man stood, with his back to him, bent over the toilet bowl, pumping at the handle as if that would make the cistern refill

faster. 'Whatever you're doing, Salmon,' said Mario McGuire from the doorway, 'stop it right now!'

The man turned and looked at the two policemen, then grabbed a towel and fastened it round his middle. 'What do you want?' he shouted, his face contorted with a mixture of fear and frustration.

'What do you think you're doing? You've no right!'

McGuire smiled. 'We're here to see you, Mr Salmon, in connection with a potential security leak, which we have reason to believe may involve the corrupt obtaining of an unlisted telephone number. As for our entering your premises. Miss Virtue invited us.' He looked over his shoulder at the woman. 'That's right, isn't it?'

Joanne Virtue nodded, avoiding Salmon's glare.

'You having trouble wi' your bog, Noel?' asked Mcl henney. 'Isn't it flushing properly?'

He stepped across the small bathroom and peered into the toilet bowl, with an expression of distaste. 'There's nothing I dislike more than skidmarks in the lavvie,' he said. 'You're a dirty wee bastard, aren't you… in every respect.'

His eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. 'That's pretty pathetic, chuckin' talcum powder down it to freshen it up.

'It is talcum powder, isn't it?'

Oblivious of his covering towel, as it unfastened and fell to the floor, Salmon spun round and grabbed the handle of the cistern. But before he could twist it to flush, Mcllhenney seized his wrist in a grip like a vice. 'Let go,' he said, in an even tone, 'or I'll break your fucking hand off.'

The man, white-faced, released the handle. The sergeant spun him around and propelled him out of the bathroom and through to the bedroom. 'Get dressed, friend; we can hardly take you out like that.'

'Noel Salmon,' said McGuire, 'I am arresting you on suspicion of being in possession of a control ed substance. You do not have to say anything…' He administered the rest of the formal caution in a stiff, formal tone, speaking clearly and ensuring that he was word perfect, in the form the law required.

Reaching for his underwear, the journalist looked up at him. 'This is a fucking fit-up,' he shouted, almost in tears.

'No, mate,' the Inspector replied, 'It's just your unlucky day, that's al.' He turned to Mcl henney, who was holding Joanne Virtue by the left arm, gently but securely. 'Neil, call Fettes for a team of technicians. We'll need to find out what that talc really is. Tell them to get a formal search warrant too: we'd better take the place apart just in case Mr Salmon has any other goodies hidden away.'

The Sergeant nodded. 'Very good, sir,' he said with a grin. 'I'll ask for some uniforms to stand guard at the door til they get here.

That way we can take these two back to the shop quicker. Wouldn't do to keep Mr Martin waiting.'

'Martin?' Salmon bleated. 'He's behind this?'

'What dae youse mean, take us both back?' Joanne Virtue protested. 'Ah'm an innocent bystander.'

Mcl henney laughed out loud. 'Joanne,' he boomed, 'you haven't been fuckin' innocent for about twenty-five years!'

17

Even before his appointment as Head ofCID – indeed, from his days as Bob Skinner's Executive Officer – Detective Chief Superintendent Andy Martin had come to know the Edinburgh press corps well. He had seen them amused; he had seen them bored; he had seen them at their most cynical, and at their most constructive.

But in al that time, he could not recal ever having seen them on the edge of their seats. On his instruction, Alan Royston had cal ed a press briefing, to announce 'an important development in the McGrathcase'.

Sunday or not, 10.30 a.m. or not, the conference room was full.

As Martin, impassive, sat down at the blue-covered table, facing the cameras, the room fell silent.

'Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,' he began. 'Late yesterday evening, at his home, Deputy Chief Constable Bob Skinner received a telephone call from a man. The caller did not identify himself. He said simply that he had the child and that he was alive. Then he ended the call.

'Our telecommunications experts have been unable to trace the phone from which the call was made, so we have no way of identifying the cal er, or of knowing for sure whether the message was genuine. However, we are proceeding on the basis that the anonymous man was indeed the kidnapper. If we take his statement at face value, then Mark McGrath is alive.'

As he paused, a forest of hands shot up. As always, he took John Hunter, the senior journalist, first.

'Andy, did he say anything else?' asked the veteran.

'He said that we would hear from him again, that's all.'

'He made no ransom demand then?'

Martin shook his head. 'None at al. The call lasted seconds, and that's al there was to it.'

From the side of the room a woman, brandishing a television microphone, broke in. 'Did Mr Skinner take the cal himself, or was it Ms Masters?'

The detective frowned at her, but answered. 'He took it himself.

And his recollection is quite clear. A record was made there and then.'

'Do you have any clue at all about where the cal came from?' cal ed a man from the back of the room.

'Not much, I'm afraid. We do know it didn't come from a mobile, and we know that it wasn't international. But other than that, it could have been made from any telephone in the UK.'

'Are you expecting a ransom demand, eventual y?' asked John Hunter.

The Head of CID raised his eyebrows. 'It's a possibility. If the man had a reason other than money for abducting the child, there's no indication of it.'

'D'you think you'l find the wee boy alive, Andy?' Hunter sounded weary, as if he had been at too many briefings such as this.

'We can only hope, John. We can only hope. Meantime, every police force in the country is taking part in the search. There are no available resources unused. If this man has any compassion, or any sense, for that matter, he'll simply release Mark. If he doesn't, he'll be hunted down like a rabid animal.'

He looked round the room. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I don't think there's anything I can add, so if you'l excuse me…'

The woman with the television mike raised her hand. 'Mr Martin, can you tell us if there are any developments on Mr Skinner's situation?'

The blond detective took a deep breath, and clenched his teeth.

'As you must know, the Chief Constable issued a statement last night, deprecating the conduct of the Spotlight, and saying that the DCC's private life was his own business.'

'Well,' she persisted, 'do you or he have any response to the statement issued subsequently by several members of the Police Board saying that they intend to bring the matter up at the next meeting, and to move that Mr Skinner be disciplined?'

'Sorry, lady,' said Martin, evenly and emphatically. 'Mr Royston wil deal with your questions from now on. I have to be off. I have business in another part of the building.'

As he strode towards the door, he caught the eye of John Hunter, and nodded, so quickly and unobtrusively that no-one else saw. The old man rose and fol owed him from the room. Quickly, before any other reporters emerged, Martin ushered him up the short flight of stairs which led to the command corridor.

'I thought you might like to know, old pal,' the detective said, as the door clicked shut behind them. 'We've got Noel Salmon in custody, under investigation for corruption. Also, when we lifted him, the sil y wee bugger had in his possession something which I'm sure that tests will prove to be cocaine.'

Hunter whistled. 'What a shame, eh? What's the corruption about?'

'Bob had another cal last night on his unlisted phone number, as well as the one from the kidnapper. It was from Noel Salmon. We want to know how he got the number. Specifical y, whether he bunged anyone to give it to him. And we want to know whether he gave it to anyone else.'