Skinner's ghosts

'Where are we?' Martin muttered again. He looked at his map, tracing their progress with a finger. The loch was marked as the Black Water reservoir, but there was no carriageway shown at al.

'Know what that road is down there?' the detective asked the pilot.

'Either I'm misreading the map, or it doesn't exist.'

'That's the Southern Upland Way, sir, the walkway that crosses the country from the Solway Firth to the East Coast. There's going on for a hundred miles of it. You can manage a car along part of it

… just about.'

'Let's see if we can find out who owns that caravan, then. We came over a farmhouse a couple of miles back. Put me down near there and I'l see if anyone knows.'

The pilot nodded and swung the helicopter around. He found a flat spot in an empty field just over a quarter of a mile from the house and set it down. Martin jumped out, grateful y, and set off across the dry grass. The gravel ed road to the farmhouse ran beside the field, turning through a high-pillared gateway. As the detective slid through a gap in the beech hedge which served as a boundary, a man appeared at the head of the driveway.

'What's up?' he asked, cheerful y. 'Mechanical trouble?' He stood around six feet four, and despite the warmth of the day he was dressed in country clothes: twill trousers, heavy shirt and tweed jacket. But Martin noted his hands before anything else. They were, he thought, bigger than any he had ever seen.

He smiled at the man, shaking his huge right mitt. 'No,' he replied.

'Nothing like that. I'm a policeman, from Edinburgh. We're looking for someone, and we thought that he might just have a hideaway up here on the moors.

'My name's Martin, by the way. Detective Chief Superintendent.'

'Robert Carr,' said the ruddy-faced man. 'I own this land. Thousand 113 bloody acres of it, much of it useless for anything but sheep.'

'Does that extend up there,' he pointed westwards, 'past the reservoir?'

'Yes,' replied Carr, 'and a damn sight further.'

'There's a caravan up there, beside the stream.'

The farmer looked surprised. 'Is there? Stil?'

'You know about it?'

'Yes, but I'd assumed that the fellow would have been gone by now.'

'What fellow?'

Robert Carr turned towards his big grey stone farmhouse, beckoning Martin to fol ow. 'Chap rang the doorbell about a week ago. Said his name was Mr Gilbert. He told me that he was planning to do some walks along the Way, and that he had a caravan as a base. He asked me if he could park it somewhere out of the way.

'He seemed like a decent chap, so I said okay, and gave him directions up the road. Told him he could set up by the stream, and take fresh water from it… just as long as he didn't put anything back in! He offered me cash, but I told him I wasn't that strapped.'

'Have you seen him about much?'

'I haven't seen him at al, not since then. I'd thought he'd moved on.'

Martin looked up at him as they reached the farmhouse's kitchen door. 'Can you describe him for me, this Mr Gilbert?'

Carr ushered him indoors. 'Mary!' he bellowed. 'Tea for two, lass!'

As he led the policeman through to a comfortable study, a small grey woman scurried in the opposite direction, smiling and nodding.

'Housekeeper,' he said. 'I'm a widower.'

He paused. 'Gilbert,'he went on. 'Description. Right. Same height as you, few years older maybe. Clean-shaven, fair hair, though not as fair as yours. Short and very well cut. Slim build, but not skinny, if you know what I mean. Wearing light cotton trousers and a red teeshirt, with a badge saying Reebok or something. Also, wore sports sandals, without socks.'

'What about his accent?' asked the policeman.

For the first time, the farmer looked puzzled. 'Haven't a bloody clue,' he said eventually. 'You know, I don't think he had one.'

'No? You sure? Scottish, English, Irish, Welsh?'

Carr's eyes narrowed, as he tried to hear again the sound of the man's voice. But eventual y he shook his head. 'Sorry. Not Welsh or Irish: that's all I can tel you with any certainty.'

The study door opened, and the housekeeper appeared with tea and biscuits on a tray. She filled two cups and handed one to each of the men before leaving, still without having uttered a word.

Martin declined milk and sugar. Actual y, he disliked strong tea, but was too polite to say so. 'What about his car?' he asked.

'Never saw it,' his host retorted. 'He left it at the foot of the road and walked up the drive. I could just see the top of the caravan over the hedge.'

The tal man beamed. 'So, could he be your quarry, my Mr Gilbert?'

'No idea,' Martin lied. 'But I would like to talk to him.' He smiled across at Carr. 'Can I use your phone? To be on the safe side, I think I'd better call in the Cavalry!'

33

Skinner, from the corridor, leaned into the ante-room to Sir James Proud's office. 'Is the Chief free?' he asked Gerry, his civilian secretary. It was just after midday.

'Yes, sir. He's catching up with his correspondence, that's al. I'm sure he'l be pleased to see you.' The young man looked efficient and crisp in an immaculately pressed short-sleeved white shirt.' That our officers should be half as smart,' the DCC mused as he opened the door and stepped into Proud Jimmy's long office.

The Chief Constable looked up from the papers on his desk. 'Oh, hel o, Bob,' he said, almost casually. 'What can I do for you?'

Skinner grinned. 'You can give me your version of whatever the hell you said to the Police Board this morning. I've just had a call from Roger Mather, the Tory member from East Lothian; he was laughing so much I thought he'd have a stroke.'

'Was he?' remarked the Chief, blandly 'What was the outcome? I left before the end.'

'No vote was taken. Apparently Aggie Maley did some ranting, but didn't quite get round to proposing the motion.'

Proud Jimmy nodded. 'That's good,' he said. 'That's good. Best that it ends that way. Best for you and best for the force.'

'Aye,' laughed Skinner, 'but according to Roger, most of the ranting was about you. Christ, Jimmy, did you really accuse Maley of being shacked up with a married man?'

'Certainly not. Not directly, at any rate. But what if I had? It's true.'

'And did you really threaten to rattle all the skeletons in their cupboards if they put the motion to a vote?'

The old Chief leaned back in his chair beaming, now, with undisguised pleasure. 'Too bloody right I did, my son. Too bloody right I did. If those bastards thought that they could have a go at you and I'd just sit there and allow it; or worse, if they thought they could just ignore me…

'They rucking well know different now, don't they?'

Skinner shook his head, still laughing quietly. 'You know, Chief.

When you drop the old avuncular act you drop it with a real vengeance.'

Gradual y, though, his expression grew more serious. 'Mind you,' he said, 'you've made an enemy of Aggie Maley.'

'Nothing new in that. Council or Maley's the enemy of everyone in a uniform… unless it's got a red star on it somewhere. I can handle her, and the troublemakers behind her. Hopeful y Ms Topham wil have a bit more control over them, now that I've set her the example.'

He slapped his palms flat on the desk. 'You'll find out for yourself at the next meeting. I'm on holiday, so you'll have to be there.'

Skinner scowled. 'Maybe they'l have another go.'

'No danger of that,' said Proud. 'They're paper tigers, with a lighted match held at their tails. They might shout the odds for a day or two, but they won't cross me again… or you. No, Bob, you don't have to worry about the councillors.'

He paused and frowned. 'Ministers, though, that's another matter.

I don't know this new Secretary of State at al. What's he like?'

Skinner shrugged his shoulders. 'I barely know him either,' he said. 'I've met him twice, to brief him on outstanding matters. On each occasion he just listened, barely said a word.'