Shi-Bachi’s small eyes twinkled. ‘You believe that they are involved in this conspiracy, that your government is involved?’
‘No, sir, I don’t say that. The fact is that there was some political force to Allingham’s argument, and Lord Muckhart may well have wanted to have avoided such a high-profile prosecution.’
Shi-Bachi nodded. ‘I can see that. You have told me something that has eased my mind of a burden. What was it that you wished to ask me?’
Skinner sat forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees and bunched his hands together. ‘It’s your opinion as Yobatu san’s countryman that I need. The man had every chance to deny these crimes before he became ill. Why didn’t he? His silence is my last reason to believe in his guilt.’
Shi-Bachi also perched on the edge of his chair.
‘Mr Skinner, I have to tell you this. I have never believed that Yobatu san did these things. To be frank, that was why I was so keen that he should be made available for trial. Your evidence was strong, but I knew the man. He was of a samurai family, yes, and he boasted of it. But it was an empty boast. Yobatu san may have looked impressive, but it was all show. He may have had the blood of the samurai, but he was no warrior.
‘He was sent to Scotland by his family to run an off-shoot company because he lacked the nerve to take essential but difficult management decisions at the centre. His business policies were laid down by Japan. His diplomatic status was gained through family influence, as a favour to them, and as a means of giving face to him. But he never actually did anything official. In his behaviour, Yobatu san deserted Japan. He adopted the ways of the West completely, keeping only the posturings of the Samurai to remind him of his heritage.’
Skinner held up a hand. ‘In that case, sir, why did he not deny the murders from the outset? And why did he collapse after being arrested?’
‘Here you can have my educated guess. When you told him what had happened to those people, the posturing samurai took over. His first reaction was to pretend for a while that he had done as his ancestors would have.
‘His collapse? When it dawned on him that someone had done those things for him; that because of his weakness, his revenge had been taken by someone else, then laid at his door along with other bloody deeds. I would guess that his collapse was caused in part by his fear of the consequences for him of these things that he had not done, but also by his shame that he had not done them.’
Shi-Bachi sat back in his chair. He looked tired.
Skinner smiled slightly at him. ‘Your Excellency, we have a psychiatrist in Edinburgh named O’Malley. I think he could learn from you.’
The Ambassador chuckled. ‘I am glad to hear you say that. You see, I too am a psychoanalyst by profession.’
Suddenly something clicked in Skinner’s mind. ‘Sir, earlier you spoke of Yobatu san in the past tense. Was that unintentional?’
Shi-Bachi looked grave again. ‘You are a thorough and perceptive man, When Yobatu san went back to Japan, I sent him to my clinic. There, my colleagues worked hard to bring him back into contact with the world. Gradually they began to succeed, although he never spoke. Three days ago, he dressed up in his Western clothes to meet his wife. When she came into his room, she found him hanging by his tie.’
48
The meeting with Shi-Bachi lasted for just over forty-five minutes. When Skinner emerged from the Embassy into Piccadilly, the morning was still fine. He strolled back towards the Circus, and turned past the restored Eros into Regent Street. As he walked a wave of depression settled on him. The Ambassador had removed any last thought that Yobatu might after all be guilty.
He was back to square one, starting an investigation into a possible murder conspiracy on the basis of evidence which, to others, might have seemed shaky. What if Mortimer had nicked himself shaving, and a drop of blood had fallen into the open case? Did he own black woollen gloves? Could the strands have come from them? What if Jameson’s case had indeed been stolen by a casual thief? The murders had stopped, the affair was closed. Should he leave it that way?
‘The hell I should!’ Skinner exploded aloud, startling a street corner news vendor.
He arrived back at Fettes Avenue just after 4.00 p.m. Brian Mackie sat in the outer office, casually dressed, working his way through a pile of papers. The second desk, occupied during the week by a secretary, showed signs of use. Skinner jerked a thumb towards it and raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘Maggie Rose, sir.’ Mackie answered the unspoken question. ‘She’s helping me with this lot. Statements from Mortimer’s family and closest friends, and from those who saw him in the Library before he was killed. So far there’s nothing. No one can think of anyone with a grudge against him, or can credit that he might have been involved in anything at all dodgy.’
‘Is there a statement by Rachel Jameson there?’
‘First one I studied, boss. There’s nothing in it. Not a hint of anything like a lead. And she must have known him better than anyone.’
Skinner looked hard at Mackie.
‘This won’t be easy, Brian. If there’s something there waiting to be found, we’ll find it, but it’ll take balls-aching hard work. Go over everything, and then go over it again. Glamorous job this, is it not?’
Maggie Rose came into the room, carrying two mugs of coffee. She started in surprise when she saw Skinner. ‘Afternoon sir... and a Happy New Year.’
‘Thanks, Sergeant.’ He smiled at her. ‘Same to you.’
He turned back to Mackie. ‘Andy in?’
Maggie Rose answered. ‘I think he’s in his office, sir. I saw a light under the door when I was out for these.’
Skinner walked the few yards along the corridor to the Special Branch suite. Martin was at his desk, making a telephone call. He waved his free hand in a wind-up motion as he saw Skinner enter, and terminated the call after a few seconds.
‘Hello, boss. London didn’t take long. What happened?’ In detail, Skinner told him. Martin grimaced at the story of Yobatu’s suicide.
‘So he really wasn’t our man.’
‘No Andy, not a chance. The poor bastard was trussed up like a Christmas turkey and set out before us. And we, greedy and gullible coppers that we are, we did the carving.
‘Right, so what are we doing here?’
‘Well, boss, we’ve started on all the available papers - statements that sort of stuff — in the Mortimer job. And the Transport plods are sending us through all their witness statements - such as they are — on Jameson.
‘I’ve also spoken to Rachel’s mother again this morning. We’ve had a bit of luck there. It seems that Mortimer and Rachel were planning to get married next summer. In advance of that, they’d bought a new house together. It’s not built yet, but they’d signed up for mortgage, insurance and all that. When they did that, they each made a will naming the other And each of them specified the same guy as executor; Kenny Duff of Curle, Anthony and Jarvis, in Charlotte Square. I’ve spoken to him.’
‘Good day’s work. What’d he say?’
Martin took a sip of coffee from the big white mug before him.
‘Well for openers, neither Mike’s nor Rachel’s flat has been put on the market yet. Wrong time of year apparently. The new house wasn’t to be ready until next September or October. So both places are lying there virtually as they were at the times of the murders. The only papers that have been disturbed are those to do with insurance, property and that sort of thing. All their personal and business documents will still be there.
‘That’s the good news. Now here’s something that you’re not going to like. Kenny Duff found definite signs of entry at each flat. There were indications that they had been searched, and one or two small items had been taken.’