Three
_No danger of him growing up to be a ballet dancer. Look at the size of those feet!'
`Just a minute, Martin! That's my wee brother you're talking about.' Alex Skinner laughed and threw her arms in delight around Andy's broad shoulders, as they perched on the edge of the bed.
His vivid green eyes sparkled as he glanced sideways at her. `And your father!' he said. 'Where d'you think he got those plates from? Tell you what, Sarah, it'll be special-order trainers for him by the time he's fourteen.'
Bob looked across at Alex and Andy, thoughtfully. They had each come through terrible times, only a few months before. In the aftermath they had seemed to come closer together in their friendship, each helping the other to heal. The medicine seemed to have worked. Sitting side by side, they looked for all the world like two happy people without a care. But, still, Bob fancied that he saw the occasional shadow pass across his daughter's face, and noted a sombre side to his friend's sunny nature that had not been there a year before.
Sarah was seated at the window, in a high-backed armchair, cradling Jazz in her right arm. His shawl — a Skinner family heirloom in which Alex herself had once been wrapped — was loosened, and one corner hung towards the floor. Golden evening sun flooded in, washing over mother and son, and glinting in the grey of Bob's hair as he leaned over the chair back. He whistled softly, and Jazz looked upwards toward the sound, curiosity stilling the kicking of his feet . . . which were, Bob had to admit, generously sized.
Do you hear what that policeman's saying about us, wee man. Good honest working feet those are. Just made for pounding a beat. Which is what that cheeky bugger'll be doin' before too long, if he doesn't watch it! He'll make a good godfather though, Jazz. Biggest gangster in the force, so the boys say. Your godmother will see you okay, too. You Baptists don't have some rule against sisters being godmothers, do you, love?'
Sarah smiled across at Alex. 'If we did, I'd look for another church that didn't.' She switched her glance, and her grin, to Andy Martin. 'So, Superintendent, where did you drag my old man off to this afternoon, the moment our eyes closed? Didn't you think he might be feeling as tired as we did?'
Andy shook his blond head, throwing up his hands in a fending-off gesture. 'I didn't drag him anywhere, honest. He dragged himself. It wasn't any old crime scene either, mother. Talk of godfathers: that's who this was — Edinburgh's own. One Tony Manson.'
Sarah's eyes widened. 'Even I've heard of him! What happened? Wish I'd been there.'
`Steady on, Sarah,' said Alex. 'Yo u 're out of that line now. You're a professor, remember.'
Ah, but I can still be called in to crime scenes!'
Five months before, when word of her impending withdrawal from general practice had reached the Principal of Edinburgh University, Sarah had been made a surprising and totally unexpected offer. The Faculty of Advocates, the Scottish Bar, had just agreed to sponsor a new chair of Criminal Forensics and Pathology within the University's Medical School, and was pressing for a high-profile appointment. Without Bob's knowledge, Archie Nelson, the recently elected Dean of Faculty, had proposed Dr Sarah Grace Skinner, already recognised, after less than two years in post, as Scotland's leading police surgeon. Recognising both the power of the paymaster and the merit of the appointment, the Principal had approached Sarah, and offered her the chair on a three-year tenure. When she had recovered from her surprise, Sarah, with Bob's agreement, had accepted, and had been installed as Scotland's youngest professor. She had spent the latter part of her pregnancy planning her course, and working on her lectures, which were scheduled to begin with the new term, in the autumn.
`So, come on, boys,' she said. 'Tell me about it. My professional curiosity's well wound up now.'
Bob sighed and shrugged his shoulders. 'Well, if you insist. But there was nothing spectacular about it. Single blow with a long-bladed knife, Dr Banks said. Victim taken by surprise by an intruder, late at night. It's likely he was half asleep, and so an easy target. Banks is doing the PM himself.'
`Banks!' Sarah snorted. 'Couldn't you have got Burke and Hare? They'd have done a better job. What else did that horse-doctor have to tell you?'
`What more should there be?' asked Bob, but even as he spoke he recognised that the doctor's scene-of-crime examination had been perfunctory. And he knew that his wife had a special talent. She could look at a murder scene and put together a description of the crime which would later prove unerringly accurate.
`What more?' said Sarah. 'Plenty! How tall was the attacker? Was it a man or woman? Was he or she left-handed or orthodox? Did Manson do any damage himself? All that stuff.'
Bob smiled. 'Come on, love. Don't be so hard on the man. I'm sure all that'll be in his PM report.'
`Yes, and he'll give you the Derby winner, too! Listen, your people are going to be under pressure on this one. You can guess what the media coverage will be like tomorrow. Let me help. I'm going to cool my heels in here until Wednesday at least, practising the nuts and bolts of this motherhood thing. Why don't you bring me in the PM report and the photographs tomorrow, and I'll try to fill in some of the gaps that Banks will have left?'
Bob opened his mouth to protest, but his wife fixed him with a look which told him that refusal was not an option, so he closed it again. Andy and Alex, looking on from their bedside perch, smiled at this silent exchange.
`Okay, Prof, if it'll make you happy, I'll do that. You're in a strong negotiating position today, I suppose. See what you're up against in life's battles of wills, wee Jazz?'
As if in response, Jazz wriggled in Sarah's arms, released a mewling cat-like cry, and turned his face towards his mother's breast in a gesture which was pure reflex, but which could have only one meaning.
Sarah laughed. 'I think you'll find that this one won't take no for an answer either! Go on you lot. Go and wet his head, or whatever. I've got some mothering to do here.'
Four
‘It’ll be the standard routine, sheer back-breaking drudgery, this investigation, but it's the only way.'
Two men and a woman faced Skinner across his rosewood desk in the big office located in the command suite of the ugly, hybrid building in Fettes Avenue which was Edinburgh's police headquarters. Detective Inspector Maggie Rose, the ACC's recently promoted personal assistant, sat to his left, a notebook on her lap, ready to record decisions taken and orders issued. Ranged beside her were Detective Chief Superintendent Roy Old who was Skinner's immediate deputy, Andy Martin, and Detective Superintendent Alison Higgins who had day-to-day responsibility for criminal investigation in Edinburgh's Eastern Division.
`Neither our own criminal intelligence sources nor the PNC has thrown up any hint that Manson had been a target, or has given us any warning that a rival outfit might have fancied his territory. Yet all the evidence points to this having been a premeditated murder. The attending officers went over the place twice yesterday, the first time with the cleaning woman, and the second time with Manson's lawyer. They both said that everything looked normal and that no valuables seemed to be missing.'
He glanced around at them, then continued. 'That means we have to look into every area of Manson's life, both the legitimate side and the things we've never been able to nail down before. I want every one of his managers brought in for interview. Put them under a bit of pressure, especially those we've got under the closest observation already. We know that Tony was too cute to push stuff through all his places at once. He only ever ran his candy stall in one place at any given time, always moving it around to cut down our chances of nailing the operation.'