"Of course I did. For much the same reason you are now, because the boss was pissed off at her. I couldn't help him though. I came up against blank walls everywhere I went. No one would tell me anything about her that I could use." He smiled. "The chief braced her once, mind you, in a meeting. He dropped a hint that he had a file on her."
Mcllhenney looked amazed. "Proud Jimmy did?"
"Yup. It shut her up for a while too, until she realised that he was bluffing. In the light of what Lenny told you, she must also have realised that if he really had had a file on her, she'd have been up to her ears in it."
"So, mate, what's your advice? Knowing what I know, what should I do next?"
Mario spun in his chair. "That's a good one. All I can tell you is what I would do, and that is nothing. I don't think there's any chance of proving what Lenny told you. Unlike my dear mum, Maley must have covered her tracks completely, for we've never had a sniff of her being a real villain, from any of our intelligence sources.
"I think you have to watch and wait. The classic CID approach; watch everything she does from now on, and wait for her to do something that you can use to bring her down. You might not have too much time, though. If she gets this Holyrood seat she's after, we might all find that she's after us, with a vengeance."
Forty-Seven
What did the barman say?" asked Andy Martin.
"Bar woman," Greatorix replied. "The guy behind the bar today wasn't on two weeks ago; he was sick and the licensee was away, so his … the licensee's… wife had to pull the pints as well as dish the grub.
She remembered Michael Skinner, but only because he was pissed."
"What about the man he was with?"
"The only thing she could say for certain was that he wasn't a regular, but she didn't think she'd ever seen him before. She was harassed that day, she said, but she struck me as the sort that finds everything too much trouble. Her description wasn't any better than dAbo's, far as she could recall, probably because all her attention was on Mr. Skinner getting himself skunked."
"Did you show her the photograph?"
The head of CID smiled, with grim satisfaction. "The licensee wasn't too happy with me afterwards, but I did. She wasn't a hundred per cent, but she pretty well confirmed the identification. She said that he looked much the same two weeks ago, when his friend huck led him out of her pub."
"That's something, at least," Martin exclaimed. "In fact, apart from the identification, it's the first positive thing that's happened in this investigation. Bob's "Skipper" might have been a false lead, but we got a result out of it by accident."
"Maybe, but how do we take it forward?"
"I've got someone compiling a list of estate owners on our patch. Maybe we can pick the people off that who might fit the vague description we have for Michael Skinner's companion, source their photographs and show them to dAbo and your landlord. Maybe we'll even find one who answers to the name of Skipper."
"As Mr. Williamson doesn't, by the way," Greatorix told him. "My man dAbo, and the local uniforms who know the man, had never heard of that nickname. He's known up there as Cecil, and that's it. He must have left Skipper behind in Mother well."
"But Andy, can we justify this?" The head of CID looked his deputy chief in the eye. "I had a break-in to an office in Montrose last night; the safe was done and quite a bit of cash was taken. I've also got a drugs operation under way in Dundee. It's going to take manpower to pursue this Skinner thing, and for what? He died of natural causes.
Maybe he had his heart attack as a result of falling in the river, after wandering off while he was drunk. If we do find his pal, and he did dispose of the body, that's probably what he's going to claim.
"I have to prioritise; that's the way it is here. You're new here, so maybe you don't understand that yet, not fully at any rate. But if the chief constable was sitting in on this discussion, I know what he would say."
Martin sighed. He could have ordered Greatorix to proceed, and, if he had read a threat to take the matter to the chief, forbidden him to do so; but the last thing he wanted was an argument with a valued and experienced colleague… particularly when he knew the man was in the right.
"And so do I," he admitted. "Put it on the shelf, Rod, as far as CID is concerned. I'll brief the uniformed branch to ask around in the general area of Birnam and see if we can come up with other sightings of Michael and his mate, but that's as far as I'll take it.
"If Bob wants to crank it up when he gets back from the States, I'll won't stop him, but until then, let's just wind it down."
Forty-Eight
For all that he was a politician rather than a policeman, Bob Skinner had learned to respect Bradford Dekker, the elected Sheriff of Erie County, the district of which Buffalo was the heart. He had no illusions that he was an investigator, and had never tried to represent himself as such to the Scot. He knew that his responsibility to the people was to maintain public order and safety by putting the right men and women in place to run an efficient force.
However, their earlier dealings, following the deaths of Sarah's parents, had never required him to take a view of that efficiency. He had met Eddie Brady, the chief of Erie detectives, but he had never before observed his department at work.
As the three men sat round a table in Dekker's office, Skinner looked at Brady, appraising him openly. He could sense hostility in the man, something that he had never encountered before. He felt impatience stir within him.
The sheriff read his mind. "I'd better tell you, Bob," he began, 'that Eddie is not completely on side with this meeting. He doesn't feel that it's appropriate for us to be sitting down with the husband of the only suspect in a big-profile homicide. Normally I'd be uncomfortable with it myself."
The visitor turned his eyes towards him. The sheriff was in his mid-forties, as was Brady. But where the detective had a creased, rumpled look about him, he was immaculate, in a suit made of a sheer material that undoubtedly looked great on television. "Sure, Brad,"
Skinner acknowledged, steadily. "I hear what you're saying. For my part, all I can tell you is that if I had Eddie's wife, or your wife for that matter, on remand in Edinburgh and I was about to charge her with nicking a pair of knickers from Marks and Spencer, never mind with an indictable offence, I'd invite you to meet with me as a sheer professional courtesy.
"But that apart, let's you and I get Eddie sorted on this. You've ordered him to meet me for the same reason you and the DA have gone to extraordinary lengths to keep Sarah's identity a secret up to now. You know that I still have access to her father's political friends, among whom, as you'd expect, I did some quick research before I came here.
Brad, your term of office, and the DA's, run out next year. He's standing for re-election but you're looking to take the next step up the ladder, to the New York State senate. So you do not want any more political flak than you will encounter in the normal course of events, and especially you do not want me making trouble for you within your own party. There is also the fact that Leo Grace got you your start, and even though he's dead, you owe him."
Bradford Dekker gave him a thin smile. "Everything you say is true, Bob."
Skinner turned to Brady. "So let's cut the shit, Eddie. I'd like you to run through the evidence against my wife. Forget the politics; that's what got me through the door. What I'm after now is professional courtesy."
The American frowned, then shrugged his shoulders. "Okay," he conceded, not quite amiably, but with no sign of any continuing grudge.
"You ain't going to like any of it, though." A ring-bound folder lay on the table in front of him. He pushed it across towards the Scot.