Head Shot

'What about that other case you mentioned, the one a couple of years ago?' asked Jay.

'There were two of those, in fact, but that investigation was solved at that time. In any case there are some significant differences here. In those murders a rifle was used, a lower calibre, higher velocity weapon, and there was another signature, a very distinctive thing. No, this isn't related.'

'I'll trust your judgement on that… especial y if the person involved is locked up,' the superintendent said.

'He's dead, actually.'

'Couldn't have been him, then,' McGuire grunted, from the side.

'When can you do the post mortem on Mr Viareggio, Dr Skinner?'

'Tomorrow morning, Mr Jay; first thing, if that's good enough for you.'

'Yes, that'll be fine.'

She looked at the other detective. 'Mario, can I ask you something?

Are you aware of any health problems your uncle might have had, anything I should look out for in my examination?'

'No, none at al. Beppe might have been a bit on the plump side, but he took his health seriously. He had regular BUPA medicals and came through them al with flying colours. Come to think about it, he had one a few weeks back; he was crowing about it at our family party on Wednesday night.

'Why do you ask?'

She grinned at him, wryly. 'Thoroughness, that's al.'

'Convince me of that.'

'You're too suspicious by half, McGuire. Okay,' she confessed. 'I saw a case like this back in the States once, when I was working there. It was similar to this, a prominent man shot dead in his home, and the cops tore up half of gangland over the next couple of days. Then the coroner found that the man was riddled with cancer. Subsequently, the police spotted a large cash withdrawal from his bank, made just a couple of days before his death.

'They never did find the shooter, but they started asking different questions, and came up with the answer. The man knew he was dying, and had actual y chosen to put a contract on himself. But if your Uncle Beppe was physical y fit, and financial y sound…'

'Which he was,' Mario confirmed.

Sarah glanced down at the body once more; her smile had disappeared.

'Then that can't apply here. So how did your uncle come to have upset someone badly enough for them to do that to him? Do you know much about his business?'

'Not as much as I'm going to. As of three hours ago, control of it passed to me.'

'What? I thought your mother was the cotrustee.'

'My mother's retiring,' he explained. 'I'm taking her place, and with Beppe dead, I'm the senior partner, with the casting vote.'

'God, won't that make things difficult for you?'

'I guess it wil. I didn't ask for this, Sarah, I assure you, but it all goes back to my grandfather's wil; I can't walk away from it, however messy it is.'

'Not even if there was a conflict of interest with your duty as a policeman?'

'Not even then.'

'Couldn't you persuade your mother to stay on for a while?'

He gasped. 'After this? What if Beppe's murder is connected to the business? Do you think I'd put her in the firing line?'

'No, of course not,' she replied, quickly. 'I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking straight.'

'There is one up-side, though,' he told her. 'Greg Jay won't have any trouble gaining access to the books and records of the Viareggio Trust.'

34

'You ever been in an air terminal that you really liked as a place?' asked Joe Doherty.

'Barcelona.'

'Lucky you. I hate 'em, all of them, whether they're monsters like Heathrow and O'Hare, or small-town operations like this one. And when it's dark outside, I hate 'em even worse.'

'Bollocks!' Skinner laughed. 'What you're really saying is that you hate flying.'

His friend's lip curled into a sneer. 'Show me a man who says he actually likes it… especially since September 11… and I'll show you a liar.'

'You don't have to like it, Joe; you just have to do it. Personal y, I cannot see how heavier-than-air machines ever make it off the ground, but they do, so I take it on trust.

Now if you were talking about sailing, that would be different.'

'Uh? You don't like boats?'

'The smal er they are, the more I dislike them. I'l go on cross channel ferries when I have to, like when I take the kids on holiday, but that's it.'

'You get sea-sick?' Doherty's sallow face was lit by his broadest smile. 'The great Bob Skinner gets seasick?'

'No. I've only ever felt sea-sick once in my life, and that was on the waltzer at Portobello funfair with Alex when she was a kid. All I could think about was how wide it would spread if I actually did throw up. I made it to the end of the ride… just. But boats; I don't like them, that's all.

'It's a childhood thing; my mum used to tel a story about a time she and my dad took me to Mil port for the weekend, when I wasn't much more than a baby. Somehow, my old man managed to miss the last ferry on Sunday night, and since he had to be at work next morning, he hired a local bloke with a motorboat to take us across to Largs. I've got no conscious memory of it, but Mother said that it was a hell of a 138 chooDV trip, and that she was terrified. I suppose that communicated itself to me and that it's stayed with me ever since.'

'Oh' said the American. 'In that case there's something I'd better share with you: the location of our meeting with Jackson Wylie, your father-in-law's ex-partner.'

Skinner stared at him. 'Not his fucking boat! Christ, when I met the guv at Leo's place I had to dredge the bottom of the barrel to find an excuse not to go out fishing with the two of them. Joe, tell me Kosinski hasn't booked us on to his fucking boat!'

'Wylie cal s it his cruiser, but you got it, buddy; that's where it's at.

You want to duck out?'

The stare became a glare. 'Duck out? So you can tell your pals in Washington all about it? There's two things in this life I don't like; small boats and looking at dead bodies. From time to time, I have to do the one, and I'l fucking well do the other if it's necessary. Not liking is a human feeling; not doing is a human weakness. I'l go across Wylie's gangplank, don't you worry.'

'In that case, the good news is that it'l be moored in the marina. This ain't no fishing trip… other than for any information the guy might have.'

The airport announcer broke into their conversation, calling them to the boarding gate for their flight to Buffalo. Skinner glanced up at the departure hall clock; it showed twelve minutes after six. Through the glass walls he saw the lightening sky, realising that already it was breakfast-time at their destination, and that further east, Sarah and the children should be having lunch. A wave of homesickness washed over him; he took out his cellphone and called home.

Trish, the nanny, answered; she was a friendly girl, the daughter of a Barbadian mother and a Yorkshire father who had met on a county cricket tour of the West Indies. 'No, Mr Skinner,' she told him. 'Sarah isn't here.

She's up at the Royal, doing a post mortem on a murder victim.'

He laughed. 'She can't resist, can she. I'm married to a workaholic, Trish.'

'I guess you are, although she did say there were special circumstances involved with this one.'

'Wonder what she meant by that?' he mused, aloud. 'She'll tell me, I expect. Meantime, let me have a word with Mark.'

He had a brief conversation with his son as he walked to the gate, catching up on school news, then switched off the cellphone and put it away as his boarding card was checked.

The flight was even and uneventful; after a while, Joe Doherty almost relaxed. This time there was no view, other than of a cloud blanket that lasted all the way to the Great Lakes. So, instead of sightseeing, Skinner passed the time thinking, searching in vain through his sketchy knowledge of his father-in-law's business and personal history for any pointers to the mystery of his death.