`Look, he's no' here. Why don't y'all just fuck off!'
Martin's jaw tightened. 'Sorry, Joanne, I'm not kidding. Either you let us in or that door comes off its hinges.'
The woman opened her mouth as if to argue, then all at once gave in. The door closed, its chain rattled as it was released, and then it swung open fully.
`Right,' said Martin. 'That's sensible. Listen, we're not here to hurt you or lift you or anything else. It's Ainscow we want.' ‘But ah tell ye-'
`We have to see for ourselves. Now, you wait out here with DI Rose, while Neil and I search the place.' He brushed past her into the flat, Mcllhenney on his heels.
`Careful, Neil,' he warned. The first of the three doors off the hall was ajar. He turned back to Joanne Virtue. 'Bedroom?'
She nodded reluctantly. 'Aye. And the bog on the right, and the living room at the far end. The kitchen's off that. Mind ye don't break anything.
Martin pushed the door open and stepped quickly inside, tensed and ready for action. The room was empty, yet full of signs of recent occupancy. The musky smell of sex hung in the air. The bed was rumpled, and both pillows were crushed. There were night tables on either side, and on each lay a mug. Martin picked one up. It was half full of what looked like coffee, and it was still slightly warm. He checked the other. It was almost drained, but the dregs had not yet dried to a stain. He stepped back into the hall, signalling to Mcllhenney to open the bathroom door. An aerosol can of shaving gel and a razor lay on the shelf above the basin. Quickly they checked the living room and kitchen. They too were empty, but further signs of a guest were strewn all around.
`Okay, ladies,' Martin called. 'You can come in now.'
A few seconds later, Joanne Virtue stepped hesitantly into the room, with Maggie Rose close behind her.
`Okay, Joanne,' snapped Martin. 'No crap. How long has he been here? Since Monday?'
`Sunday night, late,' she said softly.
`And when did he go?'
`About twenty minutes ago.'
`It must have been a sudden decision, judging from those mugs in the bedroom. What happened? Did that fat bastard Barratt tip you off? I promised him that if he did, I would rip his balls off. He should have believed me.'
Big Joanne shook her head. Naw, it wisnae Ricky. We ha this call a wee while ago. Just after ten. We've been screenin all the phone-calls — no' that there've been many — leaving the answer machine on all the time. So we taped it.'
`That makes a change,' said Martin. 'A wee bit of luck for once. Play it back for us.'
She stepped over to a low sideboard on which the combination phone and answering machine sat, and pressed the replay button. There was a whirr as the tape rewound. Joanne turned up the volume.
Suddenly the rewind stopped and replay began. After four or five seconds, there was an intake of breath and a voice filled the room: a strange, strained voice, as if the speaker was concentrating very hard on something very important. 'Don't say anything. Just listen. I need to see you right away. It's about Tony's will. It's turned up. Go to the Botanics now, get in the back gate, and meet me at the entrance to the big glasshouse at eleven. Get moving.'
The line clicked as the phone at the other end was replaced. There was a whistle for a few seconds, before the machine switched itself off.
Martin and Mcllhenney looked at each other in astonishment. 'Jesus!' whispered the detective sergeant.
`Do you know who that is?' Martin asked Joanne.
It sounded like that wee lawyer chap, Cocozza — him that was Tony Manson's message boy. Paul knows him. He sounded funny,
'No bloody wonder, Joanne. He's been dead for a day and a half!’
Ninety-seven
Skinner leapt to the phone and picked it up on the first ring. For one of the few times in his short life, Jazz had been difficult about sleep. Eventually he had succumbed to the cajoling of his parents, and now lay upstairs, fitfully, in his cot.
`Hello: Skinner was unusually curt.
`Bob, sorry, did I wake you?'
`No, but you'd better not have wakened the baby. What's the score?'
`I'm calling from Joanne's. Ainscow was here, but he's gone. Called by telephone, half an hour ago, to a meeting at the big glasshouse in the Botanics at eleven. Right this minute, in fact.'
`Who called him?'
'Would you believe, Richard Cocozza?'
`That's a bloody good trick. A tape.'
`Yes. That must have been why he was tortured. To force him to tape a message setting up Ainscow, and to get Joanne's telephone number out of him.'
`Clever bastard, right enough,' said Skinner, almost to himself.
`Yes,' agreed Martin. Lucan’s English must have been a lot better than he let on. And his brother must have given him chapter and verse on everyone involved at this end. We’re heading off there now, boss. Will you call in back-up?'
`Bugger that! I'm your back-up.'
Martin laughed. 'So much for the family man. See you at the Inverleith Row gate.'
Skinner hung up. He turned, to find Sarah standing in the doorway.
`What was that?'
`Andy.'
`What's up?'
‘Ainscow. Someone's got to him before we did. He's walking into a trap. I've got to go — and I could be a while.'
She crossed the room and kissed him. 'Okay, but be safe.' `Don't worry, love. This one's just a walk in the park. Literally.'
He picked up the sweater which he had discarded earlier while cradling Jazz, and pulled it on as he went out into the cool night air. The garden was flooded by the light of a full moon as he walked to his car, reversed out into Fairyhouse Avenue, and headed towards Inverleith, and Edinburgh's famous Royal Botanic Garden. He was driving fast up East Fettes Avenue, past the headquarters building, when his car-phone rang. He pushed the receive button.
`Bob, my friend. It is Arturo Pujol. I know it is late, but Sarah said it was okay to call you with my news. We have had a great excitement again in L'Escala. The man you are looking for in Britain, Lucan, the brother of Vaudan. He is here in Spain, in jail.'
Skinner smiled to himself in the dark of the car, a satisfied smile — the sort that comes with the final piece of the jigsaw. What happened?' he asked.
It was this afternoon. Young Joaquim — the officer who was with you and whose shot killed Vaudan — he was leaving the Gala, the bar across from my barracks, when he was attacked
by a wild-eyed man with a knife. The man was dirty and had been days needing a shave. It was Lucan, and he had in his pocket a page torn from our local newspaper, the Empordan, describing Vaudan's death, and with a photograph of the man who shot him. Joaquim was cut, but he fought him off, and was able to stop him with two shots in the leg. He said later that he had been aiming for his head.' Pujol paused. 'It seems that. Joaquim's shooting has returned to its normal form. Does all that interest you?'
As Pujol finished his tale, Skinner drew his car to a halt beside the side entrance to the Botanic Garden. 'Arturo,' he said, 'it's fascinating. I'm a bit busy right now, but I'll call you back tomorrow. We'll talk further and, who knows, I may have an even stranger story for you.'
Ninety-eight
Martin took the roundabout at high speed, and swung back towards Ferry Road, the shortest route from Leith to the Botanic Garden.
The colourful sparkling of the moonlight on the petrol spill gave him advance warning of the hazard, but far too late for him to take any evasive action. He hit the slick as he exited from the roundabout, and the car went into an uncontrollable spin. He steered into it, but with absolutely no effect. Mcllhenney, in the front passenger seat, braced himself for the impact which he saw coming, but which Martin did not, as he fought for control.