For a second the giant looked at him, and something in his adversary's eyes made him pause. If there had been an escape route, that expression might have persuaded him to take it, but finally the knowledge that there was nowhere else to go made him close in once more.
This time Skinner did not back off. This time he stepped, lightning-fast, inside the outreaching arms. His cupped right hand smashed against the side of the great head. Lennie screamed as his eardrum burst, but the sound was choked off as steel-hard fingers slammed into his diaphragm. He doubled over slightly, head leaning forward, chin stuck out.
Skinner pivoted on his right foot. The heel of his right hand sped upwards toward its target, aimed in the final blow. But in that very second, the sole of his moccasin found a pool of water on the pathway. He slipped off-balance.
Now it was the wounded giant who was fighting for his life. He grabbed the smaller man, and used his brute force and bulk to bear him backwards towards the pool. Skinner gasped as the small of his back hit the concrete, and as the breath was forced from him by Lennie's weight. Then the thick fingers were round his throat once more, and his head and shoulders were forced under the surface. He was helpless. There was a roaring in his ears. His eyes felt as if they were popping from their sockets. Somewhere in the depths of the pool he fancied he saw Ainscow, beckoning to him. And then another vision swam into his drowning mind. Jazz, his son, cradled by Sarah. She was dressed in black.
No! he roared in his mind. And he kicked upwards, with both knees and thighs, upwards with more strength than he had ever dreamed he possessed.
The great bulk of Lennie flew over him, and landed in the pool with a splash which sounded to Skinner, with his head still submerged, like an explosion. Again the fingers had left his throat. He swung himself up and out of the water, choking and gasping for breath. Seconds later, a huge hand slapped on to the concrete beside him, reaching for him. He scrambled to his feet, icy anger still coursing through him. He turned round to see both of Lennie's hands on the poolside, arms straightening as he hauled himself upright, like a great black creature emerging from an ocean.
Skinner stood facing him. He waited until both arms were straight, then kicked him with the outside edge of his right foot, with savage force, just above the right elbow. Then as the great trunk hung there helpless, he kicked him again without finesse, without technique, but as hard as he could, with his right instep, on the base of the jaw below the left ear. Big Lennie's desperate eyes glazed over and the huge arms lost all their strength. He slipped back into the water, unconscious, and disappeared beneath the surface.
Skinner slumped to his knees beside the pool, faint suddenly with exhaustion. A few feet away, Lennie Plenderleith's head and shoulders broke the surface once more. Skinner reached out weakly for him, but he had floated to the centre of the pool. He crouched there, wondering if he had strength left to dive in and pull the giant out, and if he had the will to subdue him once again, should he revive. He hauled himself painfully upright — and, as he did, the chamber was suddenly illuminated by the beam of a flashlight.
Are you all right, sir?'
Skinner looked around. He stood in the spread of the light, his shirt soaked, his steel-grey hair plastered to his head, blood trickling from his broken nose, and from an angled cut over his left eye. His right foot was throbbing from the force of his last kick, and he stood awkwardly, trying to keep as much weight as possible on his left side.
Brian Mackie and Mario McGuire stood in the doorway, gazing at him in naked astonishment.
`Don't be flicking stupid, Brian. Of course I'm not all right! But I'm a fucking sight better than that guy in there — and better still than the one on the bottom. Now, fish Big Lennie out before he drowns, and handcuff him before he wakes up. I'd help but, quite frankly, I'm knackered!'
One Hundred
They brought us here in the same ambulance, would you believe. Big Lennie's still badly concussed, but he's conscious and talking. His right arm's broken and they've just taken him off to set it. Otherwise he's not too bad. I kicked him hard enough to take a normal man's head right off, but they say all he'll have is a headache and a stiff neck for a couple of days, and that'll be it. I had another talk with him once he'd come round. He said that he'd make a statement to the Guardia Civil, admitting to killing Santi Alberni. So tomorrow morning you can call Gloria and tell her she can begin to look forward to sticking it up her insurance company.'
`That's great,' said Sarah, on the other end of the telephone. `But what about you? You aren't kidding me, are you? You are fine?'
He glanced at his face in a mirror on the wall of the Royal Infirmary's Accident and Emergency Unit, from where he had been allowed to telephone his wife. He chuckled. 'I've been better looking, but, yes, love, I'm okay. Honest. They've straightened my nose and put a couple of stitches in my forehead. And they've taken pictures of my foot and satisfied themselves that it isn't broken. So I'll be limping home in a few hours.'
`A few hours! Why so long?'
`Because I'm going into the office to dictate a statement, while it's all still crystal clear in my head, for Ruth to type up in the morning.'
`Okay, I'll see you whenever. Just wear a paper bag over your head, if you think you might frighten the baby! He's with me just now and, as you can possibly hear, he's not best pleased at being wakened in the middle of the night!'
Bob laughed, a mixture of amusement and — though Sarah could not and, if he could avoid it, would never realise it — sudden relief at being alive to enjoy more moments with his wife and son.
'Oh,' said Sarah urgently. 'I almost forgot. How's Andy?'
`No problem. He's got a hard head, too. He was only out for a few minutes. It looked worse than it was. They've X-rayed him and stitched him up, and he's signed himself out. The doctor here offered him a bed for the night, but he said he'd rather sleep it off at home. I'd forgotten: he's signed off on two weeks' holiday. Now I'm off too. There's a driver waiting at the door for me. I had my car taken to Fettes in case I did wind up with my foot in plaster. Go back to sleep now, you and wee Jazz. I'll see you both in the morning.'
He hung up, wondering for that moment how Sarah had known of Andy Martin's accident. Then he shook his head and limped towards his driver at the door.
One Hundred and One
‘So that's the story, Ruth,' said Skinner to his tape-recorder, as the early-shift staff began to wind their way up the drive below his office window in the early morning sunshine. 'That's Skinner's trail. It started in Edinburgh, wound through half a dozen countries, and ended back on our own doorstep. The story's full of greed and violence and death. But it's about honour, too. Big Lennie Plenderleith, or Dominic Jackson as he would have been for the rest of his life, is in a strange way one of the most honourable men I have ever met. He had his legacy, the sort of fortune the rest of us can only dream about, and he had a whole new life in front of him. As he said, he was free and clear. And yet he gambled it all, and he lost it all, to repay his debt of honour to Tony Manson. I tell you, Ruth, Big Lennie is certainly the toughest man I've ever come up against, but he sure as hell isn't the worst.'
The recorder whined a warning that its micro-cassette was about to run out.
`Right,' said Skinner as he switched it off and took out the tape, putting it beside two others in his typing tray. 'That's it. Home, Robert — but on the way let's call in to compare stitches with young Martin.'