Skinner's Mission
QUINTIN JARDINE
Copyright © 1997 Quintin Jardine
This book is dedicated to the town of L’Escala, which allowed me the peace and quiet to write it.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The author’s thanks go to:
Jerry Joyce
The late Chic Murray
Tom Shields
1
‘This is just the sort of thing that can happen when you sell a dodgy Ferrari.’
Six heads turned towards the doorway. The white-coated scene of crime technicians stood automatically to attention. They shone like spectres in the white glare of the temporary floodlighting, which was reflected also by the puddles which covered much of the floor of the burned-out showroom.
The man, white-clad like the rest, gazed slowly around the ravaged shed. The scene took him back to the after-math of an urban riot to which he had been taken by the Los Angeles Police Department, during a month-long international police symposium visit in California, from which he had just returned. He counted, spread around the area, the skeletal shells of eight motor cars. They rested not on tyres, for they had melted into the floor, but on bare wheel hubs.
‘Relax, ladies and gentlemen,’ the newcomer barked, at last. ‘I’m only paying a visit.’ He looked, automatically, at the oldest of the men in white coveralls. ‘Where’s Chief Superintendent Martin?’
‘He’s through the back, sir. With the ME.’
The big man nodded. ‘Thank you, Arthur.’ His eyes roamed slowly and carefully once more around the gutted area. He smiled, grimly. ‘What d’you think of the show so far?’
‘You can rule out accidental causes, sir. Or spontaneous combustion. This was very deliberate, sir. Good old-fashioned low-tech arson, with nothing fancy about it. The blaze had several seats, but from what the firemen told me about its spread, I’d say they all went up at the same time.
‘We’ve still got some poking around to do, but I should be able to draw you a picture in a wee while.’
‘Don’t draw it for me, Inspector. Chief Superintendent Martin’s in command here. Like I said, I’m just passing through.’
The red-haired man nodded, sagely. ‘Very good, sir.’ He paused. ‘But it’s still good to see you back.’
Deputy Chief Constable Bob Skinner grinned and accepted the Inspector’s proffered handshake. ‘Thanks, Arthur. Between you and me, and anyone else who’s listening, it’s bloody good to be back, even at half past two on a pissy awful late winter’s morning in Seafield, even with the north wind blowing the rain off the river and carrying the smell of the sewage works along with it!’
He glanced around the showroom once more, smiling grimly. ‘Not an insurance job, then?’ he said, in a mischievous tone.
The other man laughed, with the same grim gallows humour as Skinner. ‘Not unless the man who puts in the claim fancies doing fifteen years for his trouble. Insurance jobs nearly always start in the main fuse box, or with something inflammable accidentally falling across an electric fire.
‘Whoever did this just walked in and set the fucking place on fire!’
The DCC nodded. ‘And some very high-priced motor cars in the process.’
‘That’s right, boss. According to the ad in yesterday’s Scotsman, a red Ferrari, three Beamers, at least two Porsches, a classic Mercedes sports car, and a very rare Maserati.’
‘Funny,’ said Skinner, ‘for all the things that we’ve tried to nail Jackie Charles for, I never fancied him for dealing in hot motors!’
His smile vanished as he glanced again at the Inspector. ‘So why do we need an ME? Young Sammy Pye only told me about the fire when he called. All he said was that Mr Martin thought I might like to come along.’
He could see the man shudder beneath his loose white tunic. He nodded his head towards a blackened, empty doorframe, at the rear of the showroom. ‘That’s through there, sir.’
Skinner frowned. ‘It’s not Jackie, is it?’
‘I had a good look at it, sir, but for all I could tell it could have been my father-in-law’s pet greyhound . . . except I think that it only had two legs!’
It was the DCC’s turn to shiver. ‘I’ve been trying to lock up that wee bastard Charles for just about all of my police career, but I wouldn’t wish that on him.’ His voice dropped. ‘I hate fire, Arthur. It gives me the creeps, especially when I see how easily and how well people burn.’
‘I know what you mean, boss,’ said Inspector Dorward. ‘I go to crime scenes practically every working day. It’s my job. Mostly they don’t bother me, except where there’s kids or fire involved.
‘D’you remember that one last summer out in East Lothian, when that bloke was burned alive. Your wife was the Medical Examiner. Some job she has, eh! I don’t know how she does it.’
Skinner frowned. ‘She’s a tough lady, is my wife, but I’m glad she’s not here. Who was the poor bastard on call for this one?’
‘Doctor Banks, sir.’
He tugged awkwardly at his vast white overall suit. ‘I suppose I’d better go and join him, then. Give me a shout when you’re ready to draw us that picture of what happened here.’
‘Will do, sir.’
Picking his way carefully through the blackened, soaking debris on the floor, the DCC walked across to the doorway at the back of the showroom. He had almost reached it when suddenly it was filled by a stocky, wide-shouldered blond man, the thickness of his build emphasised by his protective suit. The tinted contact lens which he wore made his vivid green eyes shine oddly in the bright light.
‘I thought I heard you, boss,’ said Chief Superintendent Andy Martin. He stepped back, allowing Skinner to enter the small, blackened room. Although the door had burned away to ashes, its frame and the lower half of the walls which partitioned the chamber off from the rest of the unit were constructed of steel sheeting. They, the substructure of a large metal desk, and four filing cabinets, had survived the blaze. The twisted, charcoal-black figure which lay at their feet had not.
The duty Medical Examiner was crouched over the body. He looked up for a second at the newcomer, giving him the briefest of nods. Skinner responded with a grunt. He disliked Banks, and had often questioned his thoroughness, even on occasion his competence. However he had always stopped short of having him removed from the list of police surgeons, mainly because he suspected that if he took the step he might be accused of acting under his wife’s influence.
The only other living person in the room was Detective Constable Sammy Pye, the most junior member of the small personal staff which Andy Martin maintained as head of CID. He stood, silent and pale in the corner of the room.
‘You didn’t mention this added attraction when you woke me from a sound sleep, Sammy,’ said the DCC. ‘All you said was that there had been a call after a major fire at Jackie Charles’ showroom, and that Chief Superintendent Martin thought that I might like to join him.’ He grinned. ‘Did you think that if you mentioned an immolated stiff, I’d have decided to stay in my bed!’
The young man reddened. ‘No, sir. But . . .’
‘Leave the lad alone,’ Martin intervened. ‘None of us knew about the death until we got here. All that our fire brigade colleagues said to us was that they had a suspicious blaze down here in Motor City, and would we like to come along.’
‘When were they called out?’