Skinner's Rules

To the left of the house stood a double garage with its up-and-over door raised, revealing a white BMW 535i and a black Nissan Sunny Gti. The snow-covered drive curved past the garage to the front door. Facing the entrance, a flight of three steps led down to a lawn, fringed with shrubs and flower beds, which ran under its unbroken white mantle to a high privet hedge. The snow on the path leading up to the house was undisturbed.

The three senior officers sat in Skinner’s Granada as it turned into the wide driveway, with a uniformed constable, hatless, at the wheel. The search squad, in two anonymous minibuses, remained at the entrance to the cul-de-sac, out of sight of the neighbouring houses.

‘Very nice,’ said Skinner, surveying the scene. ‘I don’t see many signs of Japanese influence, though.’

‘It’s quite a big house, boss,’ Brian Mackie remarked. ‘I’m glad we brought a dozen with us. Even at that it’ll take a while.’

The driver pulled up in front of the open garage, and the three detectives crunched round the snowy path. They stepped into the porch, kicking the snow off their shoes as they did so and wiping them on a large doormat. A big brass knocker hung between two stained glass panels set into the upper part of the heavy wooden door. Looking for a bell, but seeing none, Skinner seized it and rapped loudly, twice.

After perhaps thirty seconds, the door was opened by a black-haired Japanese woman. She was, Skinner guessed, not much more than forty years old but had the air of someone much older, someone who had seen too many sorrows. She was dressed casually, in Western style, her slacks emphasising her height, over five feet six, and a close-fitting black sweater emphasising her slimness.

‘Yes, gentlemen?’ The accent was flat.

‘Madame Yobatu?’ Skinner asked. The woman nodded. ‘We are police officers; we wish to speak with your husband. Is he at home?’

‘Yes. What is wrong? Has something happened at the factory?’

‘Please fetch him.’

‘Of course. I am sorry. I am being rude. Please come in.’

They stepped into a wide hall. Rugs were strewn on a polished oak floor. Five glass-panelled doors led on to different parts of the spacious house. From the centre, a stairway rose. The woman left them, they heard voices, and a few seconds later she reappeared.

‘Please enter.’

They stepped past her. Again, the room was furnished in Western style, with an oatmeal-coloured Wilton carpet, and a black leather suite of settee and two chairs ranged around a big stone fireplace, in which sweet- smelling logs burned. At the far end of the long room, two slidin glass doors stood apart, framing a tall broad man.

‘Come in, gentlemen.’

Yobatu turned, and led the three policemen into a spacious glass conservatory, walled to a height of three feet. A door on the right of the room led out into a large garden, enclosed by high fir trees. Shrubs and heathers ranged around a central lily pond, its frozen surface covered with snow.

The peaceful setting was wholly at odds with the blazing eyes of the man who turned to face them, his back to a gold upholstered swivel chair

Coolly, Skinner looked around the room, and saw, for the first time, a sign of Japanese influence. At the far, curving end of the conservatory, behind a leather-topped, two-pedestal desk and green captain’s chair, a full set of samurai armour stood on a frame. A short sword was tucked into the sash which was tied around the waist.

Skinner returned his gaze to the waiting man. Formally, he introduced himself, Martin and Mackie.

Yobatu nodded his head briefly towards each in turn. Then he spoke, and in his voice, Skinner caught an unmistakeable edge of contempt not far beneath the veneer of courtesy.

‘Gentlemen, what is it that brings three so senior policemen to my home on a Sunday? This is my day of rest; I would have thought it was yours also. So tell me, what has happened to my factory?’

‘Yobatu san,’ said Skinner. Mackie’s head turned in surprise at the greeting. ‘Nothing is wrong with your factory. We are here to speak with you about other matters.

‘In recent weeks there have been a number of violent deaths in Glasgow and in Edinburgh. We have looked for a link between these crimes, and in our investigation certain facts have come to light which indicate that such a link may possibly exist through you. This evidence is sufficiently strong for the Sheriff to have agreed to provide us with a warrant to search these premises for certain items which may have a bearing on these crimes.’

Yobatu’s eyes burned even more angrily. He drew himself stiffly to his full height. He was almost as tall as Skinner.

‘But this cannot be!’ he exclaimed, his voice not far below a shout.

‘I am sorry, sir, but it is.’ Skinner turned to Mackie and saw that Madame Yobatu was standing in the sliding doorway. ‘Inspector, please call our people. Madame, where are your children?’

‘They are in the playroom in the attic.’

‘Perhaps you will go to them. I will send a woman officer to you. She will ensure that you are not disturbed.’

Mackie left the room, and the house. He trudged through the snow to the end of the drive. Stepping into the road, he waved to the team. Quickly the two minibuses drew into the drive.

The officers climbed out, and entered the house, wiping their shoes on the mat as they were ordered.

In the hallway, Mackie split the group into five teams. He sent DC Rose to join Madame Yobatu, with orders to search the playroom without fuss. Then he allocated an area of the house to each team.

The search began.

29

In the conservatory, Yobatu had recovered his composure. He was seated in the gold chair, faced by Skinner and Martin, side-by-side on a Chesterfield which matched the captain’s chair behind the desk.

Skinner maintained the formality of his tone. ‘Yobatu san, I am required to begin by advising you that you are not obliged to answer our questions ...’

For the first time the flicker of a sardonic smile crossed the brown face. ‘I know.’

‘... but that should you choose so to do, any answers that you might give could be used against you.’

Yobatu did not react again; Skinner began his interrogation.

‘Yobatu san, what were your feelings when the men accused of killing your daughter were acquitted?’

The man sat bolt upright in his chair, rocking it forward. ‘I was outraged. Those boys were guilty. My daughter was a fine girl, a good girl. She did nothing wrong, and your courts denied me revenge on the animals who took her life.’ Again the voice had risen. The savage eyes were incandescent.

‘Sir, what would be your reaction if I told you that one of the two men who stood trial is now dead?’

‘I would say that that was just. And I would add that it is a pity that it was only one.’

‘And what would you say if I told you that the man was murdered?’

‘I would say - justice!’ Yobatu spat the word.

‘So you would be even more pleased if I told you that the man was hacked to death with axes and knives. Killed like a dog.’

Yobatu’s laugh startled both Skinner and Martin. The man clapped his hands, and the eyes twinkled with a terrible pleasure.

‘Just so. Before he died he will have shared my daughter’s pain and terror, and known what he had done, and why he was not fit to live.’

‘Are you a swordsman, Yobatu san?’

Again the man stiffened in his chair. He nodded towards the armour.

‘I am samurai, like all my ancestors. Of course I am a swordsman.’

Skinner rose from the Chesterfield and walked across to the display. He took the sword and scabbard from the sash.

‘Is this your weapon?’

Yobatu nodded. Skinner drew the blade, laying the ornate scabbard on the desk. Holding it in his right hand,