Martin gave Haggerty his home telephone number. ‘Thanks, Mr Haggerty. Chances are this won’t amount to anything, but if necessary we’ll keep in touch.’
He kept the receiver in his hand, pushed the recall button and dialled the bereaved Mrs Jameson. He knew that Rachel’s mother was a widow, and so he was taken slightly by surprise when the telephone was answered by a man. Voices sounded in the background. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said. ‘I wonder if I might speak with Mrs Wilma Jameson.’
‘That depends. Who are you?’
‘Chief Inspector Andrew Martin. And you are, sir?’
The voice at the other end of the line suddenly became respectful. ‘Me? Oh, I’m Harry Peebles; Mrs Jameson’s my sister. Hold on please. Wilma!’ He bawled over the voices in the background.
‘Christ!’ Andy chortled to himself, with his hand over the telephone. ‘I think I’ve got Fred Flintstone here!’
He heard Peebles mutter to his sister, then a strong female voice came on to the line. ‘Mr Martin. What do the police want, today of all days?’
‘It’s just another day for us, I’m afraid. I’m sorry to interrupt your party, Mrs Jameson, but it’s a matter relating to your daughter’s death, and some of her legal papers which may be missing. By any chance, do you have her briefcase?’
For a moment Mrs Jameson sounded guilty. ‘I’m not really having a party, Chief Inspector. My brother and his family have come round to cheer me up. You see, I always spent New Year’s Day with Rachel. I wouldn’t have known what to do with myself but for Harry, Cissie and the family.’
It was Martin’s turn to feel guilty. ‘Of course, Mrs Jameson.’
‘Yes, but one must be strong. Now, Rachel’s briefcase; I thought that you had it, or perhaps her Clerk, or someone else up at the Library. certainly don’t. I’ve been wondering about it, in fact. You will let me know when you locate it, won’t you?’
‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’ He ended the call and replaced the receiver.
He pulled open a cupboard, rummaged around in the darkness for almost a minute, and emerged, holding an A5 handbook, with a pale blue and gold cover. It was a directory of practising advocates, listed alphabetically and by stables, each group headed by the name, address and home telephone number of its clerk.
He found Rachel’s entry in the group serviced by Miss A. E. Rabbit. He picked up the telephone once more and dialled the number shown.
Angela Rabbit was used to calls at odd hours. Willingness to accept them was one of the requirements of the job, as was a total recall memory.
‘Rachel’s briefcase? Big black thing. No it never came back. I really should have the McCann papers as well. You don’t suppose Strathclyde have lost them do you?’
Martin laughed, thanked her, and rang off.
He locked Mortimer’s case in his security cabinet. As he stood up he spoke to the empty room. ‘God knows what Bob’ll make of it, but I have a feeling that there’s trouble for someone on its way back from L’Escala.’
44
Unusually for a charter, their flight from Gerona to Manchester arrived on time. The big baggage hall was quiet, with only two of the six carousels in use.
The drive home took three and a half hours. They followed the M6 then the A74 to Moffat, cut cross-country to the Edinburgh by-pass and headed eastward to Gullane. It was just after 7.00 p.m. when Bob drew the car to a halt outside the cottage, beside Alex’s ageing Metro.
The entrance hallway was dark. The cottage was silent. Sarah flicked on a light. Nothing happened. Skinner swore softly. Sarah found the handle of the living room door and opened it.
‘Surprise!’ forty voices shouted in chorus.
Sarah’s jaw dropped. Alex and Andy stood in front of a host of friends, from Gullane, from the force, and from Sarah’s practice.
Andy pressed a button on the CD player. Cliff Richard boomed out his congratulations through the powerful speakers.
‘What the hell is this?’ Bob said to Sarah, who looked equally stunned.
Alex answered. She stepped up to them with eyes shining. She hugged Sarah first, then Bob.
‘This, my naive old parent, is Alexis Skinner’s luxury-model surprise engagement party!
‘Have a glass.’ She pressed a champagne flute into his hand. Andy handed one to Sarah, kissing her on the cheek. Alex looked towards the corner of the room. ‘Come on, Chief, do your duty!’
To Skinner’s added astonishment, Proud Jimmy stepped forward, out of uniform for once. He raised his glass. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! I am here to propose a toast to which I have been looking forward for some months now. I give you the happy couple, Bob and Sarah!’
‘Bob and Sarah.’ The toast rippled round the room like a Mexican Wave. Glasses clinked. Bob hugged Sarah to him. Alex grabbed her left hand.
‘I’ve always Known you had class, Pops, and you’ve really shown it this time!’
45
The party started to break up around 1.00 a.m., and the last of the guests left an hour later.
Bob and Andy were both signed off on leave until the following Monday.
Fat chance! thought Martin as he snapped off the table lamp in the small guest bedroom.
Inevitably, the door opened just after 9.00 a.m. Skinner, wearing track-suit trousers and a tee-shirt, came into the room. He was flushed and perspiring. ‘You don’t mind if I drip on you, Andy?’
Martin made a face. ‘No, not at all. How far have you run?’
‘Along to Dirleton and back past the farm. The usual circuit. Remember, you did it with me once.’
Martin recalled only too well the punishing pace that had been set on the five-mile lap. The experience had confirmed his preference for running alone.
Skinner sat on the floor, and came straight to the point. ‘Did you take care of that job for me?’
‘Yes. No problems other than breaking into New Year’s Day in the Haggerty household. You were right about our Productions Store. You could lose a corpse in there. Mind, I still managed to find Mortimer’s case, by luck rather than judgement. There’s no sign of the other one. Not in Glasgow, not in the Advocates’ Library, and not with her mother. It does exist though. Great big black thing apparently.’
‘Did you check with the Transport Police?’
‘Willie Haggerty did. Nothing there though. Some passer-by probably nicked it at the scene. They’d steal anything in Glasgow.’
Martin lay in bed, propped up on an elbow. Skinner looked at him, with perspiration running in a line down his temple.
‘Casual theft is one explanation, but not the only one. Someone nicked it all right, but was it someone with a motive other than simple theft?
‘ Where’s Mortimer’s case?’
‘Locked up in my security cabinet. But listen, boss, what is all this? The Yobatu enquiry is over and done with, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe; but in the middle of it all, there’s something out of place. It has to do with those two advocates, or at least with their cases. Let’s go and take a look at Mortimer’s.’
Driving into Edinburgh half an hour later, Skinner explained his unease over the combination locks on Mortimer’s case. Unusually, Martin was sceptical. ‘OK, so if you’re right and Yobatu took a look in his briefcase, what will that prove?’
‘Why the bloody hell should Yobatu do that? He’s in the frame because we see him as a madman out for vengeance. Once he’s killed his target, he’s not going to stay around to search his briefcase. But even if he did, why
