willing to carry the can for something he didn’t do.’
46
Cold rain was beginning to fall on the dimly lit Morningside Street as Skinner pulled his Granada to a halt outside Peter Cowan’s solid, grey, terraced home. Internal wooden shutters, an original feature still in use in many of Edinburgh’s elegant Victorian homes were pulled across the ground floor windows.
The Clerk of Faculty answered Skinner’s knock on the door. ‘Hello, Bob. Good to see you. Congratulations are in order, I hear.’
Faster than a speeding bullet, that’s the Edinburgh grapevine, thought Skinner.
‘Thank you, Peter. Yes, I’m a lucky man. Happy New Year, by the way.
‘Same to you; many of them. Come away in. Now what’s the mystery? He led the way into a comfortable family sitting room, with heavy velvet curtains and a chintzy suite, set around a coal-effect gas fire.
‘Deep and dark, my friend, deep and dark,’ Skinner replied. ‘Look don’t over-react to this, but I want you to think carefully. Have there been, since Rachel Jameson’s murder, or before Mortimer’s, any other deaths in the Faculty of people who might have been close to either of those two?’
Cowan’s expressive eyes widened. ‘Rachel’s murder! You know that the Crown Office has it labelled SUICIDE in big black letters. That’s how the evidence will look at the FAI.
‘I thought your Japanese connection had fallen through. Hasn’t it?’
‘It’s a long story, Peter.’ He explained how the Yobatu lead had developed, and how it had ended with the intervention of Allingham and Wilson.
‘Now after being convinced, I’ve got reason to think that Yobatu didn’t do it. If Mike and Rachel were killed by the same man — as I’m bloody sure they were — and it wasn’t Yobatu, then there’s another reason for their deaths, and maybe, other people involved and at risk. That’s my concern.’
‘I see.’ Cowan’s face took on a troubled look. He thought in silence for a few moments. ‘No. There’s been no one, no deaths. Not since Rachel, and not for more than a year before Mike. And I would know. As Clerk, I have to arrange wreaths, letters of condolence, that sort of thing. We’re a relatively small club, and so deaths of practising members are not exactly common. The last one before Mike was two years ago, one of our most senior seniors, and he died of cancer.’
‘That’s something to be going on with. How about associates? Were Mike and Rachel part of any group?’
‘Not that I’ve ever heard of. We have some special interest groups in the Faculty, but neither Mike nor Rachel belonged to any of them.
‘Apart from the Chinese business, I don’t recall them ever appearing together professionally. Everyone knew they had the hots for each other, but they kept their private lives well out of the Library, as we all do.’
‘What about instructing solicitors? Could there be a link there?’
‘I don’t see it. They both had largely criminal practices. As you know, that means that most of their work would come from the West of Scotland. I can’t recall any of the Glasgow solicitor mafia having come to a sticky end in the time-scale we’re considering.’
Cowan walked over to a drinks table beside the door. He picked up a decanter and a glass, and looked at Skinner, raising his eyebrows.
‘No thanks, Peter,’ he replied to the unspoken offer. ‘It’s a bit early. Anyway, I’ll need to get home to break the good news to Sarah that I’m going to London first thing tomorrow.’
‘To do with this?’
‘Yes. I’m off for another chat with the Ambassador. There’s one other thing I’d like from the Faculty. Can I have your cooperation in a very discreet check on Mortimer and Jameson? I want to go through their lives with a toothcomb, from university on. For example, I want to find out if they knew each other then.’
‘I can tell you that. They didn’t. Mike was Glasgow, Rachel was Edinburgh. They worked in different cities until they came to the Bar. As a matter of fact I introduced them, and they were definitely meeting for the first time.’
Cowan put the decanter back on the table, unbroached, and turned back to face Skinner.
‘Bob, I’ll give your people every facility. I’ll find somewhere private for them to work. But we’ll need a cover story. Our place is a rumour factory. Who’s going to be in charge of your team?’
‘Andy Martin’s putting a squad together. There’ll be one or two on the premises, but I’ll make sure that they’re not known to any of your people, and if possible — though this will be more difficult — that they don’t look like polis!’
‘You can pretend they’re auditors. No one ever goes near them!’
Cowan chuckled. ‘When do you want to start? Monday OK? I say that because I’ll need to brief my secretary to sort out all of Mike and Rachel’s papers without attracting attention. What about the rest of their things? Personal stuff.’
‘I’ll need to talk to next of kin about that. With a bit of luck it’ll all still be in their flats, or in the hands of executors.’
Cowan looked at him. ‘That’s if they left wills. They were both young, and lawyers are as bad as any professionals at following their own advice!’
47
Leaving Gullane at 6.05 a.m., and using the Edinburgh by-pass, Skinner arrived at the airport with twenty minutes to spare. He bought a ticket and boarded the half-empty flight. The 757 took off on time, and landed without the almost obligatory wait in the Heathrow stack.
The tube was quieter than usual, free on a Saturday of the hordes of office workers. He read the Weekend section of his
He left the tube at Green Park and walked towards Piccadilly Circus until he found the Embassy, entered, and announced himself. The young Japanese receptionist checked a sheet of crested paper on his desk, and rose from his seat. ‘Please follow me, sir.’
He led Skinner up a flight of stairs and along a thickly-carpeted hallway, at the end of which double doors opened into Shi-Bachi’s outer office. ‘Please be seated,’ the young man invited, indicating a high-backed chair.
The receptionist whispered to a middle-aged man who sat in a red leather chair behind a dark wood desk. The man looked up from his papers and replied in Japanese. The youth withdrew, and the aide turned to Skinner. ‘Good morning, sir. I will see if the Ambassador is free.’
He picked up one of three telephones on his desk, pressed a button, and spoke. In the flow of Japanese, Skinner recognised his own name. The man replaced the phone. ‘The Ambassador will see you at once,’ he said, indicating by his tone that the speed of the audience was something of an honour.
He escorted Skinner through a second set of double doors into a long room. The wall facing the door, was almost completely window, shrouded by heavy blast curtains in white net. The Ambassador’s vast desk was set to the left, away from the windows. A portrait of the Emperor hung behind the swivel chair, with another of his late father above the fireplace opposite.
Shi-Bachi rose and walked towards Skinner, extending his hand in Western-style greeting. ‘Good morning, Assistant Chief Constable. I am glad to see you again.’
Skinner bowed briefly and shook the extended hand. ‘And I to see you, sir.’
They settled into two soft armchairs. The man from the outer office reappeared with a tray, on which were set a silver tea-pot, two china cups, a small jug of milk, and to Skinner’s private amusement, a large plate of chocolate digestive biscuits.
Shi-Bachi pointed to the plate and laughed. ‘Some things are commo to both our cultures!’ The Ambassador’s aide looked puzzled as he poured.
Each sipped his tea in silence for a moment. At last Shi-Bachi spoke. ‘So, Mr Skinner,’ he asked softly, ‘what is it that you wish to tell me about Yobatu san?’
