Skinner's Mission

18

James Andrew Skinner cast himself off from the armchair which served as his leaning post, and stepped, teetering, tottering, towards his father, who was seated on the edge of the couch in the sitting room at Fairyhouse Avenue.

There was a look of triumphant achievement on the child’s face as his forward momentum carried him almost at a run into Bob’s outstretched hands.

‘What a boy!’ said his father as he caught him. ‘Going on ten months and practically running! We are going to have to watch you like a hawk from now on. Aren’t we, Tracey?’ He looked over his shoulder at the young Australian nanny, who stood in the doorway.

‘That’s right, Mr Skinner. Now that he’s found his feet, he’ll be all over the house. I think it would be a good idea to have a gate fitted at the top of the stairs. I put him in his cot for a sleep this morning, and the little so-and- so climbed right out again and headed for the door.’

Bob nodded, hefting his son up to his shoulder. ‘You do that straight away. Pick the nearest joiner out of Yellow Pages and ask him to fit something up right away, no later than first thing Monday.’ He peered at the baby, nose to nose. ‘Meantime, you stay away from the stairs, understand?’

‘S’airs,’ said Jazz, adding yet another new sound, if not quite a word, to his vocabulary.

The girl looked puzzled. ‘Joiner?’

He smiled. ‘Sorry, Trace. I suppose that’s carpenter in Australian. Let Sarah know about it when she comes in tonight.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ll be out at the cottage for the next few days. I’ve got some things to do, and I’m better off out there.’

He knew that he was not fooling the sharply intelligent girl, but she simply nodded. ‘I’ll get the phone book. Meantime, Jazz’s lunch is in the kitchen. There’s a sandwich there for you too. Corned beef. That all right?’

‘Of course. Thanks, lass. You didn’t need to do that. Maybe I’ll come home for lunch more often from now on.’

He carried his son into the kitchen, fitted him into a high feeding chair, and began to spoon scrambled egg into his mouth. The child ate ravenously, demandingly. Bob’s sandwich lay untouched on the table.

Father and son were both so intent on the serious business of lunch that each looked round startled when the door to the garden opened. ‘Hi,’ said Sarah, unsmiling until she reached Jazz. ‘Hello, Big Boy. Got a new nanny, huh?’ She leaned over to kiss him, and ruffled his fine fair hair. ‘Mamma!’ said Jazz, spraying yellow crumbs of scrambled egg.

Automatically, Bob reached out a hand to her. Nimbly she rolled away from his touch.

‘Is this going to be the routine from now on?’ she asked quietly.

He nodded. ‘Whenever I can, I’ll visit him at lunchtime. After work too, if it’s not too late and it’s okay with you.’

‘It’s okay, on one condition. That we don’t discuss anything other than Jazz and any personal arrangements we need to make. I don’t want to hear another word about Myra, or her death, or your Goddamn misplaced sense of duty and loyalty.’ Her voice was cold and bitter.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he said quickly, to placate her. ‘That’s agreed.’ A shout from Jazz took him back to his task. He fed the child another spoonful and looked up at Sarah. ‘What are we going to do, love?’ he asked earnestly.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘And don’t call me love until you can make me believe you mean it again. I don’t know about we. I do know one thing that I’m going to do. In fact, I’ve done it already. I’ve quit my job at the University. Vacation starts on Monday. Next semester is all revision work for my students. I told the Principal today that if he can find someone to handle that, I’d like not to come back after the break.’

‘How did he take that?’

She shrugged. ‘He was disappointed, but he understood. I told him that my life was changing, that you and I had separated and that . . .’

He looked at her, taken aback. ‘You told that f--’ He caught himself at her frown, and fed Jazz the last of the scrambled egg. ‘You told that old windbag. Christ, it’ll be all over the New Club before the day’s out.’

‘Then maybe you’d better put in an appearance there, to confirm it.’ She looked at him, a touch of sympathy creeping into her eyes. ‘Bob, you’d better start thinking in those terms, because that’s what’s happened. That’s the choice you, okay we, made, and it’s only us, the two of us together, who can unmake it. Right now, even if you wanted that, I’m pretty sure that I don’t.’

He turned and reached for the apple puree which Tracey had blended as Jazz’s dessert. Keeping his voice as casual as he could, he asked, ‘Do you want to formalise things, then?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t see the need for that . . . not at this stage anyway. If either one of us decides later on that it has to be permanent, then we can get lawyers involved. Till then, let’s keep it between us.’

On cue, and as if maliciously, the phone rang. Sarah picked it up. ‘Hello. Yes, he’s here.’ She held the instrument out to him. ‘It’s Alan Royston.’

He took it from her. ‘Yes, Alan.’ As he spoke an image of Royston and Pamela Masters came into his mind, taking him by surprise.

‘I’m sorry about this, sir . . .’ The police press officer sounded hesitant. ‘But I’ve just had a call from the Editor of the Scotsman. She’s attending a lunch at the University, and she was told up there that you and Sarah have separated. I asked for her source, of course, but she wouldn’t tell me who it was.

‘I hate to bring this to you, but--’

Skinner cut him off short. ‘Alan, tell the lady that my wife and I do not discuss private matters in the public press.’ He paused. ‘Tell her too that she should go back to her source and tell him that if I hear one more piece of gossip about this, then his life won’t be worth the living!’

19

‘Jimmy, don’t blame yourself. There’s no need. You were misled into doing something that you believed was in my best interests.

‘Sarah and I have screwed things up between us. We’ve both been at fault, and now we need to back off from each other, to see if we can sort it out. And,’ Skinner added, ‘to let me do something that I have to do.’

He paused, looking across the coffee table at the Chief. ‘Do you remember when my wife was killed?’

Sir James Proud sighed. ‘Never forget it. I was ACC Operations then. I saw the report myself.’

‘Can you remember how the incident was handled by the Procurator Fiscal? I was in a haze around then, but I don’t recall there being a Fatal Accident Inquiry.’

‘There wasn’t, Bob, not a formal court hearing at least. The officers at the scene reported that it was a straightforward loss of control due to excessive speed; no eye-witnesses but no indication of any other vehicle involved. The post mortem confirmed that death was due to crushing injuries to the chest and would have been instantaneous.’ He gazed at Skinner.

‘I ordered the report completed and sent it to the Fiscal in Edinburgh.’

‘Not the deputy in Haddington?’

‘No, I sent it over his head. I went straight to the top man and told him I didn’t see the need for a full FAI before Sheriff and jury, and that I didn’t want one. He agreed.’

‘Did you keep a copy of the report,’ Skinner asked, quietly.

Sir James shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t. It was the Fiscal’s property, not mine. I sent him the only copy.’

‘And were there photographs with it?’

‘There were, but I didn’t forward them. I sent them back to the photographic unit. I imagine they were destroyed.’

Proud Jimmy looked anxiously at Skinner. ‘This is part of what’s between you and Sarah, son, isn’t it?’

‘That’s the way she wants to see it,’ said the DCC, choosing his words carefully.