76
‘So there it is, ladies and gentlemen. Jackie and Carole Charles’ entire illegal business, since 1984 at least, all wrapped up in there. I’m sure that there are other records going back before that period. I’d guess that, wherever the money is, that’s where we’ll find them.’
As Skinner spoke, Andy Martin closed the ledger and passed it to Dave Donaldson, seated beside him.
‘But there’s nothing solid, boss,’ said the Chief Superintendent. ‘It’s all initials; there isn’t a name in it. We’ll never convict anyone with that, because it doesn’t incriminate anyone.’
Skinner grinned. ‘Oh yes it does. It incriminates Jackie Charles, right up to his nuts. We’ll prove that every entry in that book is in Carole’s handwriting. We’ll show that there are gaps in the entries which match dates when she and Jackie took their holidays, taking with them, as the variations in the balance indicate, great chunks of cash.
‘Then we’ll do him for tax evasion. A couple of million, at a rough calculation.’
As he looked around the table, from face to face, they all looked up at him as he stood by the window. Andy Martin, Dave Donaldson, Maggie Rose, Sammy Pye, Neil McIlhenney, Brian Mackie, Mario McGuire, Pamela Masters: his team, Skinner’s people.
His smile embraced them all. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, I ask you. When Jackie gets up in the witness box and says “I never knew. My late wife obtained and disbursed all that money illegally and salted the balance away overseas, and I never knew,” which one of you is going to believe a word he says? Who could believe that a man could be so ignorant of what his own wife is doing?’
As the words left his lips, his voice tailed off, and he turned to look out of the window, so that no-one, not even Andy or Pamela, could see his face. For he knew that he was the one person in the room who could give credence to the only defence open to Jackie Charles.
He mastered himself and turned back to face them. ‘Right now, Jackie’s sat up there, in his unprotected villa in Ravelston Dykes thinking that he’s as safe as houses. Terry’s dead, and so there’s no chain to link him to McCartney, the Birmingham murders or the Jimmy Lee attack.’
He pointed to the ledger. ‘But he doesn’t know we’ve got that. He didn’t even know where it was himself, because that’s one thing Carole didn’t tell him. She didn’t tell him about the three properties she bought as Jackie Huish, maybe for added security, or maybe just because she didn’t want him to know where she and her so-called pal got up to whatever it was they got up to when Carole was supposed to be at Yoga.
‘Jackie doesn’t know that we’ve got his records, and he doesn’t know what that book can do to him.’ He paused and resumed his seat at the table, beside Martin.
‘So tonight, he can stay where he is, while Pam, Sammy and I do some more work on that ledger, and while Brian and Mario check the dates and hints in that correspondence against robberies, murders and other assorted events around Britain.
‘He can stay there until ten o’clock tomorrow morning, when you, Mr Martin, and you Mr Donaldson, with Sergeant McIlhenney’s strong arm beside you, will call at Ravelston Dykes and pick him up.’
He took the ledger from Donaldson. ‘Once we’ve got him, and he sees this, then just like Ricky McCartney, to earn himself a few years less in the pokey, I’ll bet he puts a name to every initial in this book.’
He stood up. ‘Pamela, Sammy, you come with me. The rest of you, I’ll see you all here, 9 a.m. tomorrow.’
77
They stepped to the left of the monoblock driveway, crossed the foot of the lawn and made their way up through the trees, until they were almost at the villa.
Since the line of their approach kept them out of sight of its sensor, the security lamp over the garage stayed dark. There were no lights showing in the house itself, only the cream globe over the door, and the strong blue metal glow from the big television set in Jackie Charles’ private cinema.
Silently, they took the last few steps up to the front door. A black-gloved finger pressed the bell, which rang out loudly inside. They stood and waited. Eventually, a light shone in the big hallway. Eventually, the door swung open, silently.
Jackie Charles stepped back in surprise at the sight of Sir James Proud, in full uniform, standing on his doorstep, the light shining on the silver braid on his epaulettes and his cap. Quickly, he slipped something into the right hand pocket of his red, velvet-trimmed smoking jacket, and ran his hand over his neatly cropped hair.
‘John Jackson Charles,’ the Chief Constable boomed. ‘We are here to arrest you on charges of tax evasion.’ Then he glowered, fiercely. ‘But first, my deputy, Mr Skinner, would like a word in private about another matter.’
He stepped aside, and Skinner swept into the hall like a Mediterranean thunderstorm, dark and crackling with unleashed fury. In a flash he seized Charles by the lapels, bunching them in his right fist. The other hand went to the right-hand pocket of the smoking jacket and took out a slim automatic pistol.
‘Not completely certain, Jackie, were you?’ he said, showing the gun to the Chief behind him without looking backwards, then slipping it into the pocket of his own jacket. ‘That’s something else we can do you for. There’s no way that gun’s licensed.’
He propelled the struggling man before him, towards the television room, and thrust him inside, closing the door behind them and moving quickly to pull the heavy curtains.
‘What’s all this . . . ?’
Crack! Skinner’s backhanded slap took Charles off his feet, in mid-protest, and sent him sprawling across one of the red chairs, and down to the floor. As he lay there shaking his head, as if to clear it, the policeman hauled him upright, lifted him to eye level, and butted him hard between the eyes, before hurling him into one of the two chairs, like a discarded garment.
Bleeding heavily from the nose, his eyes wide with shock and terror, Charles stared up at his assailant, helpless. His mouth opened, revealing a twisted dental bridge. Before he could speak, Skinner’s right index finger shot out, warning, threatening.
‘Not a word, Jackie. Not a single fucking word. Just think back to eighteen years ago, you little shit. That’s what this is about. You were afraid of me then, were you? Oh, by Christ, but what I’m going to do to you now!’
Bloody words started to bubble from Charles’ lips, until they were silenced by a single ferocious look.
‘Myra kept a diary, Jackie,’ Skinner snarled. ‘Every day of her adult life. I never read it while she was alive, because she told me that it was the one thing she wanted for herself alone. After she died, it stayed unread. Until last night, that is, when finally, I started looking for answers.’
He reached into his inside pocket and took out two folded sheets of paper. ‘It’s some read, Jackie, I’ll tell you. Hot stuff. Listen to this.’
January 17. Gullane.
I know I shouldn’t have, with Bob away on his course. If he had been home we wouldn’t have been there. But my old devil grabbed me, so I asked Lindsey to babysit, I put on the glad rags and I went to Bill and Gerrie’s party.
He was there as usual, that little slimeball Jackie, with his tart of a wife. I remember the way she tried to come on to Bob last year at Linda’s, and how he froze her. So that’s what happened tonight but the roles were reversed. Jackie, half-pissed, comes on to me, grabs me up for a dance, cheek to cheek, chest to chest, crotch to crotch, or it would have been if he wasn’t so short. Then he starts whispering rubbish in my ear. Well, the red mist came down. I danced him into the hall, with no-one looking, and into the big cloakroom. He started playing with my tits, until I said to him, ‘Look Jackie, just fuck me, okay.’ I heard him gasp in the dark. I’m sure he wanted to get out of there but I stepped out of my shoes, unzipped him, took the puny thing out, and grabbed him by the unmentionables until he performed as best he could.
Skinner paused, then read on silently, actually finishing the page for the first time. The night before he had
