‘That’s going to be tight.’
‘Traffic say that it should be easily enough time, sir, as long as you leave at two sharp.’
Skinner sighed. ‘In that case, I’ll have to receive them in uniform, because it doesn’t sound as if I’ll have time to change after they’ve gone.’
Gerry nodded. ‘That sounds like a good idea, sir.’
‘As far as I’m concerned, son, wearing uniform is always a fucking awful idea. Any evening engagements?’
‘No, sir, not tonight. There’s one on Thursday, though. The City Council is launching a new Zero Tolerance campaign, and you’re invited.’
Skinner shook his head emphatically. ‘One thing you should know about me. I never take on any engagements on Thursday evenings. That’s Lads’ Night. No, pass the details of the event to DCI Rose, out in Haddington, and ask her if she’d represent the force.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Tell you what, Gerry, why don’t you cut down on your quota of “sirs”. I’m not really a very formal guy. I look for performance rather than deference, and you have no worries on that score.’
The acting Chief Constable was immaculate, in full uniform as his secretary announced the Ghanaian visitor, and his party, at exactly quarter to eleven. While Skinner never felt comfortable in official dress, on the occasions on which it was required, he always ensured that his trousers had knife-edge creases and that his silver buttons were sparkling. He stood straight and tall as he shook hands with the stocky African, showing him to an armchair with exactly the right mix of courtesy and authority.
Beside him, Andy Martin was edgy, trying as hard as he could not to show his impatience at the interruption to his major priorities.
‘How long is your visit to Britain, Mr Ankrah?’ Skinner asked, as the pleasantries drew to an end.
‘This is my second week. I leave on Friday. I spent all of last week with the Met, yesterday I was in Manchester, and tomorrow and Thursday, I will spend with Strathclyde. I am very pleased. You are the first Chief Officer who has met me personally. The others have sent their press officers or executive assistants.’
Inwardly, Skinner cursed himself for not thinking of delegating his guest to Alan Royston, but he kept a welcoming smile on his face. ‘What is your rank in Ghana?’ he asked.
‘I am Mr Martin’s equivalent in Accra: Head of Criminal Investigation.’
‘What sort of crime do you experience?’
‘Violence, robbery, rape, drugs: much the same as you, only more of it, and with less resources to fight against it.’
‘What have you seen so far on your visit?’
Ankrah smiled, showing perfect white teeth. ‘I have seen many police stations, Mr Skinner, and I have seen criminals in court. But I have not seen any criminal investigations.’
The DCC chuckled. ‘It’s easier to lay on lunch than crime. The major investigation which we have underway at the moment, is I’m afraid, stalled. Our only witness fled the country at the weekend.’ Martin glanced at him, wondering for a moment why he had only mentioned one inquiry, until he realised that he would not want to talk about Archergait’s murder with the Scottish Office people in the room.
‘Still, this is a very fine police office, and we will be happy to show it to you, and to let you see some of our people at work. I sympathise with your lack of resources, yet in my experience, however much you have, there will always be times when it just doesn’t seem to be enough.
‘On the other hand, there can be times when all those resources can be irrelevant. Take our current investigation, for example. Until we can uncover new lines of inquiry, by analysing the material which we have, most of our people are sitting on their hands.
‘There’s another essential resource, of course.’
‘Yes,’ said Ankrah. ‘Instinct. Some things are international. ’
Skinner laughed out loud. ‘You’re right, of course, but that’s not what I was going to say. I was talking about criminal intelligence. The greatest gift that information technology has given investigators is the ability to source facts and figures about types of crime, and the people who specialise in them, more or less at the touch of a button.
‘I thought we’d start our tour with a visit to our intelligence-gathering unit.’
The five rose and were moving towards the door, when there was a light knock and it opened. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ said Gerry Crossley, ‘but I have Superintendent Pringle on the line for DCS Martin. He says it’s very important.’
Frowning, the Head of CID stepped into the outer office and picked up the phone which lay on the desk. His back was to Skinner as he spoke, but the DCC could see the change in his body language as his conversation developed. At last he replaced the phone, and stepped back into the doorway.
‘They’ve done it again, Boss,’ he said grimly. ‘But this time, they’ve changed the target. Raglan’s, the jeweller in Castle Street, was held up just over half an hour ago by three men wearing Hallowe’en masks, and carrying shotguns.’
‘Casualties?’ Tension gripped the room.
‘Not this time, thank God, but they’ve ripped off just about every gemstone in the place. I’d better go down there.’
Skinner turned to his Ghanaian guest. ‘You say you haven’t seen any action since you’ve been here, Mr Ankrah.Well, now’s your chance. If your escorts will allow it, Andy and I will be pleased to take you to see a genuine, fresh, Scottish crime scene.’
31
Kwame Ankrah looked across Princes Street at the Castle, silhouetted by the morning sun, as its battlements frowned down on the street to which it had given its name. Changes in the traffic plan had made it a cul-de-sac, accessible only from George Street, but now the lower half was closed off completely, from Rose Street down.
Skinner looked at the face which Raglan’s showed to the street. He had noticed the shop often, of course, but had never been inside, preferring to make his jewellery purchases from a family-owned business along in Frederick Street than from a public company which boasted two Royal crests above its doors.
It was a feature of the Castle Street branch that very little stock was displayed in the double window on either side of the entrance. To the left, he saw an exquisitely fashioned suite of emerald pieces, all set in platinum, and to the right, the most expensive items from the most expensive watch brand on the market. Other than that, the shallow windows, with their wood-panelled backings, were empty, but there was no sign that they had been disturbed.
The manager was slightly over-awed to see a large man in an impressive uniform, and an immaculately tailored African, step into his shop behind Martin.
Dan Pringle was surprised also, but made no comment, save a brief nod to the DCC as he stepped across to the Head of CID. ‘Morning, Andy,’ he said, quietly. ‘God’s gift to enterprising thieves, this one was.
‘I don’t know how their insurers let them away with it, but there’s no video surveillance, and a police-linked alarm system which they actually switch off during the day. The only half-serious precaution is a button entry door, controlled from within the shop.’ The Superintendent shook his head in a gesture of disbelief. ‘The manager was just talking me through the stock loss.’ He turned and beckoned to the man, who stood in a doorway behind a glass-fronted counter, at the rear of the shop. Like every other display case in the big unit, it was strewn with empty trays.
‘Mr Rarity, this is DCS Martin,’ he began. ‘The officer in uniform is Deputy Chief Constable Skinner, the other gentleman . . .’
Martin helped him out. ‘. . . is Mr Ankrah, an African visitor who was with Mr Skinner and me when the call came in. So, Mr Rarity, can you put an approximate value on the haul?’
The man, who was in his fifties and who stood less than five feet six inches tall, chewed at his bottom lip. ‘At retail prices?’ he asked in a high squeaky voice. The Head of CID nodded. ‘I’ll need to work it out accurately, but
