many trained officers. We have to rely much more on our instincts.’
‘Good for you, mate,’ said Skinner, sincerely. ‘A nose for the job is just as important to us as all the stuff you see here. When detectives stop following their instincts, by and large they’re no good to me.’
As they reached the top of the stairs which led to the command corridor, Andy Martin was waiting for them. ‘This is the pathologist’s report on the West Linton murder,’ he said, holding up a document.
‘I know what’s in it,’ said Skinner, leading the way into his temporary office. ‘Sarah told me. The man was tied up and shot once in the back of the head.’
‘That’s right,’ the Head of CID confirmed, looking at Ankrah.
‘If it was Sturrock he was very efficient. One shot and the man was gone. The only oddity was a small stab wound in the middle of the back. I can’t figure out why he did that.’
‘I think I can tell you,’ said Kwame Ankrah, quietly, and for once unsmiling. The two Scots looked at him, surprised.
‘Before I came here,’ the Ghanaian began, ‘I paid an official visit to the People’s Republic of China. While I was there, my hosts were kind enough to take me to see an execution. Ten executions, to be more accurate.’ He grimaced, and shuddered slightly.
‘There was no ceremony about it. The condemned people . . . two of them were women . . . were forced to kneel, and shot in the back of the head with a single bullet, just like this man Saunders. But in that position, the natural reaction is to pull the head down and to cringe away from the bullet.
‘So, when the marksman was ready, another person would put a knife into the back of the criminal, very quickly and without warning. That made him straighten and pull his head up. As he did so, the executioner would fire.
‘They used big, heavy, soft bullets,’ he said. ‘Very messy, but they did not waste a shot.’
The Ghanaian shivered again. ‘I think perhaps, that Superintendent McGrigor should be looking for Mr Sturrock’s knife, as well as his gun.’
Skinner smiled at Martin. ‘I told you we could learn from this man. Kwame, welcome to the team, even if it’s only for a month. It’s good to have you around.’
48
‘You never know what’s going to happen in this job, do you?’ said Detective Sergeant Karen Neville. ‘One minute I was up before the Boss, thinking I might be put in charge of female traffic wardens in Newtongrange, or shoved into some other backwater, the next I’m in headquarters, working for the Head of CID.
‘Is Mr Skinner always as unpredictable as that?’
Maggie Rose, not given to spontaneous laughter, chuckled nonetheless. ‘The day the Big Man becomes easy to read, he’ll chuck it.You’ve only seen unpredictable so far: wait till you come across volatile.’
‘What, you mean he chucks telephones, that sort of thing?’
‘Hah, that’s small-time. If Big Bob was a chucker, he’d throw the switchboard, operator and all. No, but he does have a temper. Usually he blows up and that’s it. But you really know there’s trouble brewing when he goes quiet. There’s a look comes into his eyes then, and you don’t want to be on the end of it.
‘I’ve seen him interview a really hard case, and beat the guy to a pulp just with that stare of his.’
‘What about Mr Martin?’ asked Neville. ‘I met him when he was in uniform out in Haddington, but none of us really got to know him then.’
‘The DCS is the opposite of Mr Skinner in some ways. He’s very controlled, most of the time. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever seen him lose his temper. He’s the perfect foil for the Boss; they used to call them Batman and Robin, when they were both younger. He’s a really nice bloke, and you’ll enjoy working for him.’
‘Yes, that’s what Sammy Pye said . . .’
‘You’ve told Sammy you’re joining the team?’
The sergeant shook her head. ‘No, not yet. He told me how good a boss he is a few months ago, one night when we were out for a meal.’
‘Indeed,’ said Rose, expressionless, but with her reaction in her voice.
It was Karen Neville’s turn to grin. ‘I am capable of discretion from time to time. Sammy’s a good friend. We see each other quite a lot but so far, apart from one brief fling, that’s it.’
‘So the story about you and the lad was true.’
‘Yes.’
‘And the story about you propositioning big Neil?’
‘Ah,’ said the sergeant, ‘but I was drunk at the time. I seem to have been risking life and limb there. From what the Boss said, his wife must be formidable.’
This time Maggie Rose did laugh. ‘Neil’s my husband’s best pal, so I know Olive. She keeps him in line, all right, but he builds up her legend. For all that he says, he loves her madly, and their kids.’
The sergeant fell silent for a time, as the two women, wearing light shirts, shorts and sandals in the pleasant August morning sun, trudged along the path. ‘Listen, ma’am,’ she said at last, ‘you won’t say anything to Sammy about young Keenan and his complaint, will you? It’s all been kept in-house up to now, but I’m afraid that if he found out . . .’
‘He might think that there was fire, after all?’
‘No, that’s not what I meant. I’d be afraid that he might go out to Haddington and beat several colours of shit out of Keenan.’
‘What, quiet young Sammy?’
Sergeant Neville glanced at her senior colleague. ‘You don’t know him as well as you think.’
Rose chuckled. ‘I hope he keeps his temper, then, when he’s interviewing the twitcher families with our guest from Ghana.’
‘Sammy’s here?’
‘Yes. He volunteered, with Mr Ankrah. He said that after a week of staring at videos he was desperate for a day out. Bloody typical; they get to wait by the bridge, talking to the anoraks and the family outings, and we get to trudge out here, in search of the gays.’ She paused, with a quick, flashing grin. ‘Not that I’ve got anything against gays, you understand.’
‘Are we nearly there yet?’ asked Karen, looking ahead to a high sandy dune, overgrown with coarse marram grass.
‘I think we must be. I can hear the sound of the waves.’
Laboriously they climbed to the top of the great sand bank, although the path through the grass led round the foot of it. When they reached its summit, it levelled out, offering a panoramic view of a wide golden strand, gloriously inviting, yet almost deserted. Maggie looked around and spotted an open area, a clearing within the grass, and led the way towards it. She sat down gratefully, and slipped her arms out of the straps of the knapsack which she had been carrying on her back.
‘Let’s have a break, and work out how we’re going to tackle this,’ she said, producing a flask and two plastic cups, as Karen flopped on to the sand beside her, kicking off her sandals.
‘Good idea, ma’am,’ she said. ‘Senior officers should show initiative.’ She reached into her shoulder bag. ‘I took the easy option. I brought the KitKats.’
They sat on their lofty perch, sipping hot coffee and nibbling chocolate biscuits, and looked along the expanse of the golden beach below them. The tide was on the ebb, but still high, and a few people were walking along the water’s edge. Neville pointed at two of them, a man and a woman, who were walking dogs. They were thirty yards apart, but approaching the two officers’ vantage point. ‘We should talk to them,’ she said. ‘Maybe they come here every week.’
‘Okay,’ Rose agreed. ‘We’ll go down once they get closer.’
She finished her coffee, wiped the inside of the cup with a tissue then replaced it, with Karen’s, in the knapsack. She was fastening the plastic catches when the voice sounded from behind them.
‘Good day, ladies.’
The policewomen turned simultaneously, looking over their shoulders and upwards. It was a friendly voice, a plummy voice, with a kindly ring to it. Karen was reminded at once of a bachelor uncle who had died when she was
