as teenagers, I beat the crap out of some lad because of her. I never realised at the time, but she set it up.
‘Alex isn’t like that. I never knew her to keep a secret for more than half an hour. She looks like her mother, but that’s it.’
His friend’s laugh was heavy with irony. ‘That’s supposed to have cheered me up, is it? She doesn’t have her mum’s nature: in that case she must take after you.’ He nodded. ‘That figures. She’s good at drawing a line in the sand then daring you to step over it.’
‘D’you know what you do then?’ asked Bob, quietly.
‘Tell me.’
He reached out with his right foot and moved it from side to side, in an odd gesture. ‘Rub out the line.’
82
Skinner had been back at his desk for an hour, studying the papers for the next day’s meeting, when the memory came to him, bursting in his head like a firework.
He picked up the phone and dialled Martin’s office number. ‘Hey, Andy,’ he said, laughing. ‘I know what Mitch Laidlaw was talking about. I remember now: in the original Perry Mason stories, the District Attorney, the guy who lost every time, was called Hamilton Burger.’
‘That’s a big help,’ the Head of CID chuckled. ‘The DA done it, eh. Where does that take us?’
‘Back to Norman King?’
‘You mean if we can’t get him for one, we’ll nail him for the other? I don’t think so somehow.’ He laughed again. ‘Wait till I see that so-and-so. Wasting police time, that’s what he was doing!’
Skinner hung up and returned to his Board papers. Another hour had gone by without interruption, when Gerry’s light knock sounded at the door, and he stepped into the room. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he began, ‘but there’s a man at the reception desk asking to see you. He says his name’s Jim Glossop, and you’ll know what it’s about.’
The acting Chief laid down his pen. ‘I do indeed, Gerry. Go and fetch him please, I’ll see him right away.’
He had tucked his papers away in a deep desk drawer by the time his secretary returned with the stocky statistician.
‘I’ope you don’t mind me coming up to see you, Mr Skinner,’ said Jim Glossop. ‘To be honest with you, I’d have felt a bit uncomfortable talking about this over the telephone.’
‘I understand. Have a seat . . . over here, in the comfortable area. Has Gerry offered you something to drink.’
‘Yes, but I won’t, thanks.’
He lowered himself into a chair, and opened his briefcase. It was black leather, with a gold crown stamped on its front. ‘I’ve traced your birth.’ Glossop laughed, self-consciously. ‘Well, not yours . . . the one you were after, know what I mean.’
He drew out a sheaf of papers, in a clear plastic folder. ‘There’s copies here of everything you’ll need.
‘To sum it all up, Miss Beatrice Lewis gave birth to a son forty-three years ago, at the age of seventeen . . . I checked her birth records as well . . . in the maternity hospital in Fraserburgh. The father’s name is not shown on the birth certificate. As you guessed, registration was done on the mother’s behalf by Michael Xavier Conran.
‘The child’s name is shown on the birth certificate as Bernard Xavier Lewis.’
‘That’s excellent, Mr Glossop. Have you been able to go on from there?’
‘Yes. And we’ve had a stroke of luck. These days, adopted children are able, if they wish, to trace their natural parents. I thought I’d try a shortcut, so I checked to see whether that had been done in this case.’ He paused, leaned forward, and said, with emphasis, ‘It’ as.
‘About three years ago, a man called at New Register House. He had an adoption certificate with him, and he said that he wanted to trace his natural parents. I spoke to the officer who dealt with the case. She remembered it in particular because the chap said it was his fortieth birthday on that day, and this was how he had decided to celebrate it.
‘He said that he knew that he had been born in Fraserburgh, and christened Bernard. Well it was easy, wasn’t it. He asked for, and he was given, copies of his own birth certificate, of his mother’s, and of his grandparents’.’
Mr Glossop looked across at Skinner. ‘We were able to trace his mother on for him. That were when his birthday present turned sour on him. It turned out that she had died years before, of multiple sclerosis, and that her address at the time of her death was shown as care of Her Majesty’s Prison, Cornton Vale.
‘My colleague still remembers how upset the poor chap was.’
He went on. ‘I’ve given you copies of all the certificates that he bought. Last but not least, we took a copy of his adoption certificate, for our records too; I’ve made another for you. Beatrice Lewis’ son was adopted at the age of five months, by a couple in the second half of their thirties. They were from Shawlands, in Glasgow; by the name of Grimley. According to the adoption papers, he was a publican.’
Jim Glossop stood up from his chair. ‘I hope that’s helpful to you. I’ll be off now, but if there’s anything else you need, you know where to find me.’
Skinner escorted his visitor all the way to the front door. ‘Thank you very much, Jim,’ he said. ‘Look, it’s just possible that your colleague might be required as a witness at some point. If that looks likely, I’ll tip you off. Thanks again, and goodbye for now.’
At the top of the stairs he turned right instead of left, and strode through to Martin’s suite. Nodding briefly to Karen Neville, he opened the door of the inner office. ‘Andy, come with me for a minute.’
Back in the Chief’s room, he picked up the papers which Glossop had left. ‘Remember the Court action that Alexis was involved in until a few days ago?’
‘Yes?’
‘You told me the name of the pursuer. Remind me: what was it?’
‘Bernard Grimley.’
Skinner nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’ He took the adoption certificate from the folder and handed it to the DCS. ‘He’s Beattie Gates’ son.’
‘Remind me again. Who was the judge at the hearing?’
‘Lord Coalville.’
‘Right! He was her trial judge. I’ve been trying to figure out, if the deaths of the three Appeal judges were linked to the Gates case, why the trial judge who gave her a fourteen-year minimum wasn’t the prime target.
‘It could be that with the way that compensation action was going, Coalville was too valuable to kill.’
He looked up at the astonished Martin. ‘You had Mackie make some inquiries about Grimley, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ The Head of CID searched his orderly memory. ‘When he ran his pub through in Glasgow he was a police informant.’
‘When did that stop?’
‘About three years ago.’
‘That coincides with the time that Grimley decided to trace his natural mother, and found that she was Beatrice Lewis, later Beatrice Gates, convicted murderess.
‘Alex’s case was running when Archergait was killed, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘So he’d have been in Court. I wonder how he could have gained access to cyanide?’
‘Through his work,’ said Martin, quietly. ‘He’s a metal finisher by trade. Alex told me he’d gone back to the tools after his business went bust.’
Skinner felt a cold fist grab his stomach. The hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. ‘We’re on to something here, Andy. Have you ever seen this man?’
‘Yes, twice; up at the Court.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘He’s a nasty piece of goods for a start. He was crowing over Adrian Jones after the judge announced his findings, and there was something really vicious and unpleasant about it. He struck me at the time as a real evil bastard.’
‘Right, now describe him physically.’
