down the law about how I should live my life, putting pressure on me to get married and have kids before I was anything like ready.’
‘Listening to you now, I have to tell you that none of that sounds like a good excuse for screwing our Raymond.’
‘You’re right. On top of all that, I was starting to realise that I didn’t want to marry him at all. His unshakeable niceness was suffocating me; somewhere inside I knew I had to get out. I suppose that Raymond was part of the process. That’s the trouble, I never felt anything for him: it was a case of “You’re cute, you’ll do.” I picked him up, and when it all became too much trouble, I threw him away again.’
‘Let’s go back to the calls. What did the voice sound like? Was it deep? Was it high-pitched?’
‘It was somewhere in the middle. It sounded as if he was speaking through a hankie . . .’
‘Standard procedure for perverts, I suppose.’
‘Maybe, but it works. What I’m saying is that it could have been Raymond’s voice, but I can’t be sure.’
‘I’ll find out what I can about him, Alex. Maybe you’re right. The words “Raymond” and “you’ve hurt me” don’t sit well together in my mind, because he’s a hurter. But, if you’re right, that’s exactly what he’s doing to you. Christ, he drove you into the arms of Mr Wonderful! How hurtful is that? Leave it with me.’
Sixty
Merle Gower had mellowed in the years since her arrival in London: she had lost a considerable amount of weight, but had gained a few grey hairs, and a little tact. When Skinner had first met her he had found her blunt to the point of rudeness, but experience seemed to have taught her that it was better to withhold her opinions until she was invited to voice them. Her job had changed also: when she had replaced Skinner’s late friend Joe Doherty at the US Embassy, it had been as FBI liaison, but the growth of the perceived terrorist threat had seen her role expand and its focus change so that she reported to the President’s national security adviser, and no longer to the J. Edgar Hoover Building.
The wooden-floored Clarence was quiet when she walked in, but still she almost missed the two Scots, who were seated at a table to the right of the entrance. Her broad black face creased into a smile as she turned in response to Skinner’s soft whistle. ‘Hey there,’ she said as she joined them, ‘the Big Man himself. I thought you didn’t care for London.’
‘It’s okay,’ he replied. ‘It’s just not my city, that’s all.’ He glanced to his left. ‘Merle, this is DI Dorothy Shannon; she’s just taken over from Neil McIlhenney as our head of Special Branch.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Gower, as the two women shook hands. ‘You must be good if this guy picked you.’
‘Don’t flatter her,’ the DCC growled. ‘She might believe you. What do you want to drink?’
‘Gin and tonic.’
Skinner handed Shannon a ten-pound note. ‘I don’t pull rank very often, Dottie. Get another for yourself too.’
The American glanced around the pub as the inspector left them. ‘One thing about you, Bob,’ she murmured. ‘You always ask interesting questions.’
‘Oh, yes? That bank struck a chord, did it?’
‘What made you ask about it?’
‘Someone I’m investigating came into money. The Premier Taiwan Bank was where it wound up.’
‘Fine, but why ask me?’
Skinner’s eyes twinkled as he looked back at her. ‘Instinct.’
‘Why don’t I quite believe that?’
‘It’s your job not to. These days you Yanks don’t take anything at face value.’
‘Do I detect a note of disapproval there?’
‘You’re not making yourself popular among your allies.’
‘Like we give a shit,’ said Gower, happily, as Shannon placed two tall glasses on the table, and handed Skinner his change.
‘So, what about it?’ he asked her.
‘PTB’s a legitimate bank,’ she told him. ‘But it has a pretty discreet client list. Among them you’ll find several friends of the Central Intelligence Agency. It’s one of their favourite channels for rewarding an asset or keeping him in working capital.’
Skinner’s expression darkened.
‘Did I give you bad news?’
‘It could have been worse. It could have been Al Qaeda, or the Chinese.’ He reached into his pocket and handed her an envelope. ‘You’ll find three names in there; anything you can tell me about any of them would be appreciated.’
‘How soon?’
‘Let’s have breakfast tomorrow, Royal Horseguards Hotel.’ He pushed himself upright, leaving his pint half finished. ‘I’ve got another meeting,’ he said. ‘You two get to know each other. See you in the morning, eight thirty.’
Sixty-one
‘You’re becoming obsessive about this, Jimmy. I think it’s time you stopped it, and handed it all over to Sergeant McGurk.’
The chief constable braved his wife’s scolding voice, which came from the door of his study. ‘In good time, dear: I’ve got a couple of things to check out first before I’m ready to do that.’ He heard a loud ‘Tch!’ then a sound that stopped just short of a slam.
He turned back to his computer, and opened his mailbox. The day before, he had logged on to Friends Reunited and had found Scotstoun Primary School. Once there he had looked at the years 1943 and 1944; on one or the other Primrose Jardine would have been in her final year. Of course she might not have lived in Scotstoun as a child, but the address on the marriage certificate was the only direct lead he had to the woman. There were three pupils listed, two of them in 1944. He sent messages to all three, explaining that he was trying to contact Primrose Jardine, or anyone who might have known her. It was a very wild shot in the dark, he knew: he expected nothing from it, and so his heart jumped when he saw, waiting for him, a message from the website. He opened it and, to his delight, found a reply from one of the three.
‘It does, Mrs Leslie,’ he murmured, ‘it does. What’s the other thing Bob says a good detective needs, Jimmy? Luck, he says, sheer bloody luck and as much as he can get.’
