parents equally, and when they had told him at the beginning of the year that they didn’t love each other any more and intended to divorce, he had been sad, but sad for them more than for himself.
If he had been able to express it in such a sophisticated way, he would have said that the proposal they had put to him and to Mark, his adoptive brother, was ideal. They were able to stay with their dad in Gullane and go to school there, and three times a year go off with Trish, the nanny, on an adventure to America, to join their mum.
He liked America, where they had big cars and good weather. He had been there before, when he was younger, visiting his grandparents with his mum, before they had gone to Heaven. Jazz wasn’t really sure about Heaven, but he went along with the concept, without asking awkward questions, to please his mum.
He understood that his dad was busy, being very important in the police, and that sometimes he had to be away during the week, and once or twice for longer. But most weekends he was home, and Jazz liked that, even when his new friend was there too. She was nice and, even though she was grown-up, he was allowed to call her ‘Aileen’, because that was her name.
Aileen had been different, though, when she had arrived that morning, on her own. Dad had explained that they were going to a very ‘flash’ . . . that was one of his special words, the kind he winked when he said . . . dinner, and would be away overnight, but he had expected them to arrive together, because Dad had promised him he would take him out on the golf course, on one of the big people’s courses, when everybody else was having lunch and it got quieter. Aileen had explained that something had happened and that Dad needed to ‘deal with it’. He didn’t really understand the phrase, but he held himself back from asking what she meant, because she seemed sad, and because, well, she wasn’t his mum.
Dad hadn’t arrived until nearly two o’clock; and when he had, he had been sad too. He had told James Andrew that he was sorry, but the courses were getting busy again and that maybe they would just watch English football on telly instead, while Aileen did all the work that her office people had told her had to be done for Monday morning. Mark didn’t bother: he didn’t like golf, he didn’t like football, he only liked his computer.
Dad had switched on the telly and then he had gone out again, to his office. Jazz had followed him, and because he’d left the door open he had seen that he was making a phone call. He heard him say, ‘Sarah,’ and realised that he was talking to his mum. He wondered why, because she had phoned them all the day before. Then he heard him say something about somebody called Stevie, and he heard him say, ‘Yes, I know you liked him.’ He hadn’t done it at school yet, but he understood what a past tense was, and what, sometimes, it meant.
James Andrew watched his dad very carefully, while they were both supposed to be watching Manchester United thump some team in blue shirts. He saw that he was always frowning, and that wasn’t like him, especially not at weekends. And sometimes, even when Wayne Rooney had the ball, his eyes were closed. Jazz knew when his dad was thinking, and usually he waited to be told about whatever it was. But this time he was . . . He didn’t know what he was: ‘anxious’ had not yet found its way into his vocabulary, but he knew what it felt like, and that wasn’t good.
Bob Skinner felt a small, strong hand close round two of his fingers, and squeeze them. ‘What’s the matter, Dad?’ his son asked.
He blinked, pulling himself back into the room, taken aback by the question, and alarmed by the look in James Andrew’s eyes. ‘I’m not sure,’ he replied slowly, making himself grin, ‘but I think they’re still missing Roy Keane.’
‘I didn’t mean the football. You’re not watching it anyway. Was it bad, the thing that Aileen said had happened?’
Bob was intensely proud of his son, and in particular of his inherent compassion. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Somebody’s died.’
‘Gone to Heaven?’
‘For sure.’
‘Is it Stevie?’ Jazz hesitated and then made an admission. ‘I listened to you on the phone to Mum.’
‘Yes, it’s Stevie; a policeman, a detective like me.’
‘Have I met him?’
Bob thought for a moment. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘you have, but you probably don’t remember. Once, when your mum was working and before Seonaid was born, I took you with me on a stake-out. God, your mum gave me pelters when she found out.’
‘And a man came into the car?’
He stared in his astonishment at the accuracy of the boy’s recollection. ‘That’s right. That was Stevie.’
James Andrew’s face grew solemn, as he tried to contemplate the end of the existence of someone he could picture in his mind. ‘That’s sad,’ he said, squeezing Bob’s fingers again. ‘We can stop watching the game if you like.’
‘No, no, it’s important.’
‘But you’d your eyes shut.’
‘I know. I wasn’t concentrating on it. I was thinking about something else, about Stevie. His death, Jazz, was a crime. You know what that is, somebody doing something that’s against the law.’
‘And it’s your job to catch him.’
‘Yup, and I like to think I’m good at it.’
‘You are,’ said a warm voice. Aileen had come into the room, unseen by either of them, She stood behind Bob’s chair, put her hands on his shoulders and began to knead them gently, her slim fingers rippling his flesh. ‘Go on,’ she insisted, ‘don’t let me interrupt.’
‘Okay. What I was about to say was that I believe that it’s essential for a detective to have a picture in his mind of that crime, of how it looked as it was committed, from start to finish.’
‘Like a film?’ James Andrew suggested.
‘Exactly. He has to be able to look at it, to play it back inside his head, and to see everything that happened, to understand every part of it. That’s what I was doing when my eyes were closed.’
‘And could you see everything?’
‘Yes. I could see it all, as it was explained by the people who were there at the time, and as I saw it afterwards when I went there. It all fits together, every bit of it.’
‘And now you know who the bad man is.’
Bob looked at his magic son and raised his eyebrows. ‘This is the bit you might not understand,’ he told him. ‘Sometimes you look at a film in your head, and even though everything does fit, and everything’s in place, leading you straight to the answer, and to the bad guy . . . you know that it isn’t, quite, how it was.
‘You can’t see anything wrong, because there’s nothing to see, but you know, you feel that there’s more, there’s something you haven’t been shown yet, but it’s there. It’s what we call instinct. Can you grasp that?’
From the back of his ever-expanding mind, Jazz produced a word, one that he had heard his dad use in the past, one that he had filed away for the day when it would mean something to him. ‘Yes,’ he announced, ‘you’ve had a hunch.’
Sixty-seven
‘Where’s Jack McGurk?’ Skinner asked Ruth Pye, his secretary.
‘He’s on a temporary posting to Torphichen Place,’ she replied. ‘Mr McGuire needed someone there: they’re short-handed in CID with Superintendent Chambers filling in for Maggie.’
‘Fair enough. He could hardly have anticipated that I’d be back ahead of schedule.’ He smiled. ‘I can always borrow your husband from him, if need be.’
‘Maybe not. Sammy was expecting to be sent down to Leith to help out there.’
‘Somebody will need to go there, that’s for sure. What’s the latest on DCI Mackenzie?’
‘I don’t know, sir. We received another medical report last Monday, but those are confidential, so it went to ACC Mackie unopened.’
‘Okay, I’ll ask him, or Mario.’
‘Ask me what, boss?’ said the head of CID from the doorway.
‘I could begin with the whereabouts of my exec,’ Skinner replied, ‘but Ruthie’s filled me in on that. Come
