we’re somewhere else.’ She looked at me. ‘If that’s all, boss…’ I smiled as I nodded; I was relieved that she was beyond calling me ‘Sir’.
When the three of them were gone I closed my office door again and thought about my approach to the media. I was left with only fifteen minutes to prepare, but I knew, pretty much, what I was going to say. I knew also that it wouldn’t involve Newcastle, not until I had the man Milburn in my custody. That didn’t matter, though, for as soon as I announced that the Grove Street and Jamaica Street stabbings were linked, I would be giving them their headlines for the day.
That’s the way it worked out. I didn’t mention McCann by name, not without a formal ID, nor did I touch on the gay overtone, but John Hunter, the city’s top freelance, was shrewd enough to make the connection as soon as I said that the second victim had been in the Giggling Goose just before his death. He went down the wrong track, though, and I had to point out that there was no suggestion that either Weir, or the dead man, was a homosexual.
‘But we can call this guy a serial attacker?’ he persisted.
His income depended on his ability to sell news stories to his media customers, so he was always after a hook to reel them in, but I wasn’t playing. ‘I’ll stick to suspect, John, if you don’t mind, and leave it to your subeditors to add the creative touches.’
Afterwards BBC, STV and Sky wanted interviews for the telly news. It was part of the job, for all that I didn’t like it. Our professional trainers had told me that I look intimidating on camera, and that I should try to be more ‘viewer-friendly’. I told him in return that fearsome was all right with me, and that I wasn’t after Jon Snow’s lot. Still, I gave the people what they wanted, although I did try particularly hard to intimidate the bloke from Sky.
Their faffing about used up twenty minutes of my precious morning, and so it was gone eleven fifteen when I made it back to the office. Fred Leggat looked up as I entered, and I could tell that he was not about to make my day. ‘It’s official, boss,’ he told me. ‘DI Higgins has just called. We now have a double murder inquiry: Archie Weir died this morning, just before eleven.’
‘Poor sod,’ I grunted. ‘No surprise, though. Family informed?’
‘The parents were there when he died, Alison said. They approved switch-off of the life support.’
‘Okay, give it to the press office and tell them to put it out.’ I looked at Martin. ‘Andy, you’re with me. It’s time to broaden your education. Have you got wheels?’ I asked him.
‘Yes, boss. My car’s in the park round the back.’
‘So’s mine. Follow me; I’ve got a private call to make after our visit, so it’s best if you travel under you own steam.’
‘Fine, but where are we going?’ he asked. It was a reasonable question, put with no undue deference. From the beginning, his quiet self-confidence was one of the things I liked about Andy Martin. I’ve never met anyone less likely to be accused of being a teacher’s pet.
Nonetheless, that didn’t stop me from stringing him along. ‘You’ll see when we get there.’
He shrugged his shoulders and slipped them into his leather jacket. ‘Okay, a mystery tour,’ he said, cheerfully. I thought of Thornton and turned away, heading for the door.
His car was two bays away from mine; a red Mazda MX5 convertible with ‘boy’s toy’ written all over it. I had to smile. ‘Is that for go or show?’ I asked.
‘A bit of both,’ he admitted. ‘Nice lines, and it’s got the larger engine option, but it’s still not a Ferrari.’ He looked at my Land Rover with something that might have been either pity or contempt. ‘It’ll out-pull that, though.’
‘That would depend on the sense in which you’re using the word “pull”. The Discovery was built with comfort in mind, and in my albeit limited experience, some ladies don’t like to flash their minge climbing in and out of one of those things.’ I tapped the Mazda’s ragtop. ‘Plus, I prefer a car that you can’t unlock with a Stanley knife.’
I led the way out of the car park, and headed west, towards Queensferry Road, driving slowly to wind Martin up. I continued our stately progress all the way out to the Maybury junction, where I took a right turn, past the doomed Barnton Hotel. Eventually I turned into a cul-de-sac off Essex Road, and pulled up.
I stayed in my car as the young DC left his, and reached across to open the passenger door. ‘Game over,’ I said. ‘Do you see that big house up there?’ He couldn’t have missed it, a big stone pile with a grey slate roof, set in an acre of ground. ‘It’s called “Trinity” and it’s the home of Tony Manson, of whom you’ve heard much said over the last few days. Tony would call himself a businessman. We would, and do, call him a criminal. The thing we like least about him is his dealing in Class A drugs. I can’t think of anything that would put a bigger smile on my face, professionally, than locking him up for twenty years or so, but I’ve never been able to do that.’
‘Why not?’ Martin asked, a little too directly, but I let him off with it.
‘Mainly because of the requirements of our criminal justice system,’ I told him, ‘and that long and meaningful word, corroboration. A lone witness isn’t enough to convict. If you and I took a sledgehammer to his door and found half a ton of smack in his cellar, we’d be most of the way there. But if I did it on my own, it would be my word against his that I didn’t plant it; any case that was taken to court on that basis would be chucked out by the judge at the first time of asking.’
‘Have you ever done that?’ He gulped and added hastily, ‘Searched his place, that is.’
I laughed. ‘It’s “no” to the other, by the way. Searched Tony’s place? Of course we have; twice in my time, but purely for show, with no expectation of success. He’s much too clever and too careful ever to go near any of his merchandise, or to let it be brought anywhere near him. He also follows the basic rule of large-scale criminality, and that is…’ I made it a question.
‘Never give an order to one person,’ he answered, ‘that a second person can hear. Corroboration again.’
‘Exactly, Andy; or even overhear. That’s what keeps him out of our hands. Remember the man I told you about, Perry Holmes?’
‘The guy who was shot?’
‘That’s him. Perry was the master of discretion. In much of his life he was legit. He was a big property developer, and he still has a large portfolio. He conducted that business in the normal way, but for one thing, something he brought from the other side. He would rarely be in the same room with more than one person, unless they were architects showing him plans, or lawyers and the like, who were safe because they were covered by client privilege. Latterly he never even went to restaurants, other than with his brother, Al.’
‘It didn’t do him much good, though.’
‘No,’ I conceded. ‘It didn’t make him bullet-proof. And neither’s Tony; so he’ll be taking Marlon’s murder very seriously. Let’s go and talk to him.’
I started the Discovery, and drove up to the double wrought-iron gate that secured the entrance to Manson’s property. There was a closed-circuit camera set on a stone pillar to the right. I opened my window, leaned out, and waved up at it. A few seconds later, the gates swung open, seemingly of their own accord. I cruised through, up the approach road, and pulled up alongside a black Bentley.
The front door opened as we approached. Two men stood just inside; they were dressed in black, and there was a crisp look to them that suggested a military background. One of them stepped forward, raising his hands as if to frisk me. I raised a hand and glared at him. ‘Don’t make the mistake,’ I warned.
He paused, but didn’t back off. ‘Easy way or hard way?’ he asked.
I don’t react well to threats. I feinted with my left shoulder; and the minder reacted by moving to his own left, a wrong move, as it added to the force of the fist that I whipped up from my side and into his gut. ‘Told you,’ I murmured, as he dropped to his knees, and as Martin stepped forward to intercept his mate.
‘Hey!’ The shout came from a doorway to the left of a wide central staircase. ‘Leave it off, you guys. These are the polis. I wouldn’t have let them in otherwise.’
Tony Manson stepped into the hallway and came towards us; he was wearing a shell suit, and his broad, lived-in, pushing fifty face sported a Mediterranean tan. He wasn’t tall, but squat and powerful; nobody had ever got the better of him in his younger days. There are hard men, and then there are those who really know how to fight. He was one of the latter. ‘Sorry, Skinner,’ he said. ‘My new help. They’re not trained to be subtle.’
‘You hired them in?’ I asked, as one helped the other to his feet.
He nodded. ‘From a security consultancy,’ he said as he led us towards the room from which he had appeared. ‘They came highly recommended.’
