'I knew fine that the bastard would probably have been back in Edinburgh, or miles down the Al, or anywhere else by the time I got through to you.'
'About the car, Bob. You gave a description earlier, but has anything else occurred to you about it? You haven't remembered the registration number, have you?'
Skinner shook his head, looking almost guilty. 'I honestly never saw it, Andy. When I looked back at it, I was dazzled by the sun off the windscreen. After that, I was too busy trying to save the kids to notice anything else.'
'Did you see anything of the driver? Anything at all?'
'Not a thing. The glass was too dark. The car was black, or very dark blue, with colour coded bumpers; a big four-by-four, not a Range Rover but something similar. That's all I can tell you about it — apart from one thing.'
'What's that?'
'It was parked in Hill Road earlier on.' Martin's eyebrows rose. 'You sure about that?' 'Abso-fucking-lutely. There were cars parked all the way up; I remember making a mental note to bollock the local traffic people about it. The vehicle that ran me down was fourth or fifth away from my gate, facing downhill. Its driver was waiting for me; waiting for the chance I gave him.'
He took Sarah's hand as she sat on his bed. 'Which means, my darling, that three members, active or otherwise, of the Thursday Legends have now been the subject of murderous attacks in little over a week.'
'I knew you were going to say that!' she retorted. 'Bob, how many enemies or potential enemies have you made over the years, aside from people you may have upset at your silly football? If you are still harbouring a theory that there's someone out there taking revenge on anyone who ever kicked him on a Thursday night, then let me remind you of what I've told you already.
'Alec Smith and the Diddler were not killed by the same person.'
'No,' said Martin. 'And Lawrence Scotland wasn't your hit-and-run driver either. Listen, Bob, Dan Pringle called me just before I got here, to tell me that he has a strong new lead on the Diddler enquiry, which is certainly not connected to Alec Smith. We've got less evidence than ever to support the notion of a link between these crimes.
'I'm certainly going to treat the attack on you as a separate incident. I'm putting your house under CID observation — and don't try to countermand me on that, or I'll have the Chief countermand you.'
'All right, all right,' Skinner agreed, grudgingly. 'Now here's an order for you; the Alec Smith investigation stays open, in the meantime at least.' He looked at his wife.
'I accept what you say, Sarah, that there were two different killers. However that does not contradict my gut feeling that there's a thread which ties together the two murders and the attack on me. And you are right about one thing, Andy; that thread is certainly not your man Scotland.
'If there is a team working here, mate, then while I'm laid up I want you to find them. Most especially, I want you to find the one who drove that vehicle at me and my boys, and lock him up far away from me. That's another interview I dare not do myself.'
Martin nodded, grimly. 'I'll steer clear of that one too, for the same reason; that'll be another one for Maggie, I think.'
He headed for the door. 'I'd better get back to Fettes to let Karen off the hook… and help her clear her desk.'
'She's not going back then?'
'No. I've told her she's on leave from Monday. I'll formalise her resignation with the Personnel people.'
Bob smiled. 'I should be mad with you for costing us a damn good officer, but in the circumstances…' He broke off.
'Oh, by the way, it's amazing the things that come to you as you're lying in an ambulance. Remember I had a niggle about Alec Smith's room?'
'Yes.'
'Well, I worked out what it was. That hook — the one Alec was strung up on.' 'What do you mean?'
'It was a big shiny, steel hook, driven into the beam, and fairly recently by the look of it. Let's assume that the killer didn't put it there himself, but saw it and used it.'
'Fair enough. So?'
'So Alec Smith was one of the most methodical men I ever knew. Everything I saw in that room had a purpose; even the ornaments were functional. That's what set me wondering. What the hell was that hook for?'
55
Detective Sergeant Steve Steele had been to Dundee three times in his life; once to play football, twice to watch it in that strange place where two arch-rival clubs and their grounds glower at each other across the street.
'The city is looking up,' he said to himself as he drove across the silvery Tay, over the road bridge, glancing occasionally at its neighbour, successor to the notorious structure which had caused the great rail disaster of the nineteenth century. The modern, redeveloped Dundonian waterfront shone attractively in the midday sun as he drove to the toll booth and paid the anachronistic levy.
He glanced quickly at his road map, trying to plot a way to the offices of Biggins and McCart in Albert Street. Eventually he gave up, drove to the nearest off-street car park, then set out to walk.
It took him some time to find the solicitors' premises but, eventually, he spotted their brass plate; it looked badly in need of the sort of face-lift which the rest of the city had received. He walked up three flights of stairs and, it seemed to him, back a hundred years. As he opened the glass-panelled door with its legend 'Biggins and McCart' written in discoloured gold leaf, he stepped into Victoriana.
Every piece of furniture in the room, even the tall wooden filing cabinets, looked like a genuine antique. The only item which did not fit that description sat behind a high-fronted desk, chewing gum. She had dull eyes and a small mouth above an even smaller chin; her dyed blonde hair had a pinkish tinge and she wore a tight-fitting white Lycra sweater chosen, beyond doubt, to display her best features.
Hello, girls, the detective thought.
'Miss Malone,' he said. 'DS Steele, from Edinburgh. We spoke on Friday.'
'Oh aye,' said the girl, disinterested. 'Mr McCart's no' here.'
Steele glared at her. 'Now look…' he began. But just at that moment the door behind her opened.
'Sergeant,' a voice said. He turned to see a small, impish, elderly man dressed, regardless of the weather, in a three-piece brown tweed suit. A watch chain hung across his waistcoat; he seemed to fit the room perfectly. He waved a brown paper bag. 'So sorry, so sorry. Saw you going up the stair ahead of me. I just nipped out for doughnuts; must have something with the tea. Molly, put the kettle on.'
The sullen girl nodded and did as she was told, pulling back her shoulders slightly as she rose. The little man threw her the bag and offered his visitor a handshake.
'Gilbert McCart,' he introduced himself. 'Come through to my private office.'
Steele followed him into a second smaller room, furnished in the same way as the first. He glanced around at tall glass-fronted bookcases, low door-fronted cabinets and a big inlaid desk, finer, even to his inexpert eye, than the one in Alec Smith's house. 'Does that have a secret drawer?' he asked, intrigued.
Gilbert McCart's eyes twinkled. 'Can't tell you that,' he replied, 'it's a secret.
'You like my furniture? Geoffrey Biggins, my late partner, and I built up the collection over the years. When I snuff it, my practice won't be worth anything, but this lot will.'
'You're a one-partner firm?' Steele asked as he handed over his business card, a Bob Skinner innovation.
'For three years, I have been; since Geoff went to the Great Conveyancer in the sky. It's just me and the slattern Molly outside. Her real name is Gabrielle, but she suits the moniker I gave her better. I can just see her selling cockles and mussels.'
At that moment the girl came in with a tray holding a teapot, china cups and saucers, milk and sugar and a
