professionally. That skill, learned from Bob Skinner, had been beyond him in the house at North Berwick, but there, in the night, he used it as a weapon.
Alec Smith had been a big man and had been known, even in the no-nonsense world of the police, as a hard man, too. Yet he had been subdued, stripped, strung up and gutted like a fish. How many people had it taken to do that, for God's sake?
In his mind's eye he looked around the big room, developing the subconscious snapshot which his mind had taken at the scene, using his photographic memory to recall details. The first and strangest thing: there had been no signs of a struggle. The room, expensively furnished, everything in its place. Smith's clothes; not thrown about the room, but laid across an armchair, almost neatly. A bottle of whisky, on a table positioned against the wall on the right of the room. A telescope, on a stand in front of the window to the left. And another stand, a tripod, unadorned. Beside it on Smith's desk, which he had set under the window, a big, expensive-looking 35mm camera, and a video camera. Shit! The table, the table. Two glasses. For the killers? Or one for the victim and an expected guest? Or left from earlier — Smith and someone else altogether? Prints will tell, Andy, prints will tell. Back to the desk! The cameras. A hobby? Photographing, filming shipping moving in and out of the Firth of Forth? Or put to more recent use? No! No?
Martin lifted Karen's arm gently from his chest and laid it on the duvet, then slipped quietly out of bed. Naked, he crossed the hall to the living room of the small flat and picked up the phone, which lay on the sideboard. He dialled 192, asked for and was given Alec Smith's telephone number, then called Shell Cottage.
Detective Inspector Dorward answered. 'Arthur. DCS Martin here. There are two cameras on the victim's desk, yes? Still and video?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I want to see what's in them, if anything. If there's a film in the camera, have your photographer develop it. If there's a cassette in the camcorder, play it back. Just in case, you understand.'
'Of course, Boss.' Dorward sounded slightly wounded.
'Sorry, Arthur. I'm sure you'd have done that anyway.'
'It's the thought that counts, sir,' the mollified Inspector chuckled. 'Hang on and I'll look at the video camera now.' There was a pause; in the background, Martin heard mechanical sounds. 'There's a tape in it, sir.' said Dorward. 'I'll run a few frames back and replay it through the viewfinder.'
'Okay.' He waited, taking care to stand clear of the yellow light which flooded through the living room window from the street lamp outside. As he stood there, Karen's arms wound around his waist. He felt her heavy breasts press against his back as she hugged him.
'I'm cold,' she murmured. He gasped as her hands slid downwards, and reached down to stop her.
'Shh.' He waved the phone in the air, so that she could see he was on a call. As he did so, he heard a cry from the handset.
'Fuckin' hell!'
'What is it, Arthur?' he asked, although, instinctively, he knew.
'It's him, sir; Smith. The camera's right in his face. He's alive and he's got no eyes!' *Oh Christ.' Karen was standing beside him now, looking at him anxiously. 'Maggie will have the mobile HQ unit on its way to the scene, if it isn't there yet. Lock that camera in there. I'll be back out in the morning, probably with the big man.' He glanced at his wrist, but his watch was on Karen's bedside table. 'What time is it?'
'Quarter past five.'
'Okay. I'll be there before nine.'
He hung up and ushered Karen back through towards the bedroom. 'They filmed him,' he told her. 'The bastards filmed him as they killed him.'
'God! Why?'
'Crazy people don't need reasons,' he answered as they slid back into bed. 'That's the only thing I know for sure about this enquiry; we're looking for a complete fucking lunatic'
Not for the first time that night, he shuddered; he felt himself on the verge of losing it again. She held him, drawing him to her. 'Andy,' she whispered. 'Shut it out. Shut it out.'
He tried; they both tried, in the only way they could.
6
The Head of CID slipped quietly out of his sergeant's flat, just off Nicolson Street, at five minutes before seven a.m., after a wholly sleepless night. He left a note on the kitchen table; 'Thanks for the safe haven. Call you later.'
He took a taxi back to Dean Village, where he shaved, showered, and changed clothes. The thought of breakfast did not cross his mind for an instant; instead, when he was ready, he stepped into his garage through the internal door, opened the up-and-over and backed his red MGF into the street. As he jumped out to close the garage, the front door of the house next door opened, and Rhian stepped out, in her running gear; sweatshirt, shorts and trainers.
'Morning,' she said, young and bright; making him feel just the opposite. 'Busy night?'
'God awful,' he grunted.
She looked genuinely concerned for him. 'Oh, poor love. Never mind, tonight will be better, I promise.'
From out of nowhere he was swamped by a pang of guilt. If that phone hadn't rung… If Alec Smith hadn't been…
'About tonight, Rhian. I've got a major investigation under way. If we get a quick result, I could be involved in interviews and so on. Say to Juliet that I might not make it, will you?'
She raised herself quickly up on her toes and kissed him, lightly. For an irrational moment he wondered if she would catch a scent of Karen lingering on him. 'Let's just hope you do. Okay?'
She was infectious; for the first time since midnight, he smiled.
'If I can, I will. Promise.' He slid back into the tight cockpit of the sports car, set his cellphone into the hands-free holder and drove off.
The streets of Edinburgh were relatively traffic-free at that time of a Saturday morning, an hour or more before the first of the shoppers would head for Princes Street. He waited until he had cleared Milton Link and turned on to the Al before he dialled up Bob Skinner's number.
Sarah picked up the phone on the first ring; in the background he could hear a baby's cry. 'Morning,' he said, 'I'm sorry it's so early, but I've held off as long as I could. Hope I didn't wake Seonaid.'
'No,' the gentle American voice replied. 'She's hungry, that's all. Here, speak to Bob while I plug her in.'
There was a pause, then Skinner's voice sounded from the car-phone's tiny speaker. 'Andy, what's this I've just heard on the radio about a suspicious death in North Berwick?'
'Last night. I got the call at midnight; I've been to the scene already. I'm on my way back out now.'
'Eh? Can't the Division handle it?'
'The Division is handling it, but I have to be seen up front on this one.'
'What's so special then?'
'The victim: ex-Special Branch. It's Alec Smith.'
The DCC's gasp seemed to fill the car. 'You're joking. What does the 'suspicious' mean?'
'He was tortured and, or, battered to death. I've seen them after a month in the water, or burned to a crisp, but this is the worst ever.'
'I'm glad you didn't call me out, then. I can live without that.'
Martin chuckled, grimly; he knew that Skinner had come to detest bloody crime scenes. 'Don't be so glad. The guys who did it made a movie of the event and left it behind for us.'
'Some Saturday morning viewing, that.'
'Aye. Dead and Kicking, you might call it. Listen, Bob, we'll need the best available pathologist for the post- mortem. Professor Hutchison's on holiday, so…'
Skinner anticipated his friend's question. 'Sarah,' he called across the room, 'Andy's got a hot one. He's asking if you'll do it.'
