In the background, he heard her reply. 'For him, okay. I guess he means today.' 'When, Andy?' 'Soonest.'
'Okay,' Bob told him. 'Book it for midday. But call in for me on your way past. I'm coming along there with you. My Saturday foursome's just become a three-ball.'
7
Bob Skinner shook his head as he stood in front of the house in which Alec Smith had been butchered. A small group of journalists and photographers stood on the other side of Forth Street. 'You know, Andy,' he said to his friend, 'I must be losing my touch. I'm a copper, I should know things. On top of that, I like to think of myself as part of the East Lothian community.
'Yet Alec Smith, an old acquaintance and colleague, lived in the middle of it for… What? Three years, you say… and I hadn't a bloody clue.'
The Head of CID glanced at him, surprised. 'I didn't know that you and DCI Smith were pals.'
'Well, sort of. He played football with my Thursday night crowd for a few years, before his right knee gave out on him. He lived out Pencaitland way in those days, with his wife. She did a runner, though, a year or two before Alec packed it in. Went off with a plumber, or something. I guess he must have moved here in the aftermath of that.' Skinner paused. 'There were a couple of kids, son and daughter; they'll probably be well into their twenties by now. He lived here alone, you said?'
'That's what the voters' register says. We'll see if the door-to-door tells us anything about lady-friends — not that this murder was your run-of-the-mill domestic'
'No indeed. Better let me see where it happened, then.'
Another uniformed constable, so new in the force that Skinner did not know his name, was stationed at Alec Smith's front door. He stood to attention as the unmistakable figure of the Deputy Chief Constable approached. 'Morning, son,' Skinner said. 'This is a bloody awful job you've got: doorkeeper at a slaughterhouse. But I've done it in my time and so has Mr Martin. Just don't let the gawpers gather at the gate. The same goes for the press over there, and for the television crews when they turn up… as they will. This is a narrow street and the traffic comes whizzing round that bend sometimes. We don't want another body here, if we can help it.'
'Very good, sir,' the young man replied, put at his ease by the DCC's friendly manner.
'Who's in there?' asked Martin.
'No one, sir. They're all round the corner at the mobile HQ.'
'Then why's the front door open?'
'Inspector Dorward said to leave it open, sir. To blow the smell out of the place, he said.' Skinner winced, as he stood aside to let Martin lead the way into the house.
Even after Dorward's crew of technicians had done their work, the room upstairs still seemed relatively tidy, considering what had happened there. The slatted blinds were closed once more, but the windows had been opened and they were blowing up and rattling on the through draught. In spite of it all, some of the stench from the night before crept back into the Head of CID's nostrils.
Smith's clothes still lay across the armchair, where the killers had left them. A blue velvet drape still lay across the back of the sofa. The whisky bottle and glasses were still on the table, and the telescope was still on its stand, although they had all been dusted with white fingerprint powder. The cameras were gone from the desk, though, taken away by Dorward as ordered. The only other thing missing from the room since Martin's first visit was the body itself.
Its presence lingered nonetheless. Directly below the hook in the roof beam from which it had hung, a dark stain disfigured the beige carpet.
'The room was like this when you were here last night?' Skinner asked.
'Yes. No signs of a struggle, as you can see. I guess that Alec must have known the guys.'
'Guys?'
'There must have been more than one, surely, to handle a big, rough bloke like him with no obvious effort.'
'Aye, but you said that he was battered about the head. Couldn't a single bloke have slugged him from behind, knocked him unconscious, then strung him up?'
Martin frowned. 'He could have, but if it had happened that way, then almost certainly there would have been blood spattered around. I don't see any. I reckon he must have been overpowered, and that would have taken more than one guy.'
The older man grunted. 'Knowing Alec Smith, age fifty plus or not, I can promise you that it would have taken a small fucking army to overpower him, strip him, tie him and hoist him up on that hook. No, somehow or other he must have been knocked unconscious.'
'That's something else Sarah will have to tell us, then,' the DCS murmured.
Skinner looked around the room: at the expensive, carefully-placed furniture, television and video; the tall lamp in the far corner; the lap-top computer on the desk; the bookshelves built in to the back wall; the ornaments on the desk, table and wide window sills.
'Yes, very neat, very tidy was the late Mr Smith.'
'Was he like that as a copper too?'
'He sure was. A very capable detective. Of the last generation rather than ours, I'd say, but a meticulous, careful operator.'
'Why did he pack it in?'
'Money, he said. He took the pension and went to a bloody good private-sector job. I guess too that he knew he had peaked at DCI.'
'But if he was as capable as all that…?'
'I wouldn't have promoted him, though, and that was that. Horses for courses, Andy.' He turned, separated two slats of the billowing blinds and peered out on to the beach. 'Come on. Let's see what's happening in the mobile HQ.'
They left the house, turned right and walked a few yards along the narrow pavement, to the point at which Forth Street opened out on to a broad green area which fringed the beach. The mobile operations centre, a high articulated vehicle, had been stationed on a narrow strip of roadway.
'The weekend sailors will love that,' said Skinner. 'The thing's blocking the launching ramp for dinghies.'
'Tough,' Martin grunted. 'For today they can use the other one, over by the harbour.'
A dozen police officers, some in uniform, some CID, were milling around on the street outside. 'What the hell's this?' the Head of CID asked a blue-jacketed sergeant. 'A crowd scene?'
'We're just waiting for Stevie Steele to allocate addresses for the house-to-house, sir,' the man answered.
'When did DCI Rose leave?'
'She's still here, sir.'
'Jesus, she's been here all night.' Martin climbed the three steps to the door of the mobile HQ and stepped inside.
The van had no windows; even at around nine on a summer morning, it was lit by neon tubes. The light they cast made Maggie Rose look chalk white and emphasised the dark circles under her eyes. She and Detective Sergeant Stevie Steele looked up as the two Commanders entered; they had been leaning over a small desk making up interview sheets into bundles, and attaching them to blue plastic clipboards.
In another corner of the mobile office, Inspector Arthur Dorward and his assistant, Detective Constable Sharma Ghosh, stopped work on their report and stood up.
'Relax, for God's sake,' said Skinner. 'Sit down, Arthur, sit down all of you. Mags, you look puggled. Finish what you and Stevie are doing, give me a run-down, then get off home.'
The DCI frowned. 'I was planning to grab a couple of hours' sleep in the North Berwick office, then get back to look at the results of the door-to-door interviews.'
'You can't drive yourself that hard, for God's sake. If Brian Mackie was here, you and he would be splitting
