exploding, wanting to kil the bastard. I can't do that, of course, I can't touch him. It all has to stay in the past for her sake. Still, I had to find out at the very least whether he's still alive; hence my cal to Ron. But now I'm in a real quandary.'
'Howzat?'
'Because of what he does for a living. Mr George Rosewell is the janitor in a primary school, right here in Edinburgh; right here in Maggie's division.'
15
It was just after midday, yet Skinner had to force himself not to think about the weariness which gripped him. He had been such a short time in Kuala Lumpur that his body had not even begun to catch up with the time change, before he had flown on to the United States. Three-quarters of the way around the world, and he had never been able to sleep on board aircraft. His Mont Blanc watch, stil set on UK time, told him that the jet lag should be no more severe than if he had flown across the Atlantic, but his biological clock ticked out a different message.
'Round the next bend, there should be a turn-off to the right,' said the FBI agent with the map. They had been driving for twenty minutes since they pul ed off the highway, along a road on the west side of the Great Sacandaga Lake which was little more than a forest track. The trees were mature and even as early in the growth cycle as they were, the woods on either side were dark and deep. He thought of Robert Frost and his horse as he looked at them, and wondered what they would be like in winter.
The two agents, Isaac Brand, the navigator, and Troy Kosinski, the driver, had been waiting for him at JFK, as Doherty had promised. He had spotted them at once; they looked the part, fit, lean and sharp-eyed.
They had whisked him across the airport to a small executive jet, which in turn had whisked them al to a local landing strip near Saratoga Springs, in what had seemed to Skinner, after his two marathon flights, to have been no time at all.
'Okay, there it is,' Brand cal ed to his partner. 'That should take us directly to the crime scene.' The Scot glanced at the agent. He had a cynic's view of the modem FBI agent, seeing them in his mind's eye either as short, feisty women, or as square-shouldered, clean-cut guys, and he was quietly pleased that this one was an exception to his rule. His fine features gave him a vulnerable look, although the DCC knew that he must have passed the toughest physical examination to have earned his seat in their car.
Kosinski, who did fit his mental stereotype, made the turn; the road narrowed and at once, the day grew darker. 'Fucking hell,' Skinner exclaimed. 'Either of you guys seen The Blair Witch Project?
The driver looked in the rearview mirror, catching his eye. 'We can't comment on that, sir,' he said in a lazy drawl. 'It's the subject of a continuing Bureau investigation.'
'Sure,' Zak Brand chuckled. 'There's an X-File on it. We could arrange for you to meet Scully, if you'd like.'
'No thank you, gentlemen,' he answered. 'She's too short for me.' He was grateful for the banter; it kept his mind off what was waiting at the end of the track. All the way from New York, they had exchanged only pleasantries and platitudes. The FBI men had asked no personal questions, nor had they referred to the reason behind his visit. But finally, they were almost there.
'Do you know the people who'l be meeting us?' he asked.
'No, sir,' said Special Agent Kosinski, glancing in the mirror once again. 'We're New York City operatives; this is not territory where we'd normal y be deployed, unless an interstate crime was involved.' Skinner nodded; he knew enough about American policing to understand the rivalries between the agencies. 'This is the jurisdiction of the New York State Police Department homicide squad. The local county police department is very small; they don't have a detective division, so when they run across something like this, they cal for help, damn quick.'
Ahead, the gloom seemed to lighten, and the track widened out.
'Almost there, sir.' The agent slowed the car, a big General Motors off roader, as he approached a small clearing. A black Pontiac saloon, with State Police markings, and a Ford Explorer were parked at its edge, on either side of a mailbox, which was set on a pole. He leaned out and read the name on it. 'Grace. Yup, this is it.'
The three men climbed out of the vehicle. Skinner saw that there was a path behind the box; through the trees he could make out the broad shape of a single-storey, chalet-style house. He sniffed the air; it was crisp and fresh, and in the distance he heard water lapping and birds crying. They set off. Brand and Kosinski taking the lead on the narrow walkway.
One crime scene looks like any other. Skinner thought as, final y, he reached his destination. We follow the same rituals, with the tape and everything… as if that's worth a damn out here.
'Hey there in the house,' Brand cal ed out as they stepped around the side of the cabin.'FBI!'
The front door creaked as it opened, and two men stepped out; as he looked at them, the Scotsman found himself thinking in American football terms. A quarter-back and his minder. They were both blond and 56 clean- shaven; one was around six feet tall, wide at the shoulders, narrow at the waist, probably in his mid-thirties, the other a few years younger, and enormous, his body looking as if it was fighting its way out of his clothes. About six eight. Skinner guessed, weight at least three hundred pounds. He wondered how he had squeezed into the Pontiac.
'Hi,' the smal er man greeted them, as he walked down the steps from the porch. 'You didn't need to tell me you were the Bureau guys. I'd have known you by those suits. I'm Dave Schultz, lieutenant, State Police Bureau of Criminal Investigation…' He directed their eyes behind him with his thumb.'… And this is Detective Toby Small, one of life's great ironies.' The giant gave them an amiable grin.
Schultz looked at Skinner. 'So you, sir, must be the victims' son-in law. Deputy Chief Skinner, is that right?'
The Scot nodded, reaching out a handshake; there was enough in the lieutenant's tone to tell him that, alien or not, his rank was going to count for something.
'Did you have a good flight from Scotland, sir?'
'No. I had a long flight from Malaysia.' He decided that a little more personal information would do no harm. 'I was due to address an international drugs conference there.'
'You got that problem too?' asked Smal, as if to prove that he could speak.
Skinner glanced up at him. 'Detective, everyone has that problem. In our case we have one of the largest unprotected coastlines in Europe. So every comedian with a boat thinks he can stuff his ballast tanks with hashish, sail it up to Wester Ross, offload it and get away clean. More often than not he's right, as well.'
His eyes snapped back on to Schultz. 'Okay. Let's get something out of the way. Was it either of you guys who phoned my wife?'
The New York policeman seemed to recoil slightly; he held up a hand as if to ward Skinner off. 'No, sir,' he said, vehemently. 'It was not. We heard about that and we apologise that it happened. It was one of the local guys, playing detective before we got here. Don't worry, he's had his balls fried.'
'Well make sure he's kept out of my way, or I'l make him eat them.'
He caught Smal gazing at him with an expression that he had seen once in the eyes of a police dog as it looked at its handler.
'Okay, gentlemen,' he continued, 'if I can have a look at the house.
Are your technicians finished up here?'
'Yes, sir,' the lieutenant answered. 'They're all done. As you requested we've left the scene as close as we could to the way it was when we got here… apart from the bodies, of course. They've been taken to the morgue in Loudonvil e, our regional headquarters. After we're done here, the coroner would like you to go there: he prefers for a family member to make a formal identification. We've put a hold on the autopsies til you've done that.'
Skinner shivered inwardly; outwardly he nodded briskly, as he headed up the short flight of steps, on to the veranda. The New York detectives fol owed him up, but his Bureau escorts stayed below, anxious, he guessed, not to offend local sensibilities by intruding on to their scene.
'How were they found?' the DCC asked Schultz. 'That part of the story was pretty vague.'
