themselves to themselves in Gullane, right enough, sir.' All at once the Sergeant gulped, visibly, and glanced across at Skinner.
The DCC himself broke the ensuing silence. 'What have you done about the empties, John?' he asked.
'Had a good look round, sir, as far as we could. There didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary, anywhere.'
Skinner nodded and leaned back in his seat.
Mackie looked at the officer beside Spring. 'Sergeant Carney, you've been doing the pubs. Any feedback?'
'Some, sir. It's a pity it was a Saturday. During the week the firemen from the Training School would have been around, and they'd have been going home around that time, sober mostly, and potential y good witnesses.
'As it was we found a couple of guys who admitted they were passing the phone box, just before eleven. They were a bit shifty like, so we pressed them. One of them finally admitted that he had a piss in it on the way past.'
'And presumably, Phil, there was no-one else in it at the time,' said Maggie Rose, with a grim, disapproving smile.
'Not that he mentioned, ma'am.'
Mackie clasped his hands together and leaned forward. 'So that's it then, is it? Phone subscribers clear; nothing from the house-to-house; nothing from the pubs. Blanks all round.'
He looked round the table, from face to face. 'In that case, we'd al best go back and get on with the house- to-house, as quickly as possible.'
He was almost in the act of rising, when Skinner leaned forward.
'There is just one other thing, Superintendent,' he said. Martin, Mackie and Rose looked at him, their surprise undisguised.
'Mcl henney has something to report. Go on, Neil.'
The bulky Sergeant shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He looked along the table at Mackie. 'We had a tip, sir,' he began, 'that two people, man and woman, were near the phone box when the call was made.' The Superintendent looked back, stone-faced. His Special Branch experience stil fresh in his mind, he knew better than to ask where the information had come from if Skinner's aide had not volunteered the fact.
'On the boss's instruction, I did some asking around. I'm assured that they're a couple called Grayson, Michael and Rose, of 12
Carnoustie Terrace, in the village.'
The DCC leaned forward again. 'I know you're hard pressed with the house-to-house, so I thought Neil and I would check them out.
Just to keep our hands in, so to speak. That al right with you, Brian?'
'Of course, boss,' said Mackie, managing to suppress his sigh.
28
'Watch this bend, Neil.'
Sergeant Mcllhenney believed that, if you were any good at the business of life, you would learn something new every day. For him, Tuesday's unexpected lesson was that Bob Skinner was a nervous passenger in a motor car.
Al the way along the coast road, the DCC had shifted uneasily in the passenger seat of the unmarked car which his personal assistant had drawn from the pool, the DCC having reasoned that his own car was too well known in Gul ane not to be noticed if it was parked outside a strange house. It was the first time that the Sergeant had ever driven his commander.
Now, as Mcllhenney took the Lufihess corner at scarcely more than fifty miles an hour, he pointed at the curve of the road, and barked his warning.
'No problem, boss. I've driven this road before you know.'
'Of course you have, Neil. Sorry. I just have this dislike of being driven, that's all. Especially there. It's where my first wife was killed.'
'Ah,' said Mcllhenney, understanding at once. 'You should have said. I just assumed that I'd be driving.'
'Quite right,' grunted Skinner. 'It's what personal assistants are for. Anyway, you have to confront your dislikes every so often, or they can become phobias.'
As the police car swung round the right-hand bend into Gullane, he began to give the Sergeant a series of directions. Finally, they turned a corner, into Carnoustie Terrace, Mcllhenney crawling along the kerbside until he spotted Number 12. 'There we are, boss,' he said cheerily. 'Ordeal over.'
The two policeman stepped from the car, into the warm sunshine of the summer day. There were no more than two dozen hoses in Carnoustie Terrace, linked, as its name suggested, in groups of six.
From the roughcast exterior Skinner's assistant guessed that they were Council-built, although he guessed by the variety of window and door styles that most were now in private ownership.
Number 12 did not have new UPVC windows. Its were wooden, modern enough, but matching only a few others in the street. He held the rusty metal gate open for Skinner and followed him into a 99 short driveway. The house was fronted by a dark green privet hedge, in need of a trim, and by weedy grass on either side of the path, in need of cutting. The blue-painted, half-glazed front door was scratched, and marked at the bottom, as if it was kicked regularly.
'No' exactly house-proud, sir,' muttered Mcl henney, as he pressed the white plastic bell-push.
They saw the figure approach through the obscured glass, seeming to shamble rather than walk. The door opened, slowly. Although the name had meant nothing to him when he had heard it first, Skinner recognised Rose Grayson at once. Part of the street furniture of the village; a presence on his occasional visits to the local pubs.
She was a big woman, aged anywhere between forty and fifty, five feet eight and fat, hipless, with a thick waist. Despite the fine weather, a nylon housecoat hung loosely round her shoulders, covering a dirty pink sweater and a crumpled grey dress. On her feet were carpet slippers, trimmed with grey-pink artificial fur. A cigarette hung loosely between the first two fingers of her right hand. At once Skinner formed a mental picture of her husband, Michael, skinny, badly suited, with a shock of greasy dark hair, and the permanent scowl of an evil disposition. The Graysons were a couple whom the rest of the village left to themselves.
Rose Grayson sighed, as if the unannounced appearance at her door of two strange men in suits was not an unusual occurrence.
'Aye?' she asked, wearily, with a permanently defeated tone to her voice.
'Police, Mrs Grayson,' Skinner announced. 'We'd like a word. Is your husband at work?'
'You must be fuckin'jokin', mister. He's out the back. Yis'd better come in.' She turned and led them into the house. The embossed wallpaper in the hal had been painted over, but a long time before.
Dirty curls made their way up from the skirting board. The living room looked like a war zone, littered with discarded newspapers, empty beer cans and ful ash trays. Automatical y the policemen breathed as gently as they could, trying to deflect the smell of the woman and of her shabby surroundings.
'Haud on a minute,' she said. 'Ah'll get Mick.' She stepped across to the window, white on the outside with what looked like a seagull's message, and rapped on the glass. Outside the policemen saw a man in a deck chair, as he started, as if from sleep. He was wearing the crumpled trousers of a dark suit, braces and a blue-striped shirt. He was barefoot. Rose Grayson waved her husband into the house, and turned towards her visitors. In the light from the window, they noticed for the first time a bruise beneath her left eye.
A few seconds later, Mick Grayson came into the living room, tripping over the frayed edge of the carpet and stumbling as he entered, 100 cursing softly. 'Who've you?' he began, then looked at Skinner for the first time. 'Here, don't ah ken you? What d'yis want?'
'You might know me by sight, Mr Grayson,' said the DCC, 'but that's all. My name is Skinner, and this is Sergeant Mcllhenney. We're police officers.'
