`Sure, but put them back more or less where they were.'
She picked up the underpants, and looked at them inside and out. She lifted them to her nose and sniffed. Next she examined the shirt, and finally, the jeans.
Replacing the last garment as close as possible to its original position, she stood up and turned back to face Skinner.
`Three days, at least. She was killed not less than three days ago. That would make it Saturday.'
`Afternoon?'
`Just about spot on, I'd say. But no later.'
`No possibility of early Sunday morning?'
`No way. It'll take the autopsy to confirm it, but I know I'm right.'
`So I can go on believing that the man who did this could have gone on to kill Manson?'
`Sure. Who do you think it was?'
The husband. Just released from jail. While he was inside, Manson gave his wife gainful employment as a prostitute.'
Sarah nodded. 'Is that so? Well, I'd say he spent his time in the pen thinking about all this, and planning it. Know what he did? He made love to her, then he did that. It wasn't forcible sex — not rape. Look where her dressing-gown is. I'd say she put it there, rather than him. He's horny. . he's just out of jail after how long?'
`Five years,' Skinner responded.
`Jesus, yes, he's horny. He throws the duvet across the room, he lays her on the bed. He doesn't bother to undress. He's in too much of a hurry, although there's another reason. He just undoes his belt and unzips his jeans — or she does — frees his penis, and enters her straight away. Her pubic hair is matted. There's semen dried in it. There are other semen stains on his underpants, and on his shirt. This is when it gets really calculated. They've just made love. She's lying back, maybe saying how good it was, how much she's missed him. But she hasn't seen the knife. This wasn't a spur-of-the moment thing. All along, he meant to kill her. He took the knife into the bedroom with him.
`Why didn't she see it?'
`Because it was in the back pocket of his jeans. It could have been something small: a Stanley knife, say. It could have been any size, but one thing I do know: it was pointed. Look at the jeans. They're new. Well, on the back, right-hand pocket, near the bottom, you'll find a tear. I think that he slipped the knife into that pocket, and its point went through the cloth. It was there all the time he was humping her. When he's finished, when he's got his rocks off, the bastard.
For a second her professional mask slipped and a woman's outrage at sexual violence showed through.
`Just when she's telling him he's Superman, he grabs her hair, forces her head back, pulls the knife, and does that. He's never cut anyone's throat before, so the first cut is the big one. The song's wrong, you know. The first cut is rarely the deepest. Maybe she gets off a scream, but she doesn't have time to struggle. The fingers aren't clenched. When the first cut doesn't kill her, when he finds that it isn't as easy as that, he just starts hacking away, to finish her off as quickly as he can. He isn't thinking any more. He cuts deep, on either side of the throat, to make sure. Eventually he hits the big one, and the blood spurts. It goes everywhere. Up the wall, all over the bed, all over him. She blacks out as soon as the blood supply to her brain stops, and she's dead in seconds after that. He's got blood all over his clothes. So he strips them off, washes. .?'
She glanced at Skinner for confirmation.
`Yes, he took a shower.'
`Mmm. Then he changes into clean stuff and off, presumably, he goes on his merry way. And you think his merry way took him to kill Manson?'
Skinner nodded.
`It fits, I suppose. Have you found the murder weapon?'
`No, but come here and look at this.' Skinner led her into the flat's spacious dining-kitchen. There was a work surface next to the sink, and on it stood a set of kitchen knives, housed in a wooden block. One of the six slots in the block was empty. `We've got a set much like this one at home,' said Skinner. `From what I can remember the knife that fills that slot should be a big, broad-bladed job.'
`That's right. The blade is about eight inches long, and comes to a point. In our set the blade's like a razor and the point's like a needle.'
`From what you saw, could a knife like that one have killed Manson?'
Sarah nodded firmly. 'Absolutely. It had to be a blade that long. It travelled upward and ripped the heart open.'
`That looks like the answer, then. Big Lennie kills his wife then shows up at Manson's. He does the alarm. That's no problem; he's been in the nick for five years; he'll have learned how in there. Tony comes in, flushed with success at the tables. It's Big Lennie he sees in the bedroom. His jaw drops as he figures out why Big Lennie's there, and in that short time he's a dead man.'
`Where do you think he is now?'
`I know where he is now. Last week Tony Manson gave Linda four grand. She turned it into traveller's cheques. We've found out that there was a seat booked on a flight from Glasgow to Alicante on Sunday in the name of L. Plenderleith. It looks as if Manson was trying to whisk her out of town before Lennie got out. Seems like he didn't quite make it. Nice windfall for Lennie, though. The traveller's cheques — unsigned we believe — and the plane ticket are gone. Britannia tell us that the ticket was used. They said that there was some confusion when a man turned up, but the surname checked and they assumed it had been a booking error. So there you have it. The whole story. Lennie gets home early, exacts a terrible and bloody revenge on Linda and Manson, and buggers off to Spain with Manson's cash and her ticket.'
`Okay, husband, if that is the obvious pattern of events — and it is glaringly obvious — then tell me why you don't believe it.'
Skinner looked at her, a smile twitching the corner of his mouth. 'Who says I don't?'
`I do. I see the telltale signs of a Skinner niggle. There's something there that doesn't fit.'
The twitch turned into a grin. 'Well, just a couple of wee things. First, why did. Manson leave her in the flat for big Lennie to find; and, second, why did Richard Cocozza, his lawyer, pick him up from Shotts prison on Saturday morning?
Tony can't give us the answers, but Cocozza can, and he sure as hell better. Otherwise I'm going to charge him with being a party to two murders! But before I see him again, my love, let's you and I go back to the Simpson, to say hello to our son.'
Thirteen
Cocozza crouched forward in his seat so suddenly that Skinner thought for an instant that the little fat man's bladder had betrayed him.
`What!' It was more squawk than speech.
`You heard me, Cocozza. You dropped Plenderleith, a violent man, at his wife's door. Why should I, or a jury for that matter, not assume that you knew he was likely to kill her, and Tony Manson, after what they had done to him while he was inside. Why shouldn't I believe that you set them up? Why shouldn't I believe that you were a party to their murders? You're the lawyer here. You know what that means. You're as guilty as big Lennie is, and I'm going to charge you with the girl's murder, at the very least!'
`No, you can't!'
`Like fuck I can't! You're a dead certainty to go down for the girl's murder. Jesus Christ, Manson puts her on the game, then plans to get her out of town — out of Lennie's way. You show up at the prison and pick the big bugger up — a day early. Then you drop him at her front door.'
Cocozza summoned the last of his defiance. 'Who says I did?'
`A very reliable witness. A neighbour. You know the type, Cocozza. Logs every movement in and out of the building. A flash white car was seen dropping a big man in jeans and a cowboy shirt at Linda Plenderleith's close. The witness has picked Lennie out already from mug shots. And the driver was seen clearly too. All we need is to
