Old, looking relieved, smiled in his turn, and shook his head vigorously.
Skinner stood up, and his two colleagues followed. He led them out into the corridor of the command suite. 'Okay, into battle. Remember, every detail might fit together with another detail, and amount to something. So note every tiny piece of information. Good luck.'
As Old and Higgins disappeared through the swing doors at the end of the corridor, Skinner turned to look for Maggie Rose — to find her standing behind him, comb-bound reports and photographs held in both hands.
`That's Banks's report, is it?'
The red-haired Inspector nodded.
`Did the big man tell you all about his moment of glory last night, then?'
`Oh yes, sir. Every detail, every fingerprint. I'm surprised he hasn't got himself into the photos.'
Skinner smiled. Maggie Rose and Mario McGuire's eighteen-month relationship had just been formalised by an engagement, and by their acquisition of a new flat in Liberton, in the south of the city.
`What he has got himself into is a stretch of overtime. He could be in for a few late nights.'
Maggie's smile brightened. 'Good, that'll take care of the curtains.'
As Skinner turned to go back into his office, she called after him. 'Oh, boss, Sir James's secretary called. He just got in. Can you look in on him.'
Five
The big silver-haired man rushed across the room, hands outstretched when Skinner entered. 'Congratulations, Bob! I couldn't be more pleased for you and Sarah. Both doing very well, I hear. What did he weigh?' He paused. 'Now why do people of my age always ask that?'
Sir James Proud, the Chief Constable, was Skinner's mentor. Their relationship had become even closer over the past eighteen months, until Skinner had come to see Proud Jimmy — as he was popularly known — almost as a father figure.
Skinner laughed. 'Thanks, Jimmy. Eight pounds and twelve ounces, they said. That's one thing that hasn't gone metric yet. Not in the Simpson, at least.'
`So what the Hell are you still doing here? Why aren't you on paternity leave?'
`Things to do, Chief. Getting the Tony Manson show on the road, for one.'
`Yes. That fairly knocked our Royal Visit off the front page. What d'you think, Bob — is it a 'gang war'?'
`Buggered if I know. Tony Manson must have had a thousand small-time enemies, but obviously one was serious enough to put a contract out on him. At least that's how it looks. A thoroughly professional job.'
As they sat at his low coffee table, Proud Jimmy pointed to the comb-bound documents which Skinner carried. 'Are those part of it?'
`Mmm. Autopsy report and the picture gallery.' `Why the extra set?'
`I'm taking them in to let Sarah have a look.'
The Chief Constable's jaw dropped in a sudden comic gesture. 'You're joking!' He paused for a second, and a smile spread across his face. But of course you're not. That's typical Sarah. Off you go to see her, then. Her and wee James Andrew.'
`That's Jazz, Chief.'
‘Eh!'
Skinner smiled and nodded. His name. It suits him down to the ground. You'll get used to it.'
`I'm sure I will,' said the conservative Proud Jimmy. 'Hope he does.
Six
If Sarah felt any reaction to her physical exertion of the previous day, none was on show to the world.
She sat at the window, fully dressed and lightly made up, ready to receive callers. When Bob arrived just after eleven a.m. he found her reading a magazine. Jazz was sleeping by her side, in his crib.
`Mornin', Mom,' he said. He bent into the crib and kissed the baby gently on the cheek. As he did, he caught the sweet milky scent of his breath, and felt a totally unexpected thrill. For a second, Bob's eyes moistened once more. When he turned towards Sarah, she was standing facing him. He took her in his arms and kissed her long and lingering.
`Sarah my love, you are an incredibly clever woman, to create someone like that.'
She smiled. 'At another time I'd call you a patronising so-and-so. But right now, as it happens, I agree with you.'
Her foot bumped against his briefcase, and she looked down. 'Have you got them? Good. Now let me try to show you what else I'm good at. Gimme.'.
She sat down again while he unlocked his case, and took out the reports and photographs. 'There, get stuck into that lot. You can keep the report, but I'll take the pics back with me. We can't have them lying around here.' Behind him, Jazz made a small sound in his sleep. 'I'll tell you what. You get started, and I'll show my son off to the world, and the world off to my son.'
Terribly carefully, as if he were handling explosives, he lifted the baby from the crib and, holding him in the crook of his left arm, stepped across to the window. 'Good morning, Edinburgh,' he said, softly. 'May I present James Andrew Skinner, your newest citizen and potential man-about-town. Now there, Jazz, is a phrase that should be brought back into the language. That'll be you: Jazz Skinner, a man about town of your time.'
The baby's eyes blinked open and looked up at him. Bob grinned broadly. The corners of the baby's mouth twitched upwards. 'Hey, Sarah,' he whispered. 'He's smiling at me!'
Behind him she laughed. Wind, darling. It's wind.'
He looked back down at Jazz, whose eyes were wider open now, peering, as if focusing on Bob's grin and mimicking it. Turning the baby to face the window, Bob tilted him up slightly. 'There you are, my son, let me present to you your city, Edinburgh as ever is. That nice tree-lined bit out there is called the Meadows. Looks nice, doesn't it. They play cricket there at weekends in the summer. Maybe you will too. And they have Festival shows there, in tents. I'll take you to one, soon. There are swings, too. We'll like swings, you and I. It's a real utility place the Meadows.'
Jazz looked towards the window, as if weighing his father's words, and contemplating treats to come.
`That's enough excitement for now, though,' said Bob. As gingerly as he had picked him up, he laid the child, still less than a day old, back down in the crib. 'We'll take another walk later.'
He turned towards Sarah, and found her still-scanning the autopsy report, turning pages quickly, pausing every so often at something which she found of special interest. The bound sheaf of photographs lay at her feet, open at a close-up shot of the fatal wound.
Bob sat on the edge of the bed and waited silently for several minutes, watching her as she studied, admiring the depth of her concentration, amused by the occasional furrowing of her brow as she considered the implications of different parts of the report, frequently snorting and shaking her head as she found something with which to take issue. Eventually, she laid the book in her lap and leaned back in her chair, looking over at Bob.
For a professional report, this shows some of, but not all, the imagination of a particularly dense rock. It tells you that Manson was killed by a knife-wound to the heart — and that's it. Mary the tea-lady in my old surgery could have told you the same! No suggestions, no conclusions, nothing that will take your inquiry one step further. I suggest that in future you use this man for looking after the police horses. . no, maybe not.'
`What do you draw from it, then?' said Bob. 'Can you make suggestions?'
She shot him a look which was almost withering. He smiled at her professional pride.
`Yes. The first is a heavy probability; the second is a God shy;damned certainty! I'll excuse Banks the first one, but the other. . My God! A horse-doctor, I tell you?.
She leaned over and picked up the book of photographs. `How big was Manson?'
‘Tony? About five-eleven, I'd say. Weight? Let's see, he was a light-heavyweight boxer when he was young.
