‘This is Edinburgh. This is a safe, kind place. What sort of a bastard is there in this city that would do a thing like that. A loony, surely.’

Skinner looked sideways at him. ‘I hope so, Roy. Because if whoever chopped up your boy Mike is sane, it doesn’t bear thinking about. Tell me what you know about Mortimer.’

There was little to tell. Mike Mortimer had been thirty-four years old, and had been at the Bar for four years, after five years in the Procurator Fiscal service in Glasgow and Stranraer. He had grown a successful criminal practice quickly, from scratch. He was unmarried, but was widely believed to be sleeping with Rachel Jameson, an advocate a year or two his junior, both in age and in service at the Bar.

In common with most advocates, his family background was non-legal. His father, Thornton recalled, worked in a factory in Clydebank.

‘Nice people, his Mum and Dad. I remember them at Mike’s Calling ceremony. They were so proud of him.’ He shook his head slowly and sadly.

‘Look, Bob, you’d better see the Dean.’

‘Of course, Roy. But give me a second.’ He turned to Martin. ‘Andy, will you talk to the security guards. The night shift will be away by now. Find out who they are, get their addresses and have someone take statements.’

Martin nodded and recrossed the Hall.

Thornton left Skinner for a few moments. On his return, he motioned to the detective to follow him, and led the way through the long Library, past rows of desks under an up-lit, gold-painted ceiling, to a door halfway down on the left.

David Murray, QC, recently elected as Dean of the Faculty of Advocates following his predecessor’s elevation to high judicial office, was a small, neat man, with a reserved but pleasant manner, and enormously shrewd eyes, set behind round spectacles. He was a member of one of the legal dynasties who once formed the major proportion of the Scots Bar. He was held in the utmost respect throughout the Faculty and beyond, and his election, although contested, had been welcomed universally. He was a man of stature in every respect other than the physical.

While Murray’s practice was exclusively civil, he had enjoyed a spell in criminal prosecution as an Advocate Depute. During that time Skinner’s evidence in a number of spectacular trials had helped him to maintain an undefeated record as Crown counsel. He greeted the detective warmly.

‘Hello, Bob, how are things. Thornton tells me you want to see me. None of my troops been up to mischief, I hope.’

‘David, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but one of your people has been murdered. It happened just a few hours ago. He seems to have been on his way home from the Library when he was attacked in Advocates’ Close.’

Murray stood bolt upright. ‘Good God! Who?’

‘A man named Michael Mortimer. Roy Thornton just confirmed our identification.’

‘Oh no, surely not.’ Murray ran a small hand through what was left of his hair. ‘You said murder. Is that what it was, strictly speaking, or do you think it was a mugging gone wrong?’

‘David, not even you would have accepted a culpable homicide plea on this one, believe me.’ Skinner shuddered at the memory, still vivid in his thoughts. He realised, with a flash of certainty, that it would never leave him completely.

‘Listen, I know it’s early, but do you have a spot of something? I feel the need all of a sudden.’

The Dean’s room was lined with books from floor to ceiling. Murray walked over to a shelf and removed a leather-bound volume with the title Session Cases 1924 printed in gold on the spine. He reached into the darkness of the gap that it had left and produced a bottle of Glenmorangie. He removed a glass bearing the Faculty crest from a drawer in his octagonal desk, and uncorking the bottle, poured a stiff measure.

‘Thanks, David.’ Skinner slumped onto the battered leather couch beneath the tall south-facing window. Outside the day was bleaker than ever.

‘Bad one, was it?’ said Murray. ‘I thought Thornton looked drawn when he came in just then.’

Skinner described the murder scene in detail. Wnen he had finished he looked up. Without a word, the Dean, now ashen-faced, produced a second glass and poured a malt for himself. His hand shook as he did so.

Skinner watched him drain the glass. ‘David, can you think of anyone with a professional grudge against this man? Had he lost a case? Could this be a disgruntled ex-client putting out a contract from Peterhead?’

Murray thought for a moment. ‘I can’t see that. The fact is that Mortimer was very good. He’s still a junior, but he’s led for the defence in one or two quite big cases, and given the Crown a good stuffing in the process. I can think of a couple of Glasgow villains who would be doing serious time right now, but for Mike Mortimer. But do you really think that the perpetrator knew him? At 4.00 a.m., down a close, wasn’t this just a random madman?’

Skinner nodded. ‘In all probability that’s exactly what it was. But one thing bothers me. The animal got away without leaving a single pawprint behind him, yet he tossed away this huge bloody bayonet where we’d be sure to find it. Still, you’re right. Chances are it’s a nutter. I only hope that he doesn’t get the taste for it!’

‘Indeed, Bob, indeed!’

The big detective stood up, towering over Murray. He was six years younger than the Dean, but at that moment he felt much older.

‘Look, David, can I have your permission to talk to Mortimer’s clerk, and to check on past and current instructions? Just to cover all possibilities.’

‘Of course. Carry on whenever you wish. In the meantime, I’d better put a notice up in a public place. All your people across the way will have drawn attention, as will the closure of the Close. Gossip spreads like flame here, so I’d better let the troops know the bad news as soon as possible.’

The two shook hands, and Skinner left the Library. He walked back across the street, to the mouth of the Close. A group of journalists and photographers had gathered. They crowded round him as he approached, thrusting tiny tape recorders under his nose. A television camera and hand-lamp were trained upon him.

‘Any statement yet, Mr Skinner?’

‘Any ID on the victim, Bob?’

He held up his hand to silence the clamour. No point in delaying, he thought. He had always been willing to talk to the media, and this had won him their respect and their trust. It had also brought him the highest public profile of any detective in Scotland.

‘Okay, gentlemen ... oh, yes, and okay, Joan ...’ he began, spotting the Scottish Television reporter beside her camera crew.

‘At around 5.30 this morning, two police officers discovered the body of a man in Advocates’ Close. It was quite obvious that he had met a violent death, and a murder investigation is now under way.

‘The victim has been identified, but the name will be withheld until next of kin have been informed. Once that has been done I will make a further statement.’

Alan McQueen of the Daily Record was first with a question. ‘Have you found a weapon, Bob?’

‘We have found something near the scene which could well be the murder weapon. We are talking here about severe wounds caused by a sharp-edged weapon. That’s all I can say for now. Thank you all.’

He turned away and was about to enter the Close, when McQueen put a hand lightly on his arm. ‘Any more you can tell us off the record, Bob?’

Skinner stopped and turned back. As he did so all of the tape recorders were switched off and pocketed, the television hand-lamp was extinguished and the camera was lowered from its operator’s shoulder.

He was silent for a few moments, as if choosing his words. Then he looked at McQueen directly. ‘Without quoting anyone, you can say this: senior police officers are agreed that this is one of the most brutal killings they have ever seen.

‘You can say, too, that police are anxious to speak to anyone who may have seen a person in the High Street, Cockburn Street, or Market Street area between say 3.30 a.m. and 4.30 a.m., with what might have been blood on his clothing. I don’t want to alarm the public at this stage, but want this bastard caught and bloody quick, so any help you can give me in putting that word about will be much appreciated.’

‘Any hint on the victim?’

‘Male, aged thirties, unmarried. We should have broken the news to his parents and his girlfriend within the hour, so check with me at ten-thirty. I’m going to set up an incident room in the old police office across the road.’

‘Thanks, Bob.’ ‘Thanks, Mr Skinner.’ The group broke up, the journlists rushing off to file copy and to prepare broadcast reports. Skinner knew that his disclosure of the brutality of the killing had provided an extra headline, but if there was a maniac at large it would do no harm to put the public on guard.

He pushed aside the tarpaulin sheet which had been raised as a screen over the mouth of the Close and stepped inside. David Pettigrew, the deputy Procurator Fiscal, as Scotland’s public prosecutor is known, awaited his arrival. He was a burly man with a black beard which, even in the poor light, accentuated the greyness of his face. I’ve seen that pallor a few times today, Skinner thought.

‘Mornin’, Davie. I can tell by your face that you’ve had a look under that cover.’

‘Holy Christ, Bob! Who’d have done that? Jack the Ripper?’

‘Don’t. He was never caught.’

Pettigrew shot him a lugubrious look. ‘I see you’ve found the murder weapon. Any thoughts on who might have used it? Former client connections?’

‘That’s the obvious starting point, but David Murray says no. Apparently the lad left a string of happy villains behind him. According to his description of Mortimer’s career the Glasgow Cosa Nostra would help us find whoever did this. And I might have to ask them because, apart from a bayonet which I know even now is not going to give up a single finger print, I do not have a single fucking clue!’