5
It is one of the great truths of crime, that in
the majority of murders, the victim is known to the killer. But an
exhaustive search of Mortimer’s circle of acquaintances,
professional and social, produced not a trace of a lead. And
without that personal connection, which in many cases is as direct
as the husband sat drunk in the kitchen, while his strangled wife
grows cold in the bedroom, any murder is enormously difficult to
solve ... unless the investigating team has an enormous slice of
luck. And luck was in short supply that week in Edinburgh.
In forty-eight hours every one of Skinner’s targets
had been covered. None of them had produced a lead towards the
identity of the ‘Royal Mile Maniac’, as the tabloids had labelled
the killer.
During that period, Skinner directed operations
from his command centre in the High Street, interrupted only by a
three-hour visit to the High Court to give evidence in a drugs
trial.
Three men had been kept under observation in Leith,
and a consignment of heroin had been tracked from a Panamanian
freighter to a ground-floor flat in Muirhouse. The police raid had
been well-timed and wholly successful. The three men had been
caught ‘dirty’ and their distribution ring had been broken up.
Skinner had been irked, but not surprised by the ’not guilty’ plea.
The Scottish Bench was commendably severe on dealers, and the three
knew that they could be going away for fifteen years.
So it was that Skinner came to be side-tracked from
the Michael Mortimer murder enquiry, and cross-examined by Rachel
Jameson for the defence. She was a tiny woman, barely more than
five feet tall. Her advocate’s horse-hair wig hid most of her
blonde hair, which was swept back and tied in a pony tail. Under
her black gown she was dressed in the style required by the Supreme
Court of lady advocates, a dark straight skirt surmounted by a
high-necked white blouse.
As the Advocate Depute finished his direct
examination, she rose, bowed to Lord Auchinleck, the judge, and
walked slowly towards Skinner.
‘Your information came from an anonymous source,
Chief Superintendent?’
‘That is correct, Miss Jameson.’
She looked towards the fifteen men and women who
faced the witness box. ‘Might the jury be told his or her
name?’
‘Miss Jameson, I will not reveal that unless I am
instructed so to do by the Bench.’
She looked towards the judge, who sat impassively
in his wig and red robe.
‘Convenient, Mr Skinner. Mr or Mrs Nobody tells you
about a stash of heroin. You kick the door in, and lo and behold
there it is. Mr Skinner do you trust your officers?’
‘Implicitly.’
‘So what would be your reaction to my clients’
claim that these drugs were, as they say, “planted” by your
detectives?’
‘I would say that it was preposterous, and wholly
untrue.’
‘So defend your officers, Chief Superintendent.
Name your informant.’
Skinner leaned forward in the witness box. He
looked deep into Rachel Jameson’s eyes and held her gaze. ‘Counsel
may be aware that I have come to this Court from a
highly-publicised murder enquiry. Earlier this week I saw a person
who had been brutally killed. If I do as you ask, I might well have
to look at another. I don’t want that. Do you?’
Rachel Jameson paled. She nodded to the Bench and
sat down. Lord Auchinleck thanked Skinner and excused him. He left
the Court feeling a twinge of sympathy for the defence advocate,
but only a twinge. Each of them had clients to protect.