It was only a small scream.

Not much of a scream at all, really. Yet it had a profound effect on Bob Skinner.

His broad shoulders and his ramrod straight spine, which had been rigid with tension, relaxed and sagged. In the same instant his eyes overflowed with hot, sudden, unexpected tears. They ran down his face, mingling with the sweat of the two-hour drama in which, although only a bit player, he had been involved as intensely as the two principals.

The scream, spontaneous from the shock of the first inflation of the lungs, faltered quickly, became for a second or two a hiccupping splutter, then settled into a long-drawn-out wailing cry.

Bob Skinner stared in awe at the miracle of new life, at the infant fresh from the womb, held upside-down before him by the young doctor whose white cap and mask seemed to add lustre to the shining blackness of his face. Then, through his trance, Bob felt the pressure of his wife's strong grip and turned towards her. His mouth shaped words, but no sound came. He was for that time, indeed for the first time in his forty-five years, struck quite dumb.

Sarah said it for him, We have a son.' She looked back towards the baby, as his crying took on added volume with the cutting of the umbilical cord. A few seconds later, he was swaddled and placed in her arms. She kissed the tiny forehead above the slitted eyes, oblivious of the smears of blood and mucus.

`Welcome to the world, James Andrew Skinner,' she whispered.

Bob's left arm slipped round her shoulders as she lay propped up on the delivery table, legs still spread in the position of birth. He leaned down and peered at the white bundle of soft blankets, looking into his son's face for the first time. The power of speech returned. 'Yes, wee fella. Hello, there. You'll like it out here, I think, Master JAS. Hope you'll like us.'

`No doubt about that, copper,' said his wife. 'Hey! JAS — I like the sound of that. James Andrew Skinner, aka Jazz. Spelled J-A-Z-Z. That's what we'll call him. Yes, Bob?'

The new father threw back his head and laughed. The movement loosened his surgical cap, and he shook it off completely, freeing his thick, steel-grey hair. 'Yes! That's great. Our boy Jazz. It sort of suits him doesn't it. He looks pretty cool already.'

The baby's crying had stopped. The crumpled face had begun to relax, a wrinkle line across the forehead disappearing as it did. A small right hand forced its way from within the bundle. Very gently, Bob touched the tiny palm with his index finger. The fingers closed in a reflex action on its tip. He was amazed by the strength of the grip. 'My God! Feel that.'

Sarah nodded. 'I know. I am a doctor, remember. The human animal is proportionately stronger, in relation to body weight, at the moment of birth, than it will ever be again, even suppose it grows up to be an Olympic weightlifter.' She offered the middle joint of her little finger to the bud-like mouth. It clamped on tight, and began to suck voraciously. 'Ow! Jazz, baby, what have I let myself in for?' -

The young nurse who had handed Sarah her baby for the first time returned and took him back, to have all his regulation parts checked and counted, to be weighed, to be washed and to be spruced up generally for his debut. Bob glanced at the big wall clock, to mark the time in his memory. It was two minutes before midday on Sunday the twelfth of May.

He helped a second member of the delivery team restore Sarah to a more conventional and comfortable position, with her back propped up on the birth table high enough for her to be able to watch the first nurse at work.

The new born Jazz Skinner was stretched out on the blanket which had served as his first robe, while the girl washed him gently, from top to toe. 'Look at him, Bob,' said Sarah. Fit as she was, her breathing was still slightly heavy from the exertion of the birth, and its irregularity gave an added edge to the wonderment in her voice. 'Look at him. He's just like you.'

Bob beamed, then chuckled. 'Hair's a bit darker, though!'

`Yes but it looks as if it'll lie the same way once it's dried off. And look at the shape of his body; how long and lean he is. Just like you. And his little face: that frown line above the bridge of his nose. That's yours, too.'

He squeezed her shoulder. 'Sarah, love. He's like all newborn babies. He's got a face like a well-skelped arse, and he will have until he opens his eyes properly. Talking of arses, when the doc held him up there, something looked familiar. That's "one thing of yours he's got, at least.'

`Bob!'

`Come on; girl. That's a compliment. You've got the nicest arse in Edinburgh!'

‘H mm. Wonder if you'll still say that when you see the effect carrying young Jazz has on it?'

"Course I will. Anything on you is the best by me. You're a wonder, Doctor — sorry, Professor — and you've just proved it again.'

From the breathless moment when they had confirmed it, using an over-the-counter test kit, through to the uncomplicated delivery, two days early, in the grandly-named Simpson Memorial Maternity Pavilion within the crowded precincts of Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, Sarah's pregnancy had been a model — without major upsets for either mother or father. Bob had been outraged on one occasion by a junior doctor's description of his thirty-year-old wife as an 'elderly prim', but had been mollified by Sarah's explanation that the term was medical jargon for first-time mothers over twenty-five.

Alex, Bob's daughter by his all-too-brief first marriage, had been born over twenty years before, in an age and under a regime in which fathers were excluded as a matter of policy once their biological task had been completed. So the growth of Sarah's bump, and the gestation process of the individual who had just emerged from the dark chrysalis of the womb as his son Jazz, had been in effect as new an experience for him as for his wife. He had shared in the preparation every step of the way, attending all of Sarah's training classes, and the consultant's sincere inquiry as to whether he wished to attend the birth had been greeted with a sternly raised eyebrow and a curt, 'Of course.

Even Bob's work had seemed to co-operate in allowing him to spend as much time as possible at his wife's side. After a terrible twelve months, with drama following drama, life had become, since the previous September, even quieter than was normal in Edinburgh. It was as if the city's criminal underclass had been awed by the grand scale of the crises of the previous year, and cowed also by the force with which Assistant Chief Constable Robert Skinner had dealt with each one. As a result, Skinner had been able to establish a normal working routine for the first time since his promotion to Executive Officer rank. Even the demands of his 'second job', as security adviser to Andrew Hardie, the recently appointed Secretary of State for Scotland, had slackened off, through a general lessening in the terrorist threat.

So marked had been the change that, in addition to sharing the routine tasks of Sarah's pregnancy, Bob had been able to resume his stewardship of his police force's karate club and rejoin the squash ladder. He had even entered, for the first time in five years, the spring knockout golf tournament, where his path to the final had been blocked by a suspiciously good fourteen-handicapper who would now find it difficult as a result, or so it was hinted by colleagues, ever to escape from the humdrum of the traffic department. The new routine had been badly needed therapy for Bob Skinner, after a year during which he had faced the greatest challenges of his life, shocking himself at times by the things of which, in hours of need, he had proved capable, encountering an inner self whose existence he had never suspected, and whose ruthlessness he feared.

But now, as the young nurse put his son into his arms for the first time, the questioning voices within him were stilled. Perched carefully on the table, he looked down at tiny Jazz, looking for his own likeness, and finding it, as Sarah had said he would, in the quiff of hair which fell over the child's forehead, and in the strange deep vertical line between his eyebrows. The baby blinked, and Bob was sure that he was peering at him, trying to focus on his face, adjusting his eyes to these strange new phenomena of light and movement that had come into his world.

For months, Bob had anticipated this moment when first he would cradle his son in his arms. He had thought of many profound, wise, and probably pompous things that he would say to him. But, now that the time had come, there were no words. Only the widest smile of his life, only the happiness of journey's end, only the private thought: 'If you can do this, Skinner, you're okay. You're okay.'

He kissed the tiny forehead. 'And you're okay, too, Jazz my boy . . . and how!' he said softly.

He held the baby proudly, as the nurses eased Sarah into a wheelchair, and he followed as they pushed her back along the corridor to the private room in which she had been installed on their arrival at the hospital three hours earlier. She climbed-into bed gingerly, but still smiling. Without waiting to be asked, Bob bent and passed their child, from the cradle of his arms, to his mother. He stripped off his green robe and tore open the Velcro fastening of the face mask which hung around his neck, forgotten until that moment. Throwing both on to a chair beside the window, he walked over and retrieved his leather jacket from the small wardrobe facing the bed. 'Let's tell some people,' he said, and took his mobile telephone from the right-hand pocket. He switched it on and punched in an American number, handing the small instrument to Sarah as he pushed the SEND button. 'Your father.'

The call was picked up on the fourth ring.

`Dad? Sorry, that's Granddad !' She cried a few happy tears with her father in New York State, then, promising to write, said her goodbyes.

Bob took back the phone, and called his daughter. As he had anticipated, Alex was at home in her Glasgow flat studying for the last of her university Law exams, in hot pursuit of a first-class honours degree.

`I am sorry, Pops,' she said, after he had broken his news. 'I am twenty-one years old, and I just cannot get my head round the idea of having a baby brother. He's going to have to call m e Auntie — that's all there is to it.' She laughed at the other end of the line. 'Seriously, I am so pleased for you both. And so proud. He's a new chapter in all our lives, and you know what? We deserve him.' Her voice sounded suddenly wistful, almost vulnerable.

Bob's third call was to another mobile. It rang out several times; then, just as a puzzled look began to creep across his face, the ringing stopped.

`Martin.' The man on the other end sounded testy, annoyed at the interruption.

`Skinner.'

Detective Superintendent Andy Martin's tone changed in an instant. 'Bob! News?'

`Aye, news indeed, uncle. James Andrew Skinner checked in around half an hour ago. He and his mother are both A 1 —repeat A 1 , my boy.'

`Bob, that's wonderful. No problems?'

`None at all.'

`Smashin'. Hey, did you say Andrew?'

`Yes . . . Sarah's idea, of course. I don't know which is more dodgy: naming him after two coppers or after two saints. Anyway, we're not going to call him either one. His using name's going to be Jazz — that's spelt as in Acker Bilk. It sort of suits his American half. He's a well-behaved wee chap too; hardly a murmur since he was tidied up.'

`Terrific. When can I come to see him?'

`You can come today, if you like.' He glanced at Sarah for confirmation, and saw her nod vigorously. 'They're in the posh parent ward, so visiting hours aren't a problem. Come this evening if you like.

`Fine. I should be clear by then.'

`Okay. Where are you just now? You sounded a bit grumpy when you answered.'

`Looking at stiffs still gets me that way. I'm at a murder scene.

Skinner frowned. Since his promotion at the beginning of April, following a three-month secondment to the Los Angeles Police Department, Andy Martin had been in command of the force's Drugs and Vice Squad, two formerly separate units combined by Skinner into a single department because of the strong link between narcotics and prostitution, and the AIDS-related dangers which this trend had created.

`What are you doing at a murder?'

`Ah, boss, this isn't any old murder. The stiff here's a celebrity.' Martin paused, and Skinner's eyebrows rose. 'But you don't want to know about this just now, do you?'

`Come on, boy. Who've you got there?'

`Well, if you insist. Tell Sarah you forced it out of me, though. The guest of honour here is only Mr Tony Manson, that's all.'

Skinner's surprise expressed itself in a low, drawn-out whistle. 'Terrible Tony! Murdered? There's no doubt it was murder?'

`If it wasn't, he's made a bloody good job of hiding the suicide weapon.'

`Where are you?'

`At his place, out in Barnton. I'll show you the pictures tomorrow.'

`Trinity? Oh yes, I remember. I knocked that house over a few years back, when I was doing your job. Found bugger all, of course.' Skinner paused. He glanced over at the bed. 'Listen, Andy. Stuff the pictures! Keep him on ice. This one I've got to see for myself. Sarah and wee Jazz will probably go for a sleep soon. I'll be down then.'

The dead ones bothered him so much more now.

Before . . . well, before it had been part of the job. He had been called in and there they were: carcasses, no more than that. It didn't matter whether they had been men, women or children. At the moment of his first contact, they were all just victims, and Skinner had been able to deal with them on that basis, however bloody the remains, however cruel the killing.

Oh, he had been righteously angered on many occasions. There had been a child killer a decade ago; Bob had seen to it, with a word to an assistant governor, that the man's first night as a convicted prisoner had been spent in open association with the rest. His next three weeks had been spent in hospital, and all the years since then in segregation. Yet, on the whole, Skinner had coped dispassionately with the nasty side of the job. It was, after all, an essential part of leadership. It had helped him take the fast track to his present exalted position as Assistant Chief Constable and head of criminal investigation in Scotland's capital, a city whose cruel streak is never shown to the tourists but which lurks there, nonetheless.

Yet Bob Skinner, like the great majority, had reached his forties without ever having seen another human being actually die, without looking into a person's face as the last breath was drawn. Now he had been there, done that. In fact, he had done more — much more. Now, every time he was called to a murder scene, the centre of attraction was more than just a victim. Skinner found himself stepping into that person's mind, thinking their thoughts, forming a picture of that last moment, not as an observer but as a participant experiencing the rage and terror of the life as it was stolen.

`Theft. That's what murder is .' As he opened the heavy brassbound front door, flanked on either side by a row of four granite curling stones, Skinner recalled a sombre speech made to a police-force dinner party by a senior judge. 'The most serious theft of all: the theft of life, of time, of years unfulfilled. And for what? Once it's stolen, it can't be used. It has no resale value, no value to anyone other than its owner, to whom of course it is beyond price. Mostly, the theft takes place without thought, in a moment of anger, and is regretted the instant it is done. But life isn't a magazine filched from a rack, or a can of beans from a supermarket shelf . You can't sneak a stolen life back to the shop and pretend that nothing happened.'

The eyes stared at Skinner, upside-down, as he climbed the staircase. The head lolled backwards over the landing; the dark hair looked as if it was standing on end, the mouth hung open, grotesque and oddly obscene, the tip of the tongue licking out over the top lip. The banisters hung by shreds of wood. They were solid mahogany, yet they had been smashed by the bulk of the body and the force with which it had crashed backwards through them.

The tableau of death offered a surreal and stark contrast to the scene in which Bob had been involved only four hours before, and the private room in the Simpson where he had left mother and son asleep. From birth to death in twenty minutes, he thought. His mind swam for a second, and a violent shudder ran through him.

Andy Martin was waiting for him in the upper hallway at the top of the staircase, with Alan Royston the force press officer.

If Martin had noticed Skinner's reaction, he gave no sign. `Stone cold, boss. There's hardly any blood. Single puncture wound straight into the heart. Whoever did this either knew exactly where to hit, or they were dead lucky.'

`Whoever did this didn't rely on luck. How long has he been dead?'

The doctor's first guess was that he was done between one and two a.m. The cleaning lady found him. She lets herself in around nine every morning.'

`He lived alone, still, did he?'

`Always has done. He's never been married. The odd girlfriend, but mostly he used the tarts from his saunas.'

Skinner grunted. ‘H mm. A man of simple tastes, then. Who's the senior bod here from Division?'

The answer came from a room off the landing. 'So far, it's me, sir. DI Donaldson's on leave, and Miss Higgins is over in the west, crewing her brother's yacht on the Clyde.' The husky shape of Detective Sergeant Mario McGuire appeared, framed in the doorway.

`Where's Roy Old?'

`Away in Hawick with the Chief and Brian Mackie, looking after the Princess Royal,' said Martin.

Skinner nodded. 'Of course. Right, Mario, what have we got, then?'

`Here, sir?' said McGuire. Not a lot, you might say. Only a very dead Anthony Manson. Owner and operator of a dozen housing-scheme laundrettes, eight takeaways, six dodgy lockup public houses, four saunas of ill repute, and one curling club complete with blue-chip membership to make Tony there look halfway respectable. The ideal setup for the biggest drug baron in Scotland.'

Skinner laughed ironically. 'Come on now, sergeant. The late Mr Manson has never been charged with a single crime or misdemeanour. Okay, so half a dozen of his former employees are doing time for dealing, but that's still no reason to speak ill of the dead.'

McGuire snorted. 'The only thing I've got to say to the dead, sir, is, "Cheerio, Tony, you won't be missed." We all know what he was.'

Skinner nodded. 'So the place is clean, then. He hasn't left anything we can stick on him beyond the grave?'

`Clean as a whistle, boss,' said Martin. 'Not as much as a Beecham’s powder.'

`What about motive? Any chance it was a house-breaking interrupted?'

Martin grinned, raising his blond eyebrows. 'Who'd be daft enough to burgle Tony Manson, boss? No sign of theft. His jewellery's untouched, the video's still there, and there's a few thousand in cash in a drawer in his desk downstairs.'

`So what do we know?'

`Not a lot, so far. He took a taxi home from the casino in Kent Street a bit after midnight. We traced the driver. Tony bunged him a tenner tip apparently. He'd had a good night. There was a glass with the end of a whisky in it, in the study downstairs. It looks as if he came in, had himself a nightcap, and wandered up the stairs. Your man — and it has to be a man, from the way the body was rammed through that balustrade — seems to have been waiting just inside the bedroom. Tony's prints are fresh on the door handle. He opens the door, and . . .' The sentence tailed off, unfinished.

Skinner leaned over the body. 'With a knife, too, lads. Now that's unusual, if this was a contract job. I have only once, that I can recall, seen a hit where a knife was used. And we cleared that one up. You know the usual story: the pros nearly always use big-calibre pistols, or sawn-offs.'

`Mm.' Martin nodded his agreement. 'That's right: weapons that don't leave any room for doubt. And it wasn't as if there was any need to be quiet about this one. You could fire a cannon in here and the folk next door wouldn't hear, the houses are so far apart.'

`Another thing,' said Skinner. 'If this was done by a specialist act, he's from out of town. From out of Scotland, I'll bet. If this guy had worked up here before, I'd have heard of it. And that could paint a very scary picture. Tony never allowed any organised opposition to develop in Edinburgh. A hard guy in a horrible trade, but at least with him around we've known the extent of the problem, and we've been able to keep it in check. I think he even had the sense a few years back to realise that he was going over the score, and to rein himself in. So if someone's had him bumped, that could mean a takeover bid. That's the devil we knew lying there, that heap of dead meat. If we're going to face a new team, Andy, it looks as if I've put you in charge of the squad in the nick of time.'

`Thanks, boss. Thanks a million. You're always doing things like this to me. Mind you, I've had no sniff of any rival bidders for Tony's franchise. I'll put out feelers when we get back to base.

`Yes, and I' ll put Maggie Rose to work, tr ying to trace similar killings through the PNC. I'll have Brian Mackie check his network, too. You never know, this could even have been overseas talent.' He turned. 'Mario, you've searched the place once. Now do it again, looking for anything funny — anything that doesn't seem natural.'

Skinner called to the press officer. 'Alan, you're free to make a statement to the media outside. You can't confirm without formal identification that this is T o ny Manson, but tell them that no one will sue them if they say it is. Beyond that, just say that a full-scale murder inquiry is being set up. Then we can sit back and wait for the GANG WARS headlines that we will surely see tomorrow.'

Skinner paused and smiled. 'And while we're waiting, you, Andy, can come back to the Simpson and meet your new godson.

_No danger of him growing up to be a ballet dancer. Look at the size of those feet!'

`Just a minute, Martin! That's my wee brother you're talking about.' Alex Skinner laughed and threw her arms in delight around Andy's broad shoulders, as they perched on the edge of the bed.

His vivid green eyes sparkled as he glanced sideways at her. `And your father!' he said. 'Where d'you think he got those plates from? Tell you what, Sarah, it'll be special-order trainers for him by the time he's fourteen.'

Bob looked across at Alex and Andy, thoughtfully. They had each come through terrible times, only a few months before. In the aftermath they had seemed to come closer together in their friendship, each helping the other to heal. The medicine seemed to have worked. Sitting side by side, they looked for all the world like two happy people without a care. But, still, Bob fancied that he saw the occasional shadow pass across his daughter's face, and noted a sombre side to his friend's sunny nature that had not been there a year before.

Sarah was seated at the window, in a high-backed armchair, cradling Jazz in her right arm. His shawl — a Skinner family heirloom in which Alex herself had once been wrapped — was loosened, and one corner hung towards the floor. Golden evening sun flooded in, washing over mother and son, and glinting in the grey of Bob's hair as he leaned over the chair back. He whistled softly, and Jazz looked upwards toward the sound, curiosity stilling the kicking of his feet . . . which were, Bob had to admit, generously sized.

Do you hear what that policeman's saying about us, wee man. Good honest working feet those are. Just made for pounding a beat. Which is what that cheeky bugger'll be doin' before too long, if he doesn't watch it! He'll make a good godfather though, Jazz. Biggest gangster in the force, so the boys say. Your godmother will see you okay, too. You Baptists don't have some rule against sisters being godmothers, do you, love?'

Sarah smiled across at Alex. 'If we did, I'd look for another church that didn't.' She switched her glance, and her grin, to Andy Martin. 'So, Superintendent, where did you drag my old man off to this afternoon, the moment our eyes closed? Didn't you think he might be feeling as tired as we did?'

Andy shook his blond head, throwing up his hands in a fending-off gesture. 'I didn't drag him anywhere, honest. He dragged himself. It wasn't any old crime scene either, mother. Talk of godfathers: that's who this was — Edinburgh's own. One Tony Manson.'

Sarah's eyes widened. 'Even I've heard of him! What happened? Wish I'd been there.'

`Steady on, Sarah,' said Alex. 'Yo u 're out of that line now. You're a professor, remember.'

Ah, but I can still be called in to crime scenes!'

Five months before, when word of her impending withdrawal from general practice had reached the Principal of Edinburgh University, Sarah had been made a surprising and totally unexpected offer. The Faculty of Advocates, the Scottish Bar, had just agreed to sponsor a new chair of Criminal Forensics and Pathology within the University's Medical School, and was pressing for a high-profile appointment. Without Bob's knowledge, Archie Nelson, the recently elected Dean of Faculty, had proposed Dr Sarah Grace Skinner, already recognised, after less than two years in post, as Scotland's leading police surgeon. Recognising both the power of the paymaster and the merit of the appointment, the Principal had approached Sarah, and offered her the chair on a three-year tenure. When she had recovered from her surprise, Sarah, with Bob's agreement, had accepted, and had been installed as Scotland's youngest professor. She had spent the latter part of her pregnancy planning her course, and working on her lectures, which were scheduled to begin with the new term, in the autumn.

`So, come on, boys,' she said. 'Tell me about it. My professional curiosity's well wound up now.'

Bob sighed and shrugged his shoulders. 'Well, if you insist. But there was nothing spectacular about it. Single blow with a long-bladed knife, Dr Banks said. Victim taken by surprise by an intruder, late at night. It's likely he was half asleep, and so an easy target. Banks is doing the PM himself.'

`Banks!' Sarah snorted. 'Couldn't you have got Burke and Hare? They'd have done a better job. What else did that horse-doctor have to tell you?'

`What more should there be?' asked Bob, but even as he spoke he recognised that the doctor's scene-of-crime examination had been perfunctory. And he knew that his wife had a special talent. She could look at a murder scene and put together a description of the crime which would later prove unerringly accurate.

`What more?' said Sarah. 'Plenty! How tall was the attacker? Was it a man or woman? Was he or she left-handed or orthodox? Did Manson do any damage himself? All that stuff.'

Bob smiled. 'Come on, love. Don't be so hard on the man. I'm sure all that'll be in his PM report.'

`Yes, and he'll give you the Derby winner, too! Listen, your people are going to be under pressure on this one. You can guess what the media coverage will be like tomorrow. Let me help. I'm going to cool my heels in here until Wednesday at least, practising the nuts and bolts of this motherhood thing. Why don't you bring me in the PM report and the photographs tomorrow, and I'll try to fill in some of the gaps that Banks will have left?'

Bob opened his mouth to protest, but his wife fixed him with a look which told him that refusal was not an option, so he closed it again. Andy and Alex, looking on from their bedside perch, smiled at this silent exchange.

`Okay, Prof, if it'll make you happy, I'll do that. You're in a strong negotiating position today, I suppose. See what you're up against in life's battles of wills, wee Jazz?'

As if in response, Jazz wriggled in Sarah's arms, released a mewling cat-like cry, and turned his face towards his mother's breast in a gesture which was pure reflex, but which could have only one meaning.

Sarah laughed. 'I think you'll find that this one won't take no for an answer either! Go on you lot. Go and wet his head, or whatever. I've got some mothering to do here.'

‘It’ll be the standard routine, sheer back-breaking drudgery, this investigation, but it's the only way.'

Two men and a woman faced Skinner across his rosewood desk in the big office located in the command suite of the ugly, hybrid building in Fettes Avenue which was Edinburgh's police headquarters. Detective Inspector Maggie Rose, the ACC's recently promoted personal assistant, sat to his left, a notebook on her lap, ready to record decisions taken and orders issued. Ranged beside her were Detective Chief Superintendent Roy Old who was Skinner's immediate deputy, Andy Martin, and Detective Superintendent Alison Higgins who had day-to-day responsibility for criminal investigation in Edinburgh's Eastern Division.

`Neither our own criminal intelligence sources nor the PNC has thrown up any hint that Manson had been a target, or has given us any warning that a rival outfit might have fancied his territory. Yet all the evidence points to this having been a premeditated murder. The attending officers went over the place twice yesterday, the first time with the cleaning woman, and the second time with Manson's lawyer. They both said that everything looked normal and that no valuables seemed to be missing.'

He glanced around at them, then continued. 'That means we have to look into every area of Manson's life, both the legitimate side and the things we've never been able to nail down before. I want every one of his managers brought in for interview. Put them under a bit of pressure, especially those we've got under the closest observation already. We know that Tony was too cute to push stuff through all his places at once. He only ever ran his candy stall in one place at any given time, always moving it around to cut down our chances of nailing the operation.'

`How did the buyers know where to go then, sir?' asked Superintendent Higgins.

Skinner raised an eyebrow in surprise at the question. `Come on, Alison, these are addicts we're talking about. They've got a bush telegraph that's like no other. Word gets round like lightning. But it's a very tight-knit club, and difficult for us to penetrate. We had an informant for a while, who gave us three or four tips that led to dealer arrests, but she died of an overdose. We suspected at the time — in fact I'm still bloody certain — that her death wasn't an accident. Since then, all we've been able to do is try to read Tony's mind, and keep an eye on some of the places that haven't been used in a while, hoping to catch one of them dirty. That's worked precisely once over the years. My darkest suspicion is that Manson had one of our own people on his payroll. Maybe now he's dead, we'll have a chance of finding out whether I'm right — or, I pray, proving that I'm wrong.'

He paused, to look out of the picture window, contemplatively, for a second or two.

`That's another thing I want done. Interview Manson's lawyer, accountant, bank manager, everyone who was ever involved with him in business. See if any of them know of any

argument he had in the pubs, the laundrettes, the curling club, anywhere. Interview every bugger you can find who ever knew Manson. His hairdresser, the taxi driver who brought him home, the cellar men in his pubs, the whores in his saunas, everyone. Andy, you and your Vice people interview the women. They'll be on first-name terms with most of them. Divisional CID does the rest. Roy, if you need an overtime tab for all this, just let me know what it's likely to run to, and I'll ask the Management Services Director to adjust the budget. It's boring old stuff, as I say, but it's all we have.'

He turned to DS Higgins. 'Alison, you scrutinise all the interview transcripts, and report to Roy daily, in summary. You, Roy, keep me in touch. Anything that you think I should see, get it to me right away. I'll be around until Wednesday, then I'm taking a few days off. I'll still be close by, though.'

He sat forward in his chair and put his hands palm-down on the desk. 'Right, that's almost everything. Maggie, Andy, could you leave us now. Mags, check if the PM report is in yet. If it is, make me an extra copy and get me a full set of photos, scene-of-crime and postmortem.'

Maggie Rose nodded and left the room with Martin. As the door closed behind them, Skinner turned back to Old and Higgins. He looked the woman straight in the eye, suddenly serious. 'I've got a bone to pick with you, Alison. I don't think it's too clever to leave a detective sergeant as acting divisional head of CID. Presumably you knew that Donaldson was on leave, and that Roy was away with a Royal.'

The detective superintendent, reddening, nodded her close-cropped blonde head.

`In that case, you should have known better than to put yourself out of reach at the same time. It's as well that big McGuire is a good operator, and that Andy Martin was available, otherwise you'd have been in the shit. Look, you know me. I try to be even-handed. That means, whether you're a detective constable or detective superintendent, if you screw up, I'll tell you. Now, you're fairly new in rank and in post, and I've got faith in you. I won't chop you for one error of judgement. But for two of the same kind, I will. Make sure that this is part of the learning experience. Okay?'

`Yes, sir.'

Skinner looked across at Old. 'You can consider your arse kicked, too, Roy. As Alison's line commander, when she drops one, it's down to you as well. Make sure that none of your divisional supers make the same mistake.'

He paused, easing the atmosphere with a smile. 'And don't go taking it out on Alison.'

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.'

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?'

` M mm. 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. B ut 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.

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. J azz 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 h andling 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 Goddamned 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. That would make him twelve-and-a-half stone in his prime. He hadn't run much to fat, as you can see from the photos. Let's say fourteen stone, tops.'

`Age? Oh, yes, the report said forty-eight. Reasonably fit?'

`For sure. He could still have done his own bouncing in the pubs if necessary . . . not that any of his regulars would have been so daft. What does all that tell you?'

Sarah paused.

`What I think it tells me is that whoever killed Manson was someone he knew, and he was either expecting or wasn't surprised to see.'

`How do you work that out?'

She paused again, considering her answer, examining her logic once more before committing herself. Eventually she leaned forward in her chair and looked him earnestly in the eye.

`This is a tough guy, right. A no-nonsense guy. A hard man, as you would say.'

Skinner nodded.

She lifted up the book of photographs from her lap, and turned to a wide-angle shot of the death scene that she had marked with her thumb. 'This is exactly as your people found it, yes? I assume all of them knew to touch nothing.' Again, Skinner nodded. 'Right, look at the door. Fresh prints on the handle, and it's all the way open. That means that Manson was all the way into his bedroom when he was attacked. And a fresh thumb-print on the switch means that the light was on.'

She turned back to the close-up shot of the wound. 'Look here. The angle of entry, as Banks describes it, and the force of the wound can mean only that he was attacked from the front by a strong right-handed person, let's assume a man. He was stabbed, and then he was run backwards, all two-hundred pounds of him, fast enough to smash that damned heavy balustrade when he was forced into it. For that to have happened, there must have been no defensive reflex at all from Manson as he was being attacked with the knife. If there had been, then not even Arnold Schwarzenegger would have been able to generate the sort of force and speed with which he was moved backwards. And he must have been travelling that fast for the body to have such an effect on that solid wood.'

She paused, considering her words. 'Now you're Tony Manson, major operator, experienced villain of repute, afraid of nothing and very hard man. You walk into your bedroom, switch on the light and there's a stranger facing you with a knife. Even if he's coming at you fast, you react. It's your instinct. So even as he's sticking the knife into you, you're moving against him, resisting, your last active thought being to take a pop at this intruder. You're heavy, so even a strong man will have trouble holding you up, let alone moving you backwards.'

She shook her head. 'No, Bob, I believe that Manson came into the room, switched on the light, saw someone that he knew, and was so surprised that he was frozen, his muscles completely relaxed as he was killed. Look at his face, even. He died with his jaw dropped and his eyes wide open . . . in surprise. The man just slammed right into him with the knife and kept moving, making sure to get him down, to be able to finish him if he had to. Only he didn't. He'd done the job first time of asking. That's how I see it. Questions?'

Skinner looked at his wife, considering everything she had said. He stood up from the bed and walked across to the window. He gazed out at the Meadows for a few seconds, still thinking, then glanced back over his shoulder towards Sarah.

`Could he have in fact resisted, and could they have struggled together back through the doorway on to the landing?'

She shook her head with conviction. 'No way. The wound is too clean and too deep; and that way the body wouldn't have developed pace enough to smash the balustrade. Look at the photos — see how solid it is.'

He cast his mind back to the day before, and nodded his agreement. 'Yes, you're right. They were built to stop people falling, those things, not to simply give way. Could he have been attacked from behind by a stranger, and stumbled backwards?'

`Again, no way. The angle of the wound is wrong. No, either Tony was a closet wimp and froze with fright—'

`You can rule that one out!'

‘ or he was surprised to death. ’

Skinner looked at her for a few seconds more, then smiled. `Okay, Prof. If that's your heavy probability, I'll buy it. Now what's your certainty.'

She smiled back, pleased, and picked up the photographs once more. As she flicked through them she asked, Was Manson left-handed?'

`Eh? Buggered if I know.' Bob's forehead wrinkled as he searched his memory. 'Hey no! Wait a minute! I remember seeing him box once; must be twenty-five years ago. He was a southpaw. Yes, that would mean that he was left-handed. Why d'you need to know?'

She found the photograph for which she had been looking. `See here.' She held it up to Skinner. Taken at the postmortem, the shot was a close-up view of the ends of the fingers of Manson's left hand, facing palm upwards.

`Yes?'

`Standard practice at an autopsy: look under the fingernails.' She turned to the next photograph. 'This is what they found under the nails of Manson's left hand' Skinner looked again. The ragged bits were magnified so that, in the colour exposure, Skinner recognised them easily as scraps of skin all flecked with blood, and one clearly with tissue attached.

He stared back at Sarah, his question clear in his eyes, and she answered at once.

`The knife's gone in. Manson's dead but he doesn't quite know it yet. Even as he's hurtling backwards, with the blade in his heart, his left hand clamps on to the wrist holding the knife. Like this.'

She reached up and grabbed his arm, her palm underneath, her fingers touching the base of his hand.

The nails dig in, deep. It's a death grip. When he goes down, the man rips his hand free, and Manson's nails tear a great chunk out of his wrist. Just about there.' As she released him, she stroked the area which she had held. 'When you find the man who killed Tony Manson, you may take it from me, he will have either deep, ragged scratches or — if you don't catch him that quick — small scars on the inside of his right wrist.'

‘W hat are you implying, Mr Skinner?'

Richard Cocozza, Tony Manson's lawyer, and now executor, leaned forward aggressively. Skinner disliked the man intensely. He had always believed that he must be completely aware of all the details of Manson's business activities, legitimate and covert. Though he was not by nature vindictive, he had long harboured a secret dream of catching Cocozza in some situation that was either criminally or professionally compromising. With Manson dead, that dream had dwindled to the faintest of hopes. Now the little man's reaction fanned that antipathy once more.

`Implying, Richard? What should I be implying? In the two days since your client was murdered, we have learned nothing from our inquiries that suggests any motive. Now, I am asking you and Mr John to allow my officers access to his personal and business bank accounts to see if they throw up any line of inquiry.'

The two men, lawyer and detective, sat facing each other on either side of a grey-surfaced designer desk in the office of the senior manager of the Greenside branch of Bank of Scotland. The banker, Andrew John, a burly, bearded figure, leaned back in his swivel chair, sensing the animosity, but remaining silent as the exchange developed.

`You expect me to believe that's all you're after?'

Skinner shook his head. 'I don't give a toss what you believe. I've explained to you what we want. Tell you what, though, the way you're going on, I'm beginning to think there might be something in there that you don't want me to find. We've always taken the view that Tony Manson was far too careful ever to have tried laundering any drug money through the legitimate businesses. Don't tell me we were wrong about that. Because if it turns out that we were, if we can trace large unaccounted movements of cash in and out of any of those accounts, we'd have to take a very close look at you and at what you might have known. Is that what your problem is, Richard? Is that why you're being obstructive?'

The fat little lawyer sat bolt upright, trembling with indignation. Whether this was real or pretence, Skinner did not know, but he was pleased that the man's customary arrogance had been rattled.

`I'm not being obstructive!'

`Then why the questions? Why aren't you falling over yourself to help us find out who killed Manson? You can't want me to go to Court. We both know what the Law Society would think of that.'

He stood up and walked over to the first-floor bay window, his back turned to Cocozza as he looked across Picardy Place, past the life-size bronze statue of Sherlock Holmes — his fictional colleague — and beyond to the Paolozzi sculptures, vastly different in concept and execution, which dominated the pedestrian way in front of the Roman Catholic Cathedral. Skinner watched the traffic, as it circled the Picardy Place roundabout and exited in three directions: towards Princes Street, towards Leith, towards the west. In mid-morning May the traffic was relatively light in comparison with the peak summer months, when tourist cars and camper vans would abound.

For almost a minute only the traffic noise could be heard in the panelled office. Finally, Andrew John broke the silence. `Look, Mr Cocozza, we're all busy people. You've no good reason not to agree to this, and you know it. So can you stop wasting our time!'

Skinner turned around. 'It's all right, Richard. There'll be no comeback. Tony's dead, remember.' He paused. 'Or is it the guy who killed him that you're scared of?'

Cocozza flushed, and suddenly Skinner knew that he had hit the mark.

`Very well. If i t's in the interests of justice, I'll agree. With the proviso that the files do not leave this office, and that I am present whenever your people have access to them.'

Skinner nodded. 'Suits me. I'm sure points will come up that we'll have to ask you about.' He looked towards the manager. Do you have a spare office for my people?'

`Sure. When?'

`Now. They're waiting outside.

At times like this, sir, d'you never wish you were back in the clean air of Special Branch?'

Detective Sergeant Neil Mcllhenney leaned his broad back against the drab grey wall of the windowless room. It still smelled of its last occupant, and perhaps, of two or three earlier ones.

Andy Martin smiled. 'Come on, Neil. We're doing a worthwhile job here too!

`Maybe so, sir, but these low-lifers . . . It's the constant procession of the miserable bastards that wears me down. Shifty-eyed, lying so-and-sos, and every one o' them in need of a good scrub. At least the agitators and general nutters we used to keep tabs on in the SB had nothing, against underarm deodorant.

`Christ, that last tart we had in here — she was fuckin' honkin'.'

Martin laughed out loud. 'Aye, it must be working in a sauna that does it! All that sweat! Still, I wasn't kidding when I asked you to come to Drugs and Vice with me. I said it'd be a challenge.'

`Fine, but what you didn't say was that the challenge would be in keepin' down your lunch!'

Martin and Mcllhenney had been interviewing non-stop for six hours in the Torphichen Place office, near Haymarket Station. Since nine a.m. they had seen and questioned a constant stream of managers and staff from Tony Manson's four saunas. The managers had all been picked up early that morning and ordered to provide complete lists of their staff —present and recent past. The responses of the four managers to Martin's questions about Tony Manson were so similar that it was clear the men had been well schooled.

`Mr Manson? A gent.'

`Mr Manson? Used to drop by every now and again to check on the takings. No, no, he never handled cash himself.'

`What d'ye mean, did he use any particular girls? Ah don't run that sort of place.'

The women had been a different story. Although none would say, it was clear that they regarded Manson's death as liberation from a form of bondage. Most were ready to talk .. within reason. But one went way beyond that.

Martin had recognised Big Joanne at once. When he had first encountered her on a street corner off Leith Walk — he in his uniform, she in hers — she had been more than something of a looker. Ten years on, he had been impressed to note that, even with her thirtieth milestone a year or two behind her, and hauled out of bed early after a hard night's work, she was still holding it together.

`Ah remember you! PC Martin it wis then. My, youse has fairly come up in the world.' Her transplanted Glaswegian tones were a contrast to the clipped Edinburgh accents with which Martin and Mcllhenney were used to dealing.

`Tony Manson? Good riddance. Every workin' girl in Edinburgh should chip in a pony for the guy that did it. A fuckin' brute, he was. Once a lassie went tae work in one of his places, she wis dogmeat. There were only three ways out: get knocked up, get the clap, or get marked by a punter. Tony, he wid use the places like a harem, any time he felt like gettin' his end away . . .

Away games? Sometimes. Every now and again, he'd pick up a lassie and take her out tae his place. A Tony takeaway, he used tae call it. Ah've been there a couple of times myself ..

Did he have any specials? If you got out tae Barnton more than once, ah suppose ye might have thought ye were special ... until the next time he came in and took someone else! There was supposed tae be one lassie, though, that he did fancy. She didnae work in the same place as me. She was in that one down near Powderhall. Her name wis Linda somethin' or other. Apparently she was out at Tony's place a lot. Eventually she only did turns at the sauna fur Tony's pals. Too good fur the ordinary punters, so they said. Ah did hear that Tony kept her frae somewhere else. She's no there ony mair though. She must have got knocked up, or got the clap, or got cut, 'cos she stopped workin' awfy quick . . .

`Drugs? Know nothin' about that, Mr Martin. Nothin' .. .

`How much did he pay us? Where did ye get this guy, Mr Martin? We paid Tony, son. The workin' girls paid him!'

And that had been that. The sum total of six hours' work. They had checked the staff lists of the Powderhall sauna, but there was no mention of any girl named Linda. They had brought the manager back in, but he had been as tight-lipped as before. 'Linda? Linda who? Linda bloody Ronstadt for all I know. Never had anyone by that name working at my place.'

Mcllhenney pushed himself off the wall against which he had been leaning. The heat of his body left a sheen on the dirty paint. 'That's us finished wi' the low-life, sir. What do we do next?'

`Just 'keep on looking for Linda, Neil,' said Martin. 'That's all we've got.'

‘Y ou didn't expect it to be easy, did you?' sneered Richard Cocozza.

Alison Higgins' jaw dropped when she saw the folders stacked on the table in the small office.

`There are thirty-two files in total, Superintendent,' said Andrew John. 'Each separate business has its own account. Take each laundrette, takeaway, pub, sauna, and the curling club, and you have a total of thirty-one accounts. Then there's a central Premier deposit account into which cash surpluses from each are transferred annually. That's kept at around a hundred thousand pounds. Cash surpluses beyond that go to longer-term investments. Any questions?'

`Who did the banking?'

`Managers in each business.'

`How were payments made?'

`The total payroll was processed by a firm of accountants, and debits were made from each account. Each business rendered its own tax and NI and its VAT. The same accountants handled all that. Very expensive in accounting terms, but it kept each of the businesses free-standing. That's the way Mr Manson wanted it. All other payments were made on his signature. He controlled every penny going out.'

`Good luck, then. I imagine that you could be here for some time.' John closed the door softly behind him.

Higgins and her assistant, Inspector David Ogilvie, a young officer with an accountancy degree, pulled chairs up to the table and sat down. Cocozza took his place alongside Higgins, watching her every move.

They began with the Premier deposit account file. Soon they saw that it offered no help at all. As the manager had described, they showed a series of inward transfers from named accounts, and occasional withdrawals by transfer of funds to an Edinburgh stockbroker.

`Okay, David,' said Higgins, closing the folder. 'Let's get into this lot. You take the laundrettes. I'll take the pubs and the takeaways. Shout if you find anything that looks odd.' They selected the files according to the superintendent's allocation, and set to work.

Two hours later they broke for coffee. Cocozza, who had sat silent through all that time, could contain his mounting impatience no longer. 'Are you going any further with this farce, Superintendent?' he demanded.

Alison Higgins smiled across the table. 'Just as far as I have to, Mr Cocozza.'

It was Ogilvie who spotted the only anomaly in the meticulous records. 'Look here, ma'am.'

Higgins leaned across to follow his pointing finger. The file which was open before him was that of the Powderhall sauna.

`So far, the payment pattern in these statements is just the same as the rest, Payroll out. Tax and NI out. Supplier bills out. In these sauna accounts, the main suppliers are the Council, for business rates, the Evening News for small ads, one of Manson's own laundrettes, and Scottish Power. They're all paid by direct debit. The odd petty cash cheque, thirty quid or so, and that's it. An established pattern. Then all of a sudden, look at this.' He pointed out an entry on the page, showing a debit of four thousand pounds through a cheque drawn on the account. 'Drawn six days ago, last Wednesday. I wonder who copped for that one.

Higgins looked at the fat little lawyer. 'Well?' Cocozza said nothing. He sat there, grim-faced, and shook his head. She could not tell whether the gesture was one of refusal or ignorance.

`Let's find out, then.'

She left the room and returned just over a minute later, followed by Andrew John. The manager looked at the entry, then switched on a computer terminal which sat at a side table. He keyed in several numbers before he found the detail he sought. 'Cheque number 001237, drawn on the Powderhall sauna account. Presented to the Clydesdale Bank in Comiston on Monday last week, and cleared by us two days later. Payee is one L. Plenderleith. There's no other information I can tap into through this.'

`Can you call the manager of the Clydesdale and get more from him?'

`I can try. Let me go back to my office. I can check from there who he is. I suppose there's a chance I might know him personally.'

Higgins nodded, and the burly banker bustled from the room. As the door closed, the detective looked across once more at Cocozza. 'Well? L. Plenderleith. Does that name mean anything to you?'

Again the lawyer shook his head.

`You sure?'

`Quite sure.' His voice was quiet, his head still down.

`And you know nothing at all about any exceptional payment that your client might have made?'

`No.'

`I'll have to ask you to make a formal statement to that effect. You may wish to have another lawyer present when you do.'

Cocozza flashed her a sudden glance with suspicion bordering on alarm showing in his eyes. 'What do you mean by that?'

Alison Higgins smiled coolly back. 'Mr Cocozza, this is a murder inquiry, and we are under no illusions about your late client. I am suggesting that you might wish to take objective advice about everything you say to us. If you find that threatening, we have to ask ourselves why.'

Silence fell across the room, and hung there heavily until Andrew John returned two or three minutes later. He wore a satisfied smile.

`That was a stroke of luck. The manager wasn't a he but a she, Wendy Black, and she and I sat our bank exams at the same time. She'd have been within her rights to tell me to get stuffed, and to make you go through all the hoops to get what you're after. But the old pals act worked its charm.'

He sat down and continued. L stands for Linda. Mrs Linda Plenderleith, no kids, lives alone in a flat at 492 Morningside Road. She lives alone because Mr Plenderleith is doing time for something or other. Wendy didn't know anything else about her. She did say that this was the first cheque the woman had ever paid into her account, other than giros. All the previous deposits were cash. She was well in credit, though, even without the four-grand cheque from Manson. No mortgage or rent payments for her flat.'

Higgins' surprise showed on her face. 'How long has she lived there?'

`She was already at that address when she opened the account in 1990, and deposited ten thousand pounds cash.'

The detective whistled softly. 'Wonder where that came from. Did you ask whether there's been any further action since the cheque was cashed?'

For a second, John's enthusiasm was tempered by an offended look. 'Of course. And there has been. She drew out five hundred cash on Thursday, and asked for four grand in traveller's cheques. She had them picked up by courier on Friday. Banks don't like that, normally, but she made a special arrangement and the courier carried her letter of authority.'

Higgins' teeth sparkled as she smiled. 'Good work, Mr John! You can join my team any time.' She looked round at Ogilvie. 'David, you stay here and finish going through these files. Just in case there are any more Linda Plenderleiths. I'm going back to Torphichen Place to report this. Manson seems to have been keen to help this woman leave the country. Let's see if we can find out why.'

Andy Martin sat bolt upright in his chair.

Did you say Linda?'

Skinner, in the process of pouring himself a cup of tea from the pot which the divisional commander's secretary had just brought in, put it down quickly on the conference table and straightened up, his eyes alert and questioning.

Did you say Plenderleith?'

Detective Superintendent Higgins was taken aback by the speed and vehemence of her two colleagues' simultaneous reactions. She looked at each in turn, puzzlement wrinkling her eyes.

`Yes. Linda Plenderleith, 492 Morningside Road. Tony Manson paid her four grand last Wednesday, through the Powderhall sauna account. Why the interest?'

Once more, Skinner and Martin opened their mouths in tandem, to reply. They paused and looked at each other, smiling. 'Okay, Andy,' said the ACC. 'You first.'

'A girl called Linda something-or-other seems to have been Tony Manson's personal tart. Tony's and his friends, that is. Off limits to anyone else. We were told that she worked out of Powderhall, but the manager there denied it. We were also told that she'd dropped out of sight. So what does she mean to you, boss?'

Skinner looked at him. The girl? She means nothing to me . but her surname does. D'you remember big Lennie Plenderleith?'

For a few seconds, Martin searched his mental filing system, then he nodded vigorously. 'Yes! You put him away, must be about six or seven years ago now, for serious assault. Didn't he work for Manson?'

`Uh-huh: Skinner nodded in his turn. 'He was head barman in that pub of Manson's in Leith Walk. You know the rough-looking one, the Milton Vaults. The one they call the War Office. While big Lennie worked there, it was as peaceful as a Sunday school. The trouble was bartending wasn't all that he did for Manson. He did heavy stuff as well . . . and I don't mean cellar work! Even as a lad, big Lennie was a real gorilla. Tough, tough boy. He was in the Newhaven gang, and that got him into all sorts of trouble. He was never dishonest, or did drugs, and as far as I know he didn't go looking for trouble. But whenever any of the other gangs came on to the Newhaven patch, they had to deal with him; only none of them could. Through the gang he built up quite a record of assault convictions in his teens and early twenties; one of them was for using a blade — although he didn't need it. But then he went to work for Tony Manson, and all of a sudden the arrests stopped. There were none for, oh, maybe for ten years.'

Skinner stopped to reflect, then continued. 'One or two people upset Manson over the years. They usually wound up in the Royal — "Don't know what happened, doctor. Ah just felt dizzy and fell down the stairs" — you know the story. We had a fair idea that big Lennie was Manson's "staircase", but none of the accident victims would- talk, so we never nabbed him —until finally we got lucky. Dalkeith CID were keeping loose tabs on a suspected housebreaker. What they didn't know —none of us knew — was that the guy had burgled Tony's sister's house a couple of weeks earlier. So anyway, they're watching the guy one night as he's walking home from the pub, as per usual, when big Lennie steps out of a close and breaks his kneecaps, one, two, nice as you like, with a baseball bat. The CID officers saw the whole thing. Plenderleith didn't try to run for it, or resist, or anything else. He just shrugged his shoulders, gave the guy one last whack in the head, then dropped the bat and held out his wrists for the cuffs.

`If he hadn't given the guy that last whack he'd probably have got no more than two or three years. As it was, he fractured the victim's skull and left him brain-damaged, so the Fiscal charged him with attempt to murder. Eventually his counsel did a deal and Lennie pleaded to serious assault, but he still got ten. He wouldn't say a dicky-bird about why he did it or who had paid him, and the judge took a dim view of that.'

Skinner paused, scratching his chin. 'You know, I always liked big Lennie, in a funny sort of way. When he wasn't smashing kneecaps, he was just a plain, polite, ordinary bloke who seemed to do more thinking than talking. Ran a good bar, collected tons of money for charity, was good to his granny. He just had a talent for violence, like you have a talent for detecting, Andy, and like you, he put it to wor k. Someone would have done it for Manson. It was probably just as well that it was Lennie than some mindless hooligan. As far as I know, Lennie never broke any bones that he wasn't paid to break. I've never doubted that when he fractured that guy's skull, that was what Manson had told him to do. Let's think, when did he go down — 1988, 1989? No, 1990, that was it. And I remember hearing he'd married a young thing a year or two before that.'

Alison Higgins cut in. 'Excuse me boss, but Linda Plenderleith's bank account was opened in 1990 . . . with ten grand in cash.

'H ah! Wonder whose cash it was. Big Lennie's bonus for keeping his mouth shut, or a down-payment to Linda for future services. Who was paying her mortgage?'

`No one, sir. According to her bank she didn't have one.'

`Find out, then, who owns the flat. It'll be one of the Plenderleiths, or both of them, or one of Tony Manson's companies. The last of these, I'd guess. I remember another thing about Big Lennie. When he was done, his address was given as Leith Walk, the flat above the pub.'

`If he got ten in 1990, he should still be inside,' said Martin.

`Aye, in theory, but you know our fine, politically correct Parole Board. That four grand might tell a different story. We should have been told if he was getting out but, again, nobody's perfect. Alison, will you get one of your people on to Scottish Prisons and check on the scheduled release date of one Leonard Plenderleith, last known address Care of Her Majesty, Shotts.

He turned back to Martin. 'Makes for some interesting possibilities, doesn't it. Big Lennie does a job for Manson, keeps his mouth shut, thinking no doubt that Tony'll look after his wife while he's away. Tony looks after her all right. Puts her on the game, and eventually turns her into a group concubine for himself and his pals. Tell you what, Andy. I don't get out of the office nearly enough these days. Let's you and I take a run up to 492 Morningside Road. There's no way she'll be there, but there's just the odd chance that Mrs Plenderleith might have given the neighbours a clue to where she was headed.'

‘Ev en in the cheek-by-jowl world of the tenement dweller, w here other people's supposed secrets make commonplace conversation, Linda Plenderleith was a figure of rumour and mystery to her neighbours.

`A naice enough lassie, but she keeps to herself. None of us know what she does for a living. Maind you, I've always thought it's bar work, or hotel reception. She always gets home late, by taxi.' Mrs Angus occupied the ground-floor flat to the right of the mouth of the tiled close, directly below that of Linda Plenderleith. Her distinctive, flattened Morningside tones suggested disappointment over the gap in her knowledge, rather than disapproval of Linda Plenderleith's unsocial working hours.

Skinner imagined that, through the eyes of Mrs Angus, commuting by taxi was a mark of respectability.

The neighbour stood in her doorway, wearing the uniform of the Morningside matron, tweed skirt, twin-set and imitation pearls. Her arms were folded across her ample bosom as she eyed the two policemen, weighing in her mind the significance of their visit.

`When did you last see Mrs Plenderleith?' asked Martin. `Let me think. It must have been last Friday. Yes, last Friday afternoon'

`And was she going out or coming home?'

`Coming home.

`And you didn't see her leave after that?'

No. I don't think she's been to her work for a couple of weeks. At least I haven't heard any taxis after midnight.'

`Has there been any sound from upstairs since last Friday?'

`Not at all. But I never hear anything from above. This is a good building. There's a layer of ash between the floors. That's what they did in those days. No noise gets through that. Are you sure her doorbell was working?'

Skinner nodded. 'Yes, quite sure. Has Mrs Plenderleith had any visitors lately?'

Mrs Angus thought for a moment or two. 'She hardly ever had visitors. But I did see her leaving with a man last Wednesday. It would have been early afternoon. Then she came back alone, an hour later.'

`What did he look like?' asked Martin.

`Well he'd be about your size, I'd have said. Very well dressed: one of those expensive shiny suits. Beautifully groomed. Looked like a very nice man. Maybe a friend of Mr Plenderleith?'

Neither detective responded to the heavily loaded question in her tone. Skinner simply smiled. The quality of Tony Manson's tailoring had been a legend in his lifetime. 'Thank you, Mrs Angus.'

`Andy, let's try again upstairs. Maybe Mrs Plenderleith was asleep last time.'

The sentinel of 492 Morningside Road peered after them as they disappeared once more into the tiled close.

They trotted up the stone stairway. Linda Plenderleith's green front door was on the first landing. Skinner pressed the brass button of the doorbell once more, leaning on it for several seconds. He and Martin stood in silence for almost a minute, listening for any sound within the flat, but hearing none. Skinner frowned at Martin. He tried the door handle, but the Yale lock was dropped. Suddenly he crouched down and, flipping up the letter-box, peered into the narrow hall. He shoved his nose into the rectangular opening, and sniffed deeply. Then, without a word, he stood upright once more, took a pace backwards, sprang up, and slammed the heel of his right shoe powerfully against the shiny brass circle of the door's Yale lock.

With a sound of ripping wood, the door burst open.

As soon as he stepped into the hall, Martin realised that it was the unmistakable smell of death which had alerted Skinner. They followed it into a bedroom, facing out on to Morningside Road, and found her there.

Where Tony Manson's ending had been clean, almost bloodless, Linda Plenderleith had been butchered.

She was sprawled on her back, naked, on the bed. The duvet had been thrown across the room, and lay against the wall on the right. The pillows were crimson. The sheets were crumpled, saturated with blood, and in one place stained with faeces.

Martin took a deep breath and stepped towards the body. Skinner followed slowly suppressing his revulsion and looking round the room. He saw, on the tiny dressing-table unit, a small framed photograph of a red-haired woman and a tall man. He noticed that one of the three doors of the white wardrobe unit lay open and saw, discarded on the floor before it, a bloody sweatshirt and a pair of black jeans. A pink dressing-gown had been thrown across a canvas director chair which faced the dressing mirror. Finally he steeled himself and stepped up beside Martin to look closely at what had been Linda Plenderleith.

The bloodless, pale-blue lips were beginning to shrink back from the teeth, giving them a look of protuberance. Already, with its sunken cheeks, the woman's face had taken on a skull-like appearance. The eyes were half open, but only the whites showed. The red hair was swept back, or had been pulled back, from the high forehead. The skin, where it was not smeared with blood, was exceptionally pale, almost translucent.

Skinner leaned over the carcass. As he studied it, he spoke to Martin, to maintain his detachment more than anything else. 'I think I can count six wounds to the throat. A big, crescent-shaped slash from ear to ear, probably not deep enough to do the job. Then three shorter deep cuts on the right side, and two on the left. It looks as if he straddled her, jerked her head back by the hair, and just hacked away until the blood was pumping. Look at that streak up the headboard and on to the wall. That must have happened when he hit the main artery.'

He looked more closely at the wall, his eyes widening. `Jesus Christ, Andy. Look at that. The daft bastard must have pushed against the wall when he was getting off her. That looks like a perfect left-hand print.'

Martin followed his pointing finger, and nodded agreement. 'Incredible. Whoever it was must have been in a complete frenzy. He certainly wasn't thinking about making things hard for us. Who's your money on? Was this the same bloke who did Manson? Or could this have been Tony getting even with the woman for blackmailing him?'

Skinner stood up from the woman's body and walked away.

`Andy, son, you know how much I detest jumping to conclusions, but big Lennie is a stick-on fucking certainty for this one. And I say that without even having confirmed that he's out of jail. Take a gander in here.' Martin looked around. Skinner was standing by the wardrobe units.

`There's man's stuff in here, and it's not Tony Manson's. Cheap suits, jeans, bomber jackets, all XL size. This is Lennie's kit. And look at these things on the floor. He's dumped his bloodstained stuff and changed clothes. Look at this, too.

Beckoning Martin to follow, Skinner stepped slowly alongside a trail of brownish smudges on the smoke-grey carpet, taking care not to tread on any of them. They led out of the bedroom into the hall, and from there into a long narrow bathroom. On the white PVC flooring, the brown stains were quite clearly dried blood. An electric shower was plumbed into the wall above the bath taps, and a white plastic curtain hung from a rectangular rail. A big pale-blue towel lay discarded across the toilet seat. Skinner moved carefully into the room, and looked into the bath. The safety mat had trapped some of the water from the shower. It was pink, matching that trapped in the channel between the white tiling and the edge of the tub. On the soap, in its dish, Skinner could see clearly a large, rusty-brown thumb-print.

He shook his head. 'God, he must have been covered in it! You're right, Andy. He must have been out of his tree. Wonder how long he knew. I wonder who told him about Manson and what he'd done to her. Get on the phone, Andy, and call the scene-of-crime people down here right away.'

As Martin took out hi s mobile phone, so Skinner pulled his own from his pocket. He searched his memory for a number, recalled it without reference to his diary, and dialled it in. `Room 35, please.'

There was a pause, then, 'Sarah Skinner.'

`Hello, my love. How are you and Jazz?'

`We're great. Jazz is out like a light. I've just fed him. God, what an appetite. I don't know how I'm going to keep up with him.'

Even in his grim surroundings, Skinner laughed. 'Listen, let me take your mind off your mammaries for a bit. I'm at another murder scene. There's a connection with Tony Manson. After your critique of Banks's performance on Sunday, I don't want to call him in on this one. I need to know with authority when the victim here died. Looking at her, I'd say she's been dead for two days at the very least, but I need to know for certain whether she could have been killed by the same person who did Tony Manson. If the answer is yes, then it looks as if all the pieces fit. Who else would you recommend?'

There was a drawn-out silence on the other end. 'No one. Send a car for me.'

`Sarah, you're kidding!'

The hell I am. Look, I'm fit as a flea. Jazz is going to sleep for three or four hours. Where are you?'

`Morningside Road.'

`Even better. That's only a mile or so from here. Now, come on, get that car down here, or you'll just have to call in old horse-doctor Banks!'

By the time that she arrived at 492 Morningside Road, Sarah's outright enthusiasm had been watered down into a strange mix of pleasure and agitation; pleasure at being back in action after her pregnancy-enforced lay-off, but a brand-new and totally unexpected restlessness over her first separation from her first-born.

A grim-faced constable stood at the entrance to the close. Another, even more solemn, guarded the door to Linda Plenderleith's flat. Sarah identified herself to each, and was admitted to the little apartment. Skinner, meeting her in the hall, caught her mood at once.

`Are you feeling guilty about rushing down here?'

She smiled ruefully. 'It's nature, I suppose. I mean, I know he couldn't be in better hands. It's just . . . I don't know, didn't expect it, that's all. I mean, he's sleeping, and I'll only be a couple of hours.

Bob smiled. 'Make that ten minutes, if you like. Come through and have a look.' He was reaching out to open the bedroom door for Sarah, when his mobile phone sounded.

The caller was Alison Higgins. 'I've run both those checks you ordered, sir. Linda Plenderleith's flat was owned by a company called Samson Properties, 'registered number SC122783, directors Anthony Manson and Richard Cocozza.

And Leonard Plenderleith was released from Shotts Prison, on parole, on Saturday morning. Get this: they were expecting to be short-staffed at the prison over the weekend, so they let him out a day early. The officer on gate duty remembers that he was picked up by a small, fat, dark-haired man driving a white Astra GSi:

`Thanks, Superintendent. Small, fat and dark, eh. Can we find out—?'

`I have done, sir. Richard Cocozza drives a white Astra GSi.'

`Nice one. Perhaps you could arrange for Mr Cocozza to join us at Torphichen Place. I'm looking forward to watching that slimy wee bastard sweat. Let me know when you pick him up. You and I will interview him together. Ask Roy Old to sit in too, and I'll arrange for Andy Martin and Maggie Rose to be there as well. We'll terrify him by weight of numbers if nothing else!'

Skinner ended the call, and put the miniature phone back in its customary place in the pocket of his shirt. Sarah was still standing beside him at the door to Linda Plenderleith's bloody bedroom.

`Come on, then,' he said. 'Have a look at the mess, and tell me what you think. The technicians have barely started yet, so mind what you touch.'

She gave him her best withering look as he opened the door. A photographer was at work beside the bed, taking close-up shots of the wounds to the neck. Sarah knew him well from other crime scenes. 'Excuse me please, Dave,' she said as she approached.

The man looked up, surprised by the sound of her voice. `Doc! What're you doing here? Haven't you just had a—?'

She stopped him with a smile and a nod, and stepped up to the bed. She leaned close to the body and looked at the face and at the cuts on the neck. She touched the flesh of the abdomen to test the temperature, and lifted one of the hands to judge the rigidity of the joints. Then she leaned over the groin, probing, testing, exploring gently. The woman's legs were spread apart in a V shape. Sarah looked closely at the inside of her thighs, then quickly at each of the upper arms.

She stood up and walked over to the discarded clothing on the floor. 'Can I touch these?' she asked Skinner.

`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.'

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 stick you in front of an identity parade. The bit I can't understand is why? Why did you shop the girl? And Manson? He was your meal ticket. You don't have another significant client. Why set him up for the chop?' Skinner's voice was soft, but his eyes were hard as they stared across the old, scratched table-top at Richard Cocozza.

The lawyer sat with bowed head, still crouched forward on his chair, gripping it on either side, with his knees pressed together and his fingers under his thighs. When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes.

‘ Plenderleith didn't know. He didn't know what Linda had been doing while he was inside!' he wailed plaintively. 'It wasn't like you said. Tony didn't force her into anything. When Lennie went inside, he offered her a job in my office, but she said she'd rather make real money. So he controlled her. He vetted all her punters. No one in the place knew her surname, not even the manager. She wasn't on the payroll, like the other girls are. They're employed, you see, so that no one can be nailed for living on the proceeds or anything like that. The theory is that what they make on their backs is pin-money.'

He looked across at Alison Higgins and nodded his head in a peculiar gesture, as if offering an apology for the crudeness of his phrase.

'Pin-money,' Skinner snorted. B ut they still kick back enough to the house to cover their pay-packets and a bit more too. Your Tony was a fucking pimp on a big scale!'

`I don't know anything about that,' Cocozza pleaded.

`Aye, sure you don't,' said Skinner with a chuckle. B ut we won't pursue that. No you're still in the frame, wee man. If Lennie was a poor; unsuspecting cuckold, what was the four grand for? Why was there a plane ticket for Linda? It still stacks up like they had her getaway arranged. Then you found out that he was getting out a day early, picked him up and dropped him off, primed and ready to do the dirty deeds, then vanish with Linda's hard-earned dough.'

Cocozza shook his head, violently from side to side. 'No! No! No! You've still got it wrong! The plane ticket and the money were for Lennie. Tony told me that, as soon as he was released, he was going to send him on a sort of working holiday to Spain. The idea was that Linda would fly over to join him in a week or two, once he was settled in. There was a place out there that Tony was thinking of buying into: a Country Club and timeshare resort. Lennie was to go out there right away and spend a couple of months looking the place over, without anyone knowing who he was. Then, if it seemed all right to him, Tony was going to put his cash in, and Lennie and Linda were going to stay there as his people on the ground.'

Skinner looked at him, grinning gently. 'You're thinking fast, Cocozza, but I've still got you by the balls. I prefer my version, and so will the Crown Office. You've still got some work to do.'

`Look, Tony visited him at Shotts just last week. He went out to see him, to tell him what he wanted. He came back and he said to me, "That's fine about the Spanish thing. I've talked to the big fella and he's up for it." He said that he would sort out his traveller's cheques through Linda's bank account. There was another ten thousand waiting for him in a bank account out there. It was the second part of his pay-off for . .

Skinner's grin widened into a smile as Cocozza realised that he was about to implicate himself in the six-year-old Dalkeith assault, and choked off his sentence.

You can check on the visit. They keep records in prisons, don't they? It was only the second time that Tony had been to see him in all that time. I'm sure if there had been any argument they'd have noticed.

`I'll check, Cocozza. Don't you worry. But the prison office will be closed by now, so you'll be our guest at least until it opens in the morning . . . and then you'll be theirs if they don't back up your story! Meantime, keep talking. The Spanish bank account. Which bank?'

`It's a convertible peseta account at Banco Central, in Alicante. Lennie signed an authorisation form when Tony went to see him, so that he could go in when he got there and draw cash whenever he liked, without fuss. The bankbook should have been at Linda's place too.' Cocozza had recovered some of his composure, but none of his insolence. There was still a plea in his eye. 'Is that enough for you, Skinner?'

`Enough for now, Cocozza. Enough for us to. check. But if just one wee piece turns out to be crap, you're for the jump. Even if you walk out of here, you're standing on the edge of being struck off by the Law Society. Who knows, maybe you could pick up a job managing a sauna. That's about your strength!'

Lucky lady, Maggie. You're going to get to do something that I've never done: you're going to Spain on the Company. And before you ask, no, you can't take McGuire!'

It was 8:27 a.m. on Wednesday 15 May. Skinner and his personal assistant had been at work for almost an hour. The remains of their breakfast, of bacon rolls from the canteen and coffee from Skinner's filter, lay on the rosewood desk.

`There's no doubt at all that Big Lennie's in Spain. Maybe he thinks we won't come after him; but if he reckons he can knock off two people and simply become just another anonymous hoodlum among the crowds of villains on the Costa Del Crime, well, he's got another think coming. I saw the mess he made of that woman. I can't get too worked up about Tony Manson, but wherever Lennie is, and whatever provocation he thought he had, I've — we've all got a duty to make sure that he can't do to another woman what he did to his wife. That's why I want you out there: to make sure that the Guardia Civil don't treat this as just another request for assistance from a foreign police force.'

Maggie Rose looked Skinner in the eye. 'Why me, boss? You could send Brian Mackie. After all, international liaison's part of his Special Branch brief now. You're not just giving me a perk, are you?'

`Hah!' Skinner laughed; a sudden, short, snorting laugh. `No, I am not! Since when did I hand out sweeties? Anyway, you haven't been in this post long enough to have earned a freebie. There's a good reason for your going, rather than Brian. Even though things have changed for the SB, he still has to be kept anonymous. And that's the last thing I want on this investigation. I want to generate as much publicity for this as I can. I've already told Alan Royston to call a press conference as soon as he can, for first thing this morning, and then I'm going to tell all. You'll be with me at the top table. I'm going to announce that we're anxious to interview the victim's husband, and that we know he's in Spain. Then I'm going to introduce you as the detective responsible for liaison with the Spanish bobbies — Skinner's personal emissary and all that stuff. Fancy being a media superstar, Maggie?'

Not a lot, sir. Much more up Mario's street. Why don't you send him?'

`Apart from the fact that he's not senior enough, he's a bull. You're a diplomat. This isn't just PR for home consumption. I want the story to follow you out there. I want the Spanish to realise that this isn't just another domestic murderer we're after. This is a man who has made a career out of violence. I want the Scottish media pressuring the Spanish for results, so that I know they're giving us their best efforts. Your job out there will be to brief the Guardia Civil, and to join them in pursuing certain lines of inquiry. You'll really be leading them, in that you'll be making sure that those lines of inquiry are followed up.'

He pointed to his desk. 'Take the picture book out with you, and all the reports: scene-of-crime, forensic, postmortem. Contact Edinburgh University this morning and arrange to

have them all translated into Spanish. How good is yours, by the way?'

`Quite good. I've been doing it at the Colegio Espanol for years. How did you know about that?'

`It's on your file.' Maggie raised her eyebrows in surprise. `You don't think you'd be where you are now without some vetting, do you?' said Skinner. 'That's yet another reason why I'm sending you rather than anyone else. I want you to be involved in this as actively as you can.

Rose nodded. 'What special lines of inquiry did you mean, sir?'

`Two really. I want you to check out that place Cocozza told us about, the one that Manson was thinking about putting his dough into. Check there for any sightings of the big man, but while you're at it, find out all you can about the place, and about the types who own it. The other thing you should do is check up on the bank account Cocozza told us about, in the Banco Central in Alicante. See whether it's been activated.'

`One thing, boss. You haven't mentioned Manson at all. Do I take the pics and reports of his murder too?'

Skinner shook his head. 'No. Leave that out.'

Will you be telling the press that we want to talk to Plenderleith about Manson as well?'

`No.'

'Why not?'

`I don't want to do that for now. When someone like Manson gets knocked off — not that gangland killings are ten a penny in Edinburgh, but we've had a few — people get nervous until it's cleared up. The criminal community doesn't like uncertainty. When a power vacuum develops, people react in two ways. Some get scared: often important people in the network who had nothing to do with it, but wonder whether they might be the next target. Others get brave: the wee folk with a grudge, who might have been shat on by the dear departed or his team. Whatever the reason, they begin to tell us things anonymously or right out in the open, things we'd never hear in normal times. Eventually a new top dog emerges and everything goes back to normal, but until that happens we've got the whip hand.

`Since Manson was knocked off, Andy Martin's squad has had tip-offs about three of his dealers from disgruntled punters. They're all locked up now. We might not get convictions against any of them, but at least they're all blown. They're out of business, and the network's damaged.'

`Who'll be top dog after Manson?'

'I don't know, but neither does anyone else yet, and that's to our good. There'll be one eventually, you can be sure, but until he can show himself, the vacuum's still there. If we let it be known that Tony only got killed because he was shagging someone's wife, it'll be filled in a week. The network will close up.'

`But why should it? Without Manson, might it not just fall apart?'

Not a chance, Maggie. The trade is bigger than Manson. It isn't driven by the dealers alone. It's driven first by the exporters, then the importers, then the dealers. Always three key links in the chain. Whether the supply comes from Sicily, Corsica, Eastern Europe, or wherever, there's a natural market for the product in every developed country. If the chain loses a link somewhere, it always finds another.'

He paused and looked across the desk at his assistant. 'So that's the main reason why I don't want to finger big Lennie for Manson's murder right now. With a break in the chain, there's always a chance that the other two players will show themselves, trying to plug the gap. If we can nail them, then we can break the whole thing up.'

The main reason, boss? What's the other?'

`Och, I don't know. There probably isn't one. It's just that —well, you know me: I like all the bits to fit. And there's still a piece of this jigsaw that doesn't quite mesh.'

`What do you mean?'

Skinner hesitated. As he opened his mouth to reply, there was a heavy knock on the door. 'Come!' he shouted.

A second later, Roy Old's head showed round the door. 'I've just had a call from Alison Higgins, sir. Cocozza's story about Manson's visit checked out all the way. He did go to see big Lennie last week. They were watched. They were even videoed. It was all quite cordial. The officers on duty that day said that big Lennie seemed like a dog with two cocks — oh, sorry Maggie.'

`Lucky bitch!' interjected Rose, dead-pan.

Old grinned self-consciously, as he advanced into the room, closing the door behind him. 'That is, he seemed pleased as Punch by a visit from the big boss. Began with a hug and ended with a handshake.

Skinner pushed himself up from his chair. 'Right. Tough that it seems to leave us with nothing to pin on that wee shit Cocozza. We'll have to spring him. Maggie, give Alison Higgins the word, will you, please. While you're doing that, I'll observe the niceties and call Jose Pompo, the Spanish Consul. It'll give you added clout if I fix up your trip through him. And then get the translation job under way. But make sure you're ready for the press conference at nine-thirty.'

That's earlier than usual, isn't it?' said Roy Old.

`Maybe so,' said Skinner, beaming. B ut the hacks can dance to my tune for a change. I've got a wife and son to collect from the Simpson by ten-thirty, and nothing — not even the assembled Edinburgh media corps in all its glory — will make me late for that!'

‘You fancy your new room, wee man, don't you?'

The baby's eyes were wide open as Bob cradled him in the crook of his arm. They seemed to follow the movement of the brightly coloured - mobile suspended above his cradle, as it swung in a slow circle in response to Sarah's touch. That, and the American-style satin-lined cradle, had been her choice. Bob had picked the nursery-rhyme motif of the wallpaper. A huge stuffed panda, which he had bought in John Lewis that morning, en route for the Simpson, filled a high-backed rocking-chair by the dormer window.

Bob carried his three-day-old son over to the window and showed him the mature back garden, flooded in midday sunshine. 'See that tree down there, Jazz? That nice silver birch with the strong branches. That's where we'll hang your swing in a year or so. The climbing frame can go on the grass just over there, and the sandpit can go up against the garage. You'll be a lucky lad, 'cos there's the same again in your other house out at Gullane, the very swing and frame that your big sister Alex had when she was a nipper. She didn't have a sandpit though. There was hardly any point, was there, with a beach out there.'

Sarah reached up and ruffled her husband's hair. 'You're really looking forward to all this, Pops, ain't you?'

Too right, I am. His first childhood, but my third. What I'm looking forward to is doing all the things right this time that I might have got wrong with Alex. There's not too many guys my age get that chance.'

`From what Alex says, you didn't get too much wrong. Come on, set him down in the cradle. Let him get used to it.'

Gently, Bob laid the bright-eyed child down in his crib. For a second it seemed as if Jazz would cry at the breaking of the contact, but then his eye was caught once more by the blue-painted balsa-wood birds of the mobile, and he stared following their movement. Quietly, mother and father backed away from the cradle, and stood together by the window.

`It's a dream, isn't it, honey?' said Sarah softly.

Bob said nothing. He could only grin, happier than he could express in words.

`What's a dream, too,' she went on, 'is the idea that you'll actually be off work for a few days. How long are you taking?'

`Best part of a week. I've cleared my diary until Tuesday morning. Roy Old's looking after things. It's just you and me and Jazz, apart from tomorrow night. Remember, I told you about it — a meeting of Murrayfield and Cramond Rotary Club. Peter asked me to do it a while back. It's in their programme, so I don't like to back out. Is that okay? They start at half-six, so I should be back around eight-thirty.'

Sarah smiled. 'Well, since you're taking us to Spain in a couple of weeks, I don't really think I can bitch about it. Anyway, Alex is coming through for the night, and Andy said he'd look in later. You'll be back for him, won't you?'

`Mm, sure. Listen, about Spain. You sure it's okay, with Jazz being so young?'

Sarah turned to face him. His arms circled her waist as she placed the flat of her hands on his chest.

`Listen, you can be the fussiest Dad of all time, but trust me on the medical side, just like I leave the detecting to you. I told you already, before we set off I'll take him back to the paediatrician for a 500-mile check-up. If there's the slightest flicker of disapproval on her face, we cancel the ferry and stay home. But worry not, my love. That boy of ours is the thrivingest baby you'll find in a day's march.'

`It won't be too hot?'

`Would it be too hot for a Spanish baby? It's early summer, and so it won't be baking. Believe me, he'll be fine. He'll be in shade all the time. That buggy you bought for him has got everything save air-conditioning, and the house does have that. As for his food, I carry my own supply, remember.' She tapped her chest with a long finger. D-cup these days, boy. Tits like racing Zeppelins!'

Bob laughed and hugged her, gently. 'Right, I'm convinced. He'll be fine. But how about you? Will you be all right by then?'

She smiled slyly as she looked up at him. 'Three days after the birth might be a bit soon, but before long, you'll have found out just how all right I am. And that, my love, is a promise that I will surely enjoy keeping!'

‘T he bar service is better than usual this evening, Bob. They must have noticed that you were coming!'

Peter Payne held a brimming pint of lager in each hand as he approached the alcove in the Barnton Hotel's main bar where Skinner was waiting. He was a tall ruddy-faced man with a shock of black hair which belied his fifty-something years. The two had met some years before, not in Edinburgh but in L'Escala, in Catalonia, where each had a holiday home. The normally reserved Peter, fuelled by alcohol, had introduced himself towards the end of a party. In the years since then they had met more frequently in Spain than in Edinburgh, since their trips there often coincided, although they found time for golf at Skinner's club in Gullane or in Edinburgh at least once a year.

Anthea and I were delighted to hear about the little chap. You'll give Sarah our congratulations, won't you?'

`That's kind of you. Of course I will.'

`What's his name? What did your Scotsman notice say - again? James Andrew, that was it. Which will it be?'

`Neither. Jazz is the name, my friend. Mark it well. He's going to be a star!'

Peter's eyes glazed for a second, while he sought an appropriate response. 'Jazz, eh.

Bob grinned at his friend's reaction, then moved him on to the evening's business. 'I have a fairly bog-standard presentation for evenings like this, Peter. The changing role of the police, then the role of the CID, that sort of thing. Alternatively I can talk about experiences: great moments in a memorable career, that sort of self-effacing stuff. Which would your members prefer, do you think?'

The latter, I should think. I'm sure they'd love to hear the inside story of that affair last year.'

Skinner smiled. 'Okay, I'll give them the blood and thunder!'

`Great!' Peter took a swig of his beer and glanced at his watch. 'Look, let's go in to supper. Bring your pint with you.'

He stood up to lead the way, then paused. 'Oh, before I forget, there's a chap here you must meet. A new member. Apparently, he has a place in Lar Escala' — Peter's English accent rolled the vowels together as he used the Castillian form of the name — 'but he always goes in June and September. He said he was keen to meet you too. I'll introduce you after your address.

They moved into the function room which had been set aside for the meeting. Skinner, a regular speaker to Rotarians and Round Tablers, smiled to himself when he saw the two-course menu of minestrone soup and steak, standard fare at such events. The speed with which the meal was consumed was standard practice also, as if it was a chore to be completed, rather than fare to be enjoyed. Forty-three minutes after they had entered the dining room, Peter Payne introduced his guest, succinctly but generously.

Skinner rose to his feet. 'Good evening, gentlemen.' The emancipation of women in the Rotary movement was still not universal in Edinburgh. 'I have a standard opening line for events such as this. Are there any journalists in the house, and if there are, will they please identify themselves?'

The news editor of a right-wing tabloid rose, smiling, to his feet. He took a small tape-recorder from a pocket of his jacket, and ostentatiously removed the microcassette.

'That's fine, Gregor,' said Skinner, smiling. Now just keep your hands where I can see them, so I can speak as freely as I like.

As he had promised Peter Payne, his thirty-minute address contained considerable thunder and the odd drop of blood. Skinner recognised the presence of a ghoulish element in every group he addressed, however sophisticated it might be. He never pandered to it, but at the same time he took pains never to glamorise his job. Several fathers in the audience winced at one point as he described the injuries inflicted by a serial killer of children on his young victims, and others nodded as if from experience when he described the ease with which young people could be led along the path of drug-taking, from the first taste of marijuana to mainlining. As always, Skinner took care to sprinkle his speech liberally with examples of the black humour which is commonplace among policemen, from the tale of the masked and armed post-office robber who dropped his credit cards at the scene of his crime, and who had then called his bank to report the loss, to an in-house legend of a middle-aged Special Branch constable whose elevated observation post at a Royal visit had given him an entirely unexpected view of the Royal retiring room, the use of which he recorded for posterity with his 300mm telephoto lens.

Finally, he wound up by inviting questions. 'You understand I can't say anything about current investigations, but that should still leave plenty of scope.'

A plump, dark-haired man in a severely cut business suit raised a hand. 'I believe in arming the police. What's your view, Mr Skinner?'

Skinner nodded, unconsciously, at this question which he was regularly asked. 'When it's necessary, we do it and we're pretty good at judging necessity. Like most policemen, I am dead against general arming. Community relations are tricky enough to manage without making life even more difficult for our officers by hanging pistols from their waist. There's the familiarity angle too. If all our coppers had guns, pretty soon all the hoodlums would have them too. Then, night generally following day as it does, we'd have an increase in their use in muggings and in trivial situations; arguments in pubs, that sort of thing. Apart from all that, the use of firearms is a skilled business. If you're an armed and threatening bad guy, and you see me or any other officer showing a gun, you'd better be bloody careful, because we a r e all qualified marksmen. I've got a man in my team who could singe your eyebrows from one hundred yards.'

He turned to indicate his host. 'Now, look for example, at the place where Peter and I live in Spain. I'm relaxed about the Guardia, but the local police carry guns, and that scares me witless. There's a young fellow patrols the beaches. He has a bike and he wears shorts and trainers as part of his uniform. His job takes him into the midst of crowds of children, yet he carries a gun. They use girls on traffic duty. Their uniforms don't even fit properly, but they carry bloody great .38 magnums. God forbid that any of them should ever think 'to draw a weapon. I'd bet you that none of them could hit an elephant in the arse if they were holding its tail! Those young traffic girls would dislocate their wrists if they fired those things they carry. That's what general arming of police means, and I hope we never see it here. Right now, I have guns when I need them . . . and in normal times that is a rare occurrence.'

A bald man at a table twenty feet from Skinner raised a hand. 'How does a policeman feel when he kills a man?'

Skinner shrugged. 'I can tell you how he — or she — should feel. Concerned, and personally upset. It's a hell of a serious thing. But if the officer has acted properly and professionally, then that concern will be countered by the knowledge that the criminal committed effective suicide by putting himself in that killing situation.'

`Mr Skinner.' A bulky man in a tweed jacket, with heavy eyebrows and a beard, broke in over his answer. 'Wasn't it the case that one of your officers shot and killed a man last year as he was leaving a crime scene, but the unarmed victim was shot in the back? What do you say to that?'

There was a smile on Skinner's lips as he answered, but his eyes were suddenly icy cold. 'I say that was the finest shot I have ever seen in my life.'

He paused for several seconds to allow his answer to sink in, holding the bearded man in his gaze. Then, 'You seem well read, sir. In which case I'd ask you to recall that the criminal in question had just killed a number of people, including one of my officers. And I expect you realise that in such circumstances it was the duty of the police to ensure that man did not escape us to kill again. I'd have made that shot myself, if I had the skill and the necessary weapon.

`Have you ever shot anyone?' asked the man in the business suit.

Skinner nodded.

`How did you feel?'

`Better than he did.

Peter Payne sensed that the mood needed lightening. `Come on, colleagues, let's have another question. Anyone want to ask about traffic wardens?'

`Sorry,' said Skinner. 'You are definitely not allowed to shoot them. Although, on occasion . .

Welcome laughter lightened the atmosphere.

Towards the rear of the room, a thin, middle-aged man raised a hand. 'Mr Skinner, could you say something about the level of co-operation these days between European police forces?'

`Yes. I'd say it's getting better — certainly within the EU. We're finding that it's easier for police colleagues in different countries to get together to solve problems. We're all working harder at it, I think. For example, my head of Special Branch now has general responsibility for international relations. And only this week, as you may have read, I was able to send a detective to Spain to advise the Guardia Civil in their search for a man we want to talk to back here about a current murder investigation.

`When he's caught, will it be easy to get him back?'

`Sure. The Spanish won't want to feed him for any longer than they have to.'

The questioner smiled. 'Can you tell me, if a person in this country feels that he may have been the victim of dishonesty in another country, can he make a complaint here?'

`Technically, no. As an investigator, I work for the Crown Office and the Procurator Fiscal. If the crime occurs abroad, then the complaint should be raised in that country. In practice, if anyone on my patch feels that they may have been stitched up in a foreign country, then my department will certainly listen to them. If it is warranted, we might even raise the complaint on their behalf . . . unofficially of course.'

The bald man raised a hand again. 'Mr Skinner, about the traffic wardens . .

The question session ran on for a little longer, growing more light-hearted by the minute, until Peter Payne drew it to a close, eliciting a final round of applause for Bob's contribution to the evening. As the gathering broke up, Skinner noticed that the thin man who had spoken from the back of the room seemed to be holding back as if waiting. Peter Payne spotted him in the same moment, and beckoned him across.

`Bob, this is the chap I mentioned earlier,' he said as the man approached.

`Greg Pitkeathly,' said the thin man, shaking Skinner's hand.

`Pleased to meet you,' said Skinner.

`Tell me, am I right in thinking that your questions back there had some purpose to them?'

The man smiled, and nodded. 'Afraid so. I rather think I've been defrauded. Probably in Spain, but I'm not certain. Is there someone who'll speak to me?'

`If it's in Spain, and you're a L'Escala dweller, that makes it almost personal. I'll take a look at it myself.'

`That's very good of you. If you're sure of that, I've got a file on it all. When can I let you see it?'

`Well, if it'll keep till Tuesday, I'll be back in my office then. Why don't you call my secretary tomorrow and fix a time. Tell her where we met.'

Pitkeathly's thin face broke into a smile of gratitude. 'That's very good of you. I'll look forward to telling you my story. It seems almost too obvious to be a fraud but, the way the figures add up, I don't see any other answer.'

`Well, let's find out on Tuesday. I must go now, I'm in danger of being absent without leave!'

He shook Peter Payne's hand and hurried off, leaving Pitkeathly staring in some surprise at his disappearing back.

W h en Bob returned to Fairyhouse Avenue, he found the scene already set in the nursery for the ritual of Jazz Skinner's first bathtime before guests in his new home.

Sarah's advance planning had been meticulous. The yellow plastic bath was in place, held in its collapsible frame beside a low changing table, and a simple wooden stool stood between the two. Andy Martin and Alex had arrived ahead of schedule and, to Sarah's surprise, together in Alex's car. They stood in a corner of the bright nursery and looked on as the new mother undressed her infant, dumped his disposable nappy, wrapped around its colourful contents, in a lined bin beneath the table, and gave him a preliminary wipe before lowering him carefully into the warm water.

Jazz chuckled as the water lapped over his skin, and he kicked his long, strong legs in pleasure, splashing his mother's apron, and his father's slacks. When the waves subsided, Sarah washed him gently with Johnson's soap. It was only when she began to shampoo his dark hair that the baby's equanimity was broken, as he screwed up his eyes and whimpered.

When she had rinsed off the last of the suds, she looked up at Bob. ` H ow'm I doing then, Dad?'

Well, as the only person here with relevant experience, I'd say you were doing okay. So would Jazz, I think.' With the annoyance of the suds behind him, the baby had resumed his energetic kicking. 'Better get him out of there before he empties the bath!'

`Okay. You can do the next bit.' Sarah lifted him from the bath and laid him on a soft fluffy blue towel which Bob had spread on the table. She stood to the side and watched as her husband dressed his son for the night, greasing his bottom liberally with Vaseline before fitting the bulky disposable nappy, then easing him — arms first, then legs — into the one-piece white sleep-suit. All the time, he spoke to Jazz in a matter-of-fact way. 'It amazes me, you know, wee pal, looking at that last nappy, how the stuff you get out of your mother converts into the stuff that comes out of you. I suppose there are some things in life that it's better not to know. What d'you think?'

Jazz blew a bubble in response. Bob nodded. 'Yes, I suppose that's as good an answer as any!'

Sarah smiled. As he lifted up the baby with both hands, supporting his head as he passed him to Alex, she reflected on the change that fatherhood had wrought in Bob Skinner. The troubled man of the summer before had vanished. Bob seemed to have despatched his private demons. Sarah hoped that they were gone for good.

Alex's laughter broke her mood. 'Hey, brother, wrong chest!' As she cradled the baby in her arms his mouth was searching, puckering, feeling for her breast through her shirt.

Sarah reached out her arms. 'It's that time again, Jazz. Come to Momma.' She took the baby from Alex and walked over to a low seat by the window, flicking open the buttons of her blouse as she went. Seated, and holding Jazz in the crook of her left arm, she tugged at the hooks of her nursing bra.

`Goddam contraption! Necessary though, Alex. One doesn't want them to start the long journey south before their time.' She freed her left breast, and Jazz set to feeding at once, sucking hungrily. As she settled back in her chair, Sarah's eye was caught by Andy Martin, edging self-consciously towards the door. 'What's the matter, Andy? Never seen one of these things before?'

`Sure, but always in pairs, and never in use.'

`Get accustomed to it, then, man. This here is Nineties woman.' She paused, then looked up again, struck by a sudden thought. I'm sorry, you two. Everybody here's been fed but you. Alex, take Andy downstairs and find yourselves some supper.'

`Thanks, Sarah,' said Andy, 'but we've got a table booked at the Loon Fung for nine-thirty. I thought that Alex could use some lemon chicken to give her a break from all that studying.'

Sarah thrust out her bottom lip in a petulant gesture. `Lucky Alex. That just makes me think of the downside of this here bundle of joy. My social life's his from now on.'

`Hah!' said Alex. 'I weep for you. I'm sitting finals in two weeks, while you're off to Spain.'

`Yeah,' said Bob. life's a bitch, kid.

`Well, make up for it. Get us a drink. I'll call a taxi for nine-twenty.'

Bob led the way downstairs. He disappeared into the kitchen, and re-emerged with three uncapped bottles of Sol beer.

`The Loon Fung, eh,' he said, grinning, as he handed them round. 'Should I be giving you the heavy father routine, Martin?'

`Don't you dare!' said Alex with a sharp edge to her voice which was not entirely affected — and which took Bob by surprise. `I'm Nineties woman, too. Anyway, Andy's . . . well, Andy's . . . Andy. He's my mate. Isn't that right Superintendent?' Martin smiled and nodded sheepishly, his green eyes shining. He looked suddenly younger than thirty-something, just as Alex could be taken for mid rather than early twenties.

Bob grinned and shrugged his shoulders. 'Sure, what the hell. I keep forgetting that Andy's known you since you were smoking in the bike sheds.'

Alex looked at him, surprised. 'How did you . . .?'

`Don't be daft, kid. Everyone smokes in the bike shed when they're eleven!'

Andy laughed and took a mouthful of beer. 'When are you going to Spain?'

`I'm back in the office on Tuesday. There's a Police Board meeting on Wednesday, and I'm standing in for the Chief, so I'll go in on the day before to brief myself. I'm in for the rest of the week, then we head off on the following Tuesday.'

`How are you travelling?'

`By car, slowly. You know me, normally I just blaze down there. But this time, with the baby, we'll have a couple of overnight stops: on the ferry and then down in France. Sarah's never been to Cherbourg, so we're taking that route. It's a nice drive at this time of year.'

`Will you see Maggie out there?'

`Not unless the Spanish find Big Lennie. If they don't she'll be back by then. I'll be in the shit if they do turn up our man. Sarah'll kill me if I have to go down to Alicante. Apart from it being our first holiday with Jazz, I've promised her I'll do some writing when I'm out there. I'm taking my Powerbook.'

`Have you indeed! Memoirs?'

`Not yet. No, it'll be the theory and practice of police and security work. This is the age of open government and it should be the age of open policing too, as far as we can manage. But the public don't have the faintest idea of what our job's really like. All they know comes from fictional characters, and all of them are still at chief inspector rank in their fifties. It hasn't dawned on the public that if these guys were that fucking clever they'd have made chief super at least! Anyway, as for Maggie, she's well south of L'Escala, and she should be back before I leave. I think big Brian Mackie's a bit huffy that she got to go instead of him. But when I said to him " Que tal, senor? " and he said "Eh?" in response, he sort of blew his case out of the water!'

`Any feedback yet?'

`Give the woman a chance. She only got there this afternoon. Anyway, big Lennie's had a three-day start on us. Chances are he's cashed up and he's in South America already.'

The doorbell rang.

`That must be your taxi. Have a nice meal. And don't be late home, girl!'

Alex glared at him over her shoulder as she headed for the door.

When did Maggie's report come in?'

`She faxed yesterday morning from the Guardia Civil office in Alicante. I was going to send it out to you, but Ruth vetoed that idea!'

Skinner laughed. 'She's a good girl, my secretary. She sees herself as my personal Rottweiler. So where is it, then, this report the boss wasn't allowed to see?'

Roy Old passed a yellow folder across the desk.

`Thanks.' Skinner took it from him and flipped it open. The neatness and precision of the typed lay-out were typical of Maggie Rose, and the text itself was, as ever, concise and informative. He scanned down the page.

Fax message ACC Skinner from

DI Rose.

Summary:

Plenderleith has been in Alicante, but the likelihood is that he has now left the area, and very probably that he has left Spain. The Banco Central account has been emptied, and the traveller's cheques cashed. Cocozza's story of a potential investment seems to hold up, but there have been no sightings of Plenderleith at that location.

Main points:

1) Guardia co-operation has been excellent. On the day of my arrival, I was asked to brief local media on my visit at a press conference arranged by the GC commander. Press and television have carried details of the story, with photographs of Plenderleith. Significantly there have been no reported sightings.

2) I visited the Banco Central on Friday with the GC commander, who overcame quickly the manager's reluctance to discuss account details. His senior assistant, on sight of Plenderleith's photograph, confirmed that he visited the bank on Monday morning and withdrew all the funds on deposit. He also cashed all of his traveller's cheques.

The assistant, who speaks good English, asked him why he needed such a large amount of cash. Plenderleith said that he was putting down a deposit on an apartment. The Guardia are not best pleased with the bank, which is expected to keep it informed of foreign nationals moving large amounts of cash.

3) Since Friday, the Guardia has contacted all banks in the Alicante area, and has confirmed that no other accounts exist, or have been opened, in Plenderleith's name.

4) On Saturday, I visited Rancho del Sol, the club/timeshare complex in which Cocozza claimed that Manson was thinking of making an investment.

Advance intelligence gathered by the GC confirmed that the place is for sale. Officially it belongs to a development company, but behind that the real owner is a Barcelona gangster who has just begun a twenty-year jail sentence for drug-dealing.

The manager had never heard of Plenderleith. Nor did he recognise the photograph.

5) There is a report that a man answering P l enderleith's description bought a plane ticket for Morocco on Monday afternoon, paying in cash. The flight, a holiday charter, left on Tuesday morning. The operator keeps no record of whether bookings are taken up, but the supposition must be that Plenderleith has left European Union territory.

Recommendations:

That the Guardia Civil be asked to retain Plenderleith on their wanted list, against the possibility, however unlikely, that he may be in Spain.

That the authorities in Morocco should be asked to confirm, if possible, Plenderleith's arrival in that country, and if so, to institute a search within their territory.

That other forces be alerted through Interpol.

The Guardia Civil are continuing a sweep of the many hostels and campsites in the Alicante area. In line with your orders, I will remain until Friday to assist them in that task.

Skinner put the folder down on his desk, and looked up at Roy Old. 'Doesn't seem much room for doubt in that, does there?'

`Not much, sir. If the big yin's pulled his cash and jumped across to North Africa, he could be anywhere now. Christ, he could have joined the bloody legion!'

Skinner laughed. 'Maybe we should send Maggie to check that out!

`Okay, Roy, thanks for that. I'll send Maggie a response. On your way past, would you ask Ruth McConnell to look in here.'

Old acknowledged the request — and his own dismissal —with a nod. Less than a minute later, Skinner heard his secretary's soft knock on the door. 'Come in.' he shouted.

`You wanted to see me?'

`Yes, Ruth, thanks. I'd like you to send DI Rose a fax in Alicante. Thank her for her report, confirm that she should remain there on duty until the end of the week. Tell her she can travel back whenever she likes over the weekend, but that I'd like to touch base with her on Monday here, before I head off myself. Will you ask her also to spend some more time at Rancho del Sol, and to find out as much as she can about the place, and its owner. If he's doing time for drug offences, it may be that he connects into Manson's operation. If he does, maybe we can identify some of the other points in the supply chain.

`Got all that?' Ruth nodded. 'Good. Knock something out along those lines and I'll sign it. Before you do that, ask Alan Royston to step up and see me. Tell him I want to issue a press release on the basis of Maggie's report.'

`Very good. By the way, did you see the note in your diary about Mr Pitkeathly?'

For a second, Skinner looked puzzled; then the conversation in the Barnton Hotel came back to him. 'I missed that. What have you fixed up?'

`Lunchtime. He suggested it, and I decided that would be best for you, too. He's booked a table at Ladolcevito for one o'clock. He said he thought that would be fairly discreet.' `That's nice of him. I hope I can help him.'

The diminutive Mr V welcomed Skinner like a long-lost brother to his smart bistro restaurant in Hanover Street, and showed him to a table in the small downstairs bar, where Greg Pitkeathly was waiting.

The thin man stood up, hand outstretched. 'Good of you to see me, Mr Skinner. I hope this lunchtime arrangement is all right for you.'

`Mmm. Sure. But I'd have been happy to fit you in at Fettes in the course of the day.'

Not at all. This is the least I can do. I thought I'd be lucky to get to see a constable, and here I am telling my story to Scotland's most famous detective.'

Their opening exchange was interrupted by Mr V, as he handed them leather-bound menus. 'I have given you the table in the far corner, Mr Pitkeathly. You won't be disturbed there. You want to go up now, yes?'

They rose and followed the little restaurateur, carrying their menus as they climbed the narrow staircase in single file. As he surveyed the long dining room lit by the May sunshine flooding through its south-facing windows, Skinner smiled inwardly at Pitkeathly's notion of discretion. He knew that, while Ladolcevito might not be the largest restaurant in Edinburgh, it was one of the most popular with the city's chattering classes.

As he followed his host across to the table in the far left-hand corner, he recognised and nodded to a Sunday newspaper editor, two business journalists and four chartered surveyors, all assiduous grinders of the rumour mill. He wondered what would be made of his lunchtime meeting.

They chose identical items from the á la carte menu , stracciatella followed by pan-fried steak, and Pitkeathly ordered a bottle of red Caruso, the meaty house wine. As the proprietor strolled off to the kitchen, the thin man picked up the tan leather briefcase which he had been carrying, rolled the combinations into place and flicked it open. He withdrew a yellow folder and placed it on the table.

`How long have you owned property in L'Escala, Mr Skinner?' he asked.

`Bob, please. It'll be around ten years now. I went there first on holiday with my daughter to a rented apartment up behind Montgo Bay. We both loved the place. I had some spare cash at the time, and so I bought a two-bed in a block which was being finished off in the same development. The peseta was dirt cheap then, and I was able to forward-buy currency, which made it an even better deal.

Pitkeathly's brow furrowed for a second. 'I thought Peter Payne said you had a villa.'

Skinner nodded. 'That's right. A couple of years after we bought, an old aunt died and left me her house . . . I always think of old Auntie Jessie with great affection. I didn't need another house at the time, and certainly not a huge bloody thing in Aberfeldy with two and a half acres attached. So I sold the land to a builder, and the house to a couple who wanted to turn it into a nursing home, put half the proceeds into an investment trust with a Japanese portfolio, and the other half into a really nice three-bedroom villa up on Puig Pedro, overlooking the bay. It has a sort of pool, more of a swimming puddle really, in the garden . . . and very heavy shutters for when the Tramuntana blows down over the Pyrenees.'

`Oh yes,' said Pitkeathly. The famous L'Escala north wind. Tell me, did you have much trouble selling your apartment?'

`I didn't try. I still own it, but I rent it out. I advertise in police publications, and I let only to coppers, active or retired. Being who I am, I never have any problem tenants. A very nice English lady called Mary manages it for me. It's hardly ever empty, and so the income covers all my overhead expenses out there, and puts fruit in the bowl as well. I'm a lucky guy, in every way. But tell me about you, Greg, and about your problem.'

Pitkeathly paused while Mr V's young waitress served the soup. He tasted the Caruso, which the wine waiter had opened, and nodded his approval. The young man filled the two glasses. As the staff then withdrew, he offered Skinner bread from a small basket.

`I've been in L'Escala for three years,' he began. 'Just to fill you in on my background, I own and run a medium-sized printing business called GFP. I have an office in Stafford Street, but my printing shop is in Slateford. I supply letterheads, computer stationery, labels, and marketing materials, mostly to professionals and service businesses: lawyers, accountants, surveyors, PR consultancies, and so forth. My wife and I started the business fifteen years ago, and we've built the turnover steadily ever since. We don't have children, so we're both fully committed to the job. Even through the worst of the recession, we managed to make modest profits, and in the better years we've done quite well. We reinvest profits in plant and machinery, to ensure that we are always up with the technology. Quick response to customer needs is very important, and we have to maintain that capability.'

He sipped some wine, and continued. 'In the early years we pushed all of our spare money into our pension fund, and through that we bought the property which we occupy, and the factory unit next door to us — for possible expansion, you understand. About five years ago, with the business stable, the pension fund very healthy, and good back-up staff in place, we began to think that we should enjoy some of the fruits of success. So we started to look around for a holiday home. We decided that it should be reachable by car, since Jean doesn't like flying too much. And since I don't like the French too much, the Costa Brava was the obvious place. We did our research through the Sunday Times, approached a few companies with properties advertised, and took a trip out there to look at some of them. We saw Pals, Liafranc, Pallafrugel and L'Estartit, before we came upon L'Escala. But once we did, we were hooked. It was just the right size and had just the right feel to it.'

He glanced at Skinner. 'The L'Escala properties which we had arranged to view were being handled by a company called InterCosta. Does the name mean anything to you?'

Skinner thought for a moment. 'Yes, I think it does. Don't they have an office on the Passeig Maritim?'

`Yes, that's right. InterCosta seems to be some sort of limited partnership, operating in Spain and in the UK. In Scotland in fact. Our first contact, through the Sunday Times, was with an office in Stirling, in a business centre there, run by a man named Ainscow, Paul Ainscow. Have you ever heard of him?'

`Yes. I've even met him. A neighbour introduced us a few years back, in the bar of El Golf Isabel. A nice enough bloke, as I remember. Not as flashy as most of the property guys. I knew he was in that line, but I didn't connect him with InterCosta. I've seen him around a couple of times since then, so you could say we're nodding acquaintances.'

Pitkeathly grimaced. 'I hope that doesn't make the rest of my story awkward for you.'

`Let's see. Go on.'

`Well, we didn't meet Ainscow on that first trip. We were received by his Spanish director, a man named Santiago Alberni. He's a good English speaker, a very outgoing chap, and he couldn't do enough for us. He showed us two apartments in the price range we specified. One was quite noisy, with a lot of people around the pool, but the other was very quiet, and very secluded, away up at the top of the Riells area, almost in the woods, with a small garden and a south-facing terrace. Jean loved it, so we did some ritual haggling and bought it, furniture and fittings included. Santi was a big help to us settling in, and in lots of other ways. He told us where the best shops were, which restaurants to avoid, and so on. He's a great chap, and seems to have lots of friends, especially among the British community.'

He paused in his narrative to attack his stracciatella. Skinner replaced his spoon in his empty bowl.

`Yes, I've heard of Santi Alberni. I have several friends who know him, but I've never met him. Most of what I've heard squares with your experience. I did hear that he's just bought a new villa in Camp dels Pilans, where most of the head boys in the town hall live. So how did your problem arise?'

Pitkeathly took another sip of wine as the soup bowls were removed. 'That happened only recently.'

He paused as the staff returned with the main course.

Skinner looked in appreciation at his steak, which had been hammered flat, then delicately fried in a pepper sauce and garnished with a few vegetables. They ate in silence for perhaps thirty seconds before Pitkeathly put down his cutlery. `You don't mind if I go on while we're eating, do you?'

Skinner shook his head, and Pitkeathly launched into the next chapter in his story.

`Our new apartment was fine for the first couple of years, as we got to know L'Escala. But after a while, the downside began to develop. The honking Belgians for a start. I don't know if you've noticed, but the common-or-garden domestic Spanish brick has remarkable acoustic properties. It gives you no sound-proofing at all. In fact it does the opposite: it seems to carry sound. Well, a Belgian couple owned the apartment above us, a big beefy pair, and they always seemed to be there at the same time as us. Their bedroom was directly above ours, and they seemed to be at it non-stop. Like it or not — and we didn't — Jean and I heard every grunt, every moan, every groan, every squeaking spring. We used to read until the performance was over, because there was no point in trying to sleep through it. That was a major irritation, but there were others. The roads aren't great up there, and every time it rained, new ruts and valleys appeared. Also, while it was very secluded, conversely we were a long way from the centre, so we tended to drive everywhere. Finally, as time went on, we made more and more friends among the British property owners. It wasn't long before we had quite a social circle out there.'

Skinner nodded. 'I know what you're going to say now. You were invited to lots of drinks parties and, before you knew it, you discovered that your apartment was just too small for you to entertain properly. Am I right?'

Pitkeathly had returned to his steak. He nodded vigorously as he finished the mouthful.

`Spot on! That's just how it was. So the upshot of it all was that last autumn we went to Santi, and told him that we were interested in a move. That very same day, he took us to see a new development up behind Avinguda Girona, near the Guardia Civil barracks. He said that the builder was under pressure from his bank, and that he had cut his prices to achieve quick sales. Even as incomplete shells, they were beautiful apartments. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a big terrace looking out on the Pyrenees, all built to a very high standard, and all for eight million pesetas.'

Skinner did a mental calculation. 'That's under forty K at last year's exchange rate. Sounds like a good buy.'

`It was. It is. We did the deal. As a sweetener, Santi said that he would sell the other place for us at zero commission, and that he would get us over five million for it. He was as good as his word. We were due to take possession of the new place at Easter, and, in January, Paul Ainscow called to say that they had sold the old one for five million two. The buyers were a couple from Sussex named Comfort. I've never met them, not to this day. When he called us to give us the good news, Ainscow said that the Comforts had paid a deposit — around twenty per cent or so; those were his exact words — and that InterCosta had credited that amount towards the purchase of the new apartment. A few days later we received a receipt, bearing the company stamp, from Santi Alberni for one million pesetas.'

He frowned for a moment before continuing. 'So far so good. We were due to complete both transactions at Easter, before the notary in L'Escala, only there was a hitch. The Comforts were involved in a bad car accident in March and were both hospitalised. We thought that the whole thing might collapse, but the Comforts gave power of attorney to a local lawyer, and we went to completion of both sale and purchase. Santi, the builder of our new place, the Comforts' lawyer, Jean and I all turned up at the notary's office. We had a certified cheque for two-point-eight million, the balance of our purchase price, on top of what we were due for the old place. We did our sale first. The notary took us through the deed, noted the price and we were all ready to sign on the dotted. But when the Comforts' lawyer presented their cheque, it was only for three-point-seven million, not the four-point-two we were expecting. We looked at Santi, and he looked puzzled. He swore blind that he had only received one million from Ainscow. We showed the lawyer our receipt from Santi, but he showed us a receipt given to the Comforts by Ainscow for one-point-five million pesetas. I have copies of them both in here.' He tapped the yellow file.

Skinner looked across the table. Pitkeathly's brow was knotted with concern. 'So what did you do?'

`We didn't have much choice. We could have scrapped the deal with the Comforts, but frankly, we needed their cheque, even if it was half a million light. So we went through with it, and I wrote a second cheque on our Spanish bank account for the missing half million, assuming, or hoping at least, that it was all a misunderstanding and that Santi would sort it out with Ainscow.'

`And didn't he?'

`No. He told us that Ainscow was on holiday in America. So we said, sod it all; we decided to forget about it until we got home, and to clear things up ourselves with Ainscow. We spent the rest of our trip fitting out our new apartment. Quite frankly, if it did cost us half a million more, we've still got a bargain.' `And have you seen Ainscow?'

No, not yet. He wasn't due back from the States until last Friday, according to Santi. I did call his office once, but there was no reply. Eventually, Jean and I decided that it would be better to speak to the police. I hope you agree with us. It's no small sum after all, well over two thousand pounds, and it's more than a bit suspicious. I mean, even if Ainscow says sorry, it's all a mistake, and gives us half a million pesetas, how can we be sure that he isn't covering up? Maybe there are other people in the same boat as us.'

`Or maybe Alberni's the one on the fiddle. Don't you see that as equally likely?'

Pitkeathly shook his head. `Santi's as honest as the day is long. I'm convinced of that.'

`Hmm,' said Skinner sceptically. 'They have shorter days than us in Spain for a good chunk of the year! Greg, I'm a policeman. I'm never convinced until I see the proof. If you give me that file, I'll look at everything that's in there. From what you've told me, there's been a theft all right, but it's just as likely, maybe even more likely, that it took place in Spain, not in Scotland. Still, you were quite right to bring it to me, rather than deal with it yourself. If Ainscow is a conman, then he'd probably talk his way out of it. If Alberni's bent, you're obviously far too chummy with him to suspect it. If they're both in on it, then all of the company's business will need to be investigated, here and in Spain. And if it is all a mistake, then it's one that should never have happened. A visit from the police will make sure that they're more careful with clients' funds in future.'

He reached across the table. 'Here. Gimme your file, and a business card too, so I can get it back to you. Do you have copies, or would you like me to send you a set?'

Pitkeathly handed over the file. 'Those are my only copies, but I don't need duplicates. What will you do?'

`I'll read this lot, and then I'll probably go out to interview Ainscow myself. That'll get his attention.'

`What if he proves to you that Santi is responsible, and that the theft occurred in Spain?'

`If that happens, I'll take your documents with me when I go to L'Escala next week. I know Arturo Pujol, the local Guardia commander, on a copper-to-copper basis. His boys keep a special eye on my properties. If it looks like Santi's the man, I'll just hand a copy of your file over to Pujol. I might have to ask you to file a complaint at the consulate in due course, but otherwise, it should be painless for you. I should warn you, though, if Alberni is a thief, you won't see your missing half million for a hell of a long time, if ever. The Spanish criminal justice system is slower than God's mills. On top of that, Greg, if he's convicted, you'll have to sue him for recovery, and their civil courts can be even slower.'

`Maybe I should just forget it all, in that case, and swallow my loss'

`Too late for that now. You've shown me evidence of a possible crime in this country, so now I have a duty to investigate it. Even if it does turn into a Spanish matter, I have a sort of ethical duty to pass it on to them. Now that you've started the ball rolling, it has to go all the way down the hill'

`Ah, well,' said Pitkeathly. 'So the die is cast for Mr Ainscow and Santi. In that case, there's nothing for it now but to finish Mr V's fine wine!'

Have you had a chance to read those papers I gave you on Wednesday, Brian?' Behind his desk in the inner office of the Special Branch suite at Fettes Avenue, Chief Inspector Brian Mackie nodded his balding head.

`What do you make of it?'

`Nothing really, boss. From what you told me, Pitkeathly thinks the sun shines out of Alberni's arse, but that alone doesn't put him in the clear. I've faxed the Spanish equivalent of the CRO and asked them to run a check on him for any previous. I've had a look through ours already for Mr Paul Ainscow. He's clean as a whistle. Chances are it was all a mistake.'

Skinner pushed himself up from the table on which he had been sitting. `I'm not so sure. There are some terrible cowboys in the property game out there. They take outrageous commissions. They make false declarations to the notary on price — with the collusion of the banks — so as to beat the taxman. They complete sales of properties when the developer doesn't even own all the land he's building on. All that stuff's happened in the wee town where my own place is, and in hundreds more like it. So, when the odd half-million pesetas goes missing in a property transaction, probability falls on the side of theft, not human error. I called my friend Pujol in L'Escala on Tuesday evening, and asked him about Alberni. He said that he's a nice enough guy, but he's not local, so no one really knows all that much about him. The local gossip has it, though, that he's pretty heavily borrowed. He's just moved into a big new house, yet his wife has two jobs, to help pay for it, they say.'

'A motive for theft, then.'

`Sure, but what thief needs a motive?'

Mackie leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. `Aye, right enough.' He paused for a moment, then looked across at Skinner, as he stood by the window.

`What's to be done about Ainscow, then, boss?'

`Fancy a trip to Stirling, Chief Inspector? 'Cos that's where we're going this afternoon.'

'You're going to see him personally, sir? It's a bit low-grade for you, surely. And for me, for that matter. It is only a two-and-a-half-grand fraud, after all, and maybe not even that.'

`It's the international dimension, Brian. That's why I want you there. As for me? Ach well, Pitkeathly bought me a good lunch. He deserves my personal attention.' Skinner grinned. 'A taste of corruption, eh? No, I'm going along because I might have to take the papers across to L'Escala with me, and brief the Guardia. If it comes to that, it'll be as well if I've been involved in this interview with Ainscow.'

`Yes,' said Mackie. 'That makes sense, all right. What time's he expecting us?'

`He isn't. Not as coppers, anyway. Ruth called his secretary and arranged a meeting for three with a Mr Mackie, to discuss a property matter. He thinks you're a punter. I don't want him to know what the hell this is about until the minute we walk through the door. I want to drop the story on him absolutely cold, to see how he reacts. I'll drive us there. Look into my office around two. But, before that, let the boys in the Stirling CID know that we're going fishing in their patch. See you later!'

‘M ust have been some man, that Wallace, for them to have built that erection in his memory.'

The Wallace Monument glowered over Stirling, its phallic presence a permanent reminder of the great Scottish patriot. The morning's breeze had dropped, and the town seemed to shimmer in the early summer heat as the two detectives drew closer, following the line of the M9 motorway into Scotland's rural heart, leaving behind them the ugly, skeletal steel sprawl of the Grangemouth Refinery, the flat drabness of Falkirk, and the dirty River Carron.

A succession of five roundabouts led them from the motorway into the centre of the historic old town, a scaled-down Edinburgh with its castle on the hill.

The Stirling Business Centre was as easy to find as the local CID had promised. Following their directions Skinner drove past an imposing bank, and took the first turn on the left. He negotiated a security barrier and parked his white BMW in front of an attractive, wide, two-storey, brick office building. Over twenty tenant companies were listed on a big notice board in the Centre's foyer.

`How can I help you, gentlemen?' The receptionist's manner was as pleasant as her gleaming smile.

` Could you tell us where we'll find InterCosta?' asked Mackie.

`Certainly, sir. Through that door to your right, and along the corridor. It's the — let me see, one, two, three — yes, it's the fourth door on the left. The name's on it.'

`Thanks very much.' The normally diffident Brian Mackie smiled at the girl, struck by her resemblance to his wife. He led the way to the door to which she pointed with her right forefinger, and pushed it open. As he and Skinner proceeded, they read the names on each of the first three doors on the left.

`Accountant, lawyer, design company,' said Skinner. 'All they need's a sandwich shop and you'd never have to leave here!'

`This is us, boss,' said Mackie. He read aloud the name on the door: `"InterCosta Limited. Spanish Property Consultancy. AIPC Registered." What's AIPC?'

`Christ knows. Probably meant to be some sort of governing body. If it is, it's doing a rotten job. Come on. Let's beard friend Ainscow.'

Mackie rapped on the door, and opened it without waiting for an acknowledgement. A plump, middle-aged woman with dyed auburn hair and ornately framed spectacles sat behind a desktop computer. She looked up at the two newcomers.

'Yes?' she said, slightly querulously, looking from one to the other.

Brian Mackie stepped towards the desk. 'Afternoon. I've an appointment with Mr Ainscow around now. The name's Mackie.'

`And you're dead on time.' The woman's reply was anticipated by the booming voice which said it. In the same second its owner stepped into the main office from behind two screens which partitioned off its left-hand corner. He was a tall, well-built man wearing a salesman's professional smile and with his hand outstretched in greeting. Gold links shone in the long shirt cuffs. He advanced towards Mackie, moving with an e asy grace. Then all of a sudden he caught sight of Skinner s anding by the door, as it was swung shut by its auto-closer.

The smile faded, and was replaced by a puzzled look.

`Hello, Mr Ainscow. Good to see you in Scotland for a c hange. I'm sorry to spring this on you, but something's been b rought to our attention and we'd like a wee chat with you bout it. Nothing serious, now. I'm sure you'll clear it up in a s econd. That's the reason for the discreet approach.'

Skinner kept his face absolutely impassive as he spoke, b elying deliberately with his expression the reassurance in his w ords. He kept his eyes fixed on Ainscow, reading him — l ooking for any sign to counter the first impression that his a rrival had taken the man completely by surprise. But he f ound none. Ainscow's smile returned, but this time it was one at Skinner had seen on a thousand faces in similar circumstances : puzzled and uncertain, wondering what would come n ext.

`Well, Mr Skinner. You'd better come through here and tell me about it. Nessie, could you rustle up some coffee, please, unless you'd prefer tea, gentlemen?'

Skinner shook his head. As Ainscow disappeared behind t he partition, he glanced around the room. Its walls were covered with posters of Spain, many of them showing familiar views of L'Escala and its bay.

Behind the screen, Ainscow took his place behind a table which served as a desk, offering chairs to his visitors. Skinner sat down and placed his briefcase on his knees. He opened it and took out Greg Pitkeathly's file.

`Before we begin,' said Ainscow, 'would you prefer it if Nessie stepped outside?'

Skinner shook his head. Not at all. In fact it may be useful for you to have her here.' As he spoke, the woman reappeared, carrying a tray laden with three mugs of coffee and a plate of chocolate sandwich biscuits, which Skinner recognised as his favourites from Spain. He smiled his thanks to the secretary.

`Mr Ainscow, we know each other, but I should introduce DCI Brian Mackie, the head of my international liaison unit.'

Ainscow, serious now, nodded towards Mackie.

`I'm sorry about the surprise, as I said, but we thought it best not to alarm you unnecessarily. Mr Ainscow, I think you know Greg Pitkeathly.'

`Greg and Jean, yes'

`John and Claire Comfort?'

`Yes.' Ainscow's tone took on a note of anticipation, almost intrigue. He leaned forward in his chair, anxious, Skinner assumed, to hear what was coming next.

`Have you had any recent contact with Santi Alberni, your partner?'

Ainscow shook his head. 'No. I've been away for a while. I had a couple of weeks in the States, then spent another fortnight just farting about in Scotland. This is my first day back in this office. So why do you ask about Santi? What's he been up to?'

`Why do you ask that?'

`No reason. A joke really.'

`Mr Ainscow, where do you bank your UK clients' funds?' `Here initially, then we transfer the money to a convertible peseta account in Spain.'