Autographs In The Rain Part 55

v'Here, in bed.'

'Okay.' He turned to the woman, thumb jerked towards Annand. 'Him I know. Who are you?'

'Grade Annand,' she replied. 'Ralph's wife.'

'Right.' His green gaze flashed back to the director. 'So who's to say you didn't slip out. Were you in bed alone?'

Elliott Silver gave a long bored sigh and shook his head.

'So who else is here?'

'No one, Mr Policeman.'

'But you weren't in bed alone.'

'No.'

It was Andy Martin's turn to sigh. 'Okay,' he asked, 'which one?'

Silver flashed him a wicked, triumphant smile. 'Both of them, Mr Policeman. Shocked?'

'To the core, suns.h.i.+ne,' said the detective, 'to the very core.

'Now go and get some kit on ... all of you . . . and get your sore and sorry a.r.s.es back in here. Because it's my turn to shock you.'238.69.Skinner's car stood outside the Balmoral, no obstruction to traffic, since it was only just after five. He thought about driving home but saw no point in wakening Sarah, or the baby, earlier than necessary. And so, instead, he drove down towards Fettes, stopping only to pick up a couple of filled rolls in an all-night cafe in Stockbridge. The night security staff came to something approaching attention as he parked in his reserved s.p.a.ce, opening the door for him before he reached it.

Tiredness was beginning to catch up with him as he unlocked his office; he debated whether to grab a couple of hours' sleep on the couch, or to attack the rolls instead. His mind made up, he switched on the coffee filter which stood, ever ready, in the corner. The bread was fresh from the baker's oven, not too well fired, b.u.t.tered and filled with egg mayonnaise. He ate them with pleasure, and chased them with strong coffee, then looked around.

'How many mornings like this, Bob?' he asked himself aloud. 'Caught in limbo in the nothing hours; nothing happening, nothing to do but think.

Too many, especially in the time between Myra and Sarah ... Christ, in the time between Sarah and Sarah.

'I was worried about big Neil, too, facing the same thing. Then he goes and surprises the s.h.i.+t out of me; him and Lou. f.u.c.king big dark horse that he is! Let's hope, eh?'

He looked around, feeling suddenly self-conscious, as if there was a chance that someone might catch the DCC talking to himself in the night.

Suddenly a thought caught him, and he laughed quietly. 'Not so daft a notion with Chase around.' He opened the deep drawer of his desk. 'Better just check to see if he's hiding in here.'

And then he noticed the small table beside his desk; the bank of telephones on top, and on the second shelf beneath, the fax. His private, secure fax, with a plastic tray suspended from it, a tray that was no longer empty.

Intrigued, glad to have something to do, he took the message from its holder and scanned it. There was a cover sheet headed, 'Private, Eyes Only,'above an impressive crest, bald eagle surrounded by the legend, 'National Security Council of the United States of America', which was followed in its turn by a second line, 'From the Office of the Deputy Chair.'

Skinner grinned as he pictured his old friend Joe Doherty, whom he had known since his days as FBI resident in London, before a college buddy had become President and set him on the road to greatness; he saw his thin, lined, sallow face, the slimness of his build which made him seem smaller than his five feet nine.

As he began to read, he heard his mid-western drawl.

",When he had finished the three-page message he put it down with a faint tinge of excitement. He reached out for his outside line, then stopped, considering. Finally he exclaimed, aloud once more, to the ghosts in the room, 'Ah b.u.g.g.e.r it! Why should I be awake, and him asleep? The boy's got to learn.'

He took a card from his wallet, where he had tucked it away, picked up the phone and dialled David Mackenzie's mobile number.

As he had expected, the Strathclyde DI was too good a copper, too keen, too inquisitive, too scared to miss out on anything, to switch off his hand phone while he slept, or to divert calls to the night s.h.i.+ft. After a few rings, a sleepy voice came on the line, mumbling a 'h.e.l.lo'.

'Bandit? It's DCC Skinner. Glad you're awake.'

'Sir, it's . . .' the voice slurred.

'That's right, it's quarter to six. Say sorry to your wife for me, then go downstairs, get a great big notepad, and call me back on the number I gave you.' He hung up the telephone and waited, looking at the second hand on his watch.

One minute and twelve seconds later, the phone rang. He grabbed it, grinning. 'Good man,' he exclaimed. 'It's going to be worth it, I promise.

'How are you getting on with old man McConnell?'

'Slowly. Someone in the ScotRail office is looking into his record for me, but she's doing it grudgingly and b.l.o.o.d.y slowly. I doubt if she'll come up with anything.'

'f.u.c.k her.'

'Is that an order, sir, because if it's all the same to you Skinner chuckled. 'Okay, just forget her for a while. I've got a new tack for you, one that will awake your basest instincts. Remember I said a few days back that I'd do some brainstorming of my own? Well, listen to me and I'll tell you what I've been up to.' He raced on.

240.AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN.

'What do we know about the late John McConnell?

'One, he was a keen golfer. Irrelevant to your investigation.

'Two, he was a dirty old man. Possibly relevant to your investigation.

'Three, he was apparently into jellies. Highly relevant to your investigation.

'Four, someone ripped him off for most of his liquid a.s.sets. Again, highly relevant to your investigation.

'Five, he's dead. The reason for your investigation.

'Agreed?'

'Yes sir,' said Mackenzie, wide awake now.

'Good. So let's join the dots. Forget the golf; that's nothing. What we have is a young woman who by some means or another, gets this old geezer hooked on drugs.

'The means? Well, he's an old lecher with a penchant for the young stuff, so join those dots up too.

'She feeds his addiction, but at a cost. Over a period of a few months, he gives her all his money, she withdraws it, posing as his niece. Also she sells his prize possessions and does a runner with that money too. We're talking a total rip-off in excess of one hundred thousand.

'Finally she's got the lot. So one day she turns up, feeds him a final shot, and while he's...o...b..ting around Venus, immerses him in a scalding bath and drowns him. Are you in any doubt, Inspector, that that's how it happened?'

'No, sir, none at all.'

'Which leaves us with that video camera. Why the h.e.l.l did she take that video camera with her on that last visit? One reason only: to make a movie.

And why the h.e.l.l,' Skinner asked, 'would she do that?'

'Because she's a fruitcake!' Mackenzie exclaimed.

'Maybe she is, maybe she isn't. I've met a lot of fruitcakes in my career, son, and all but a very few of them had a purpose behind the things they did. So, I continue to ask, why did she film the old boy?'

'We'll need to find her to find that out, won't we?'

'Ah, but Bandit, maybe by finding out we'll find her. That brainstorming I've been doing has focused on that. Listen,' he said, urgently. 'Young girl, old man ... dirty old man ... home movies. It's p.o.r.n; beyond a doubt. It's a p.o.r.no movie.

'But add in the drugs element and you take it up a notch. Not just s.e.x but sado-masochism. Finally add in the fact that the old man winds up dead. Is your blood running cold yet, Bandit? Because it should.'I have a friend in the States, who has access to just about everything, including FBI investigations into the p.o.r.nography industry. We're way behind the column in Britain in that area. Sure, we're good at catching the sort of dirty b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who collect kiddie pics, but there's all sorts of stuff going on that we don't have a clue about.