Skinner's Trail (38 page)

One Hundred and One

‘So
that's the story, Ruth,' said Skinner to his tape-recorder, as the early-shift staff began to wind their way up the drive below his office window in the early morning sunshine. 'That's Skinner's trail. It started in Edinburgh, wound through half a dozen countries, and ended back on our own doorstep. The story's full of greed and violence and death. But it's about honour, too. Big Lennie Plenderleith, or Dominic Jackson as he would have been for the rest of his life, is in a strange way one of the most honourable men I have ever met. He had his legacy, the sort of fortune the rest of us can only dream about, and he had a whole new life in front of him. As he said, he was free and clear. And yet he gambled it all, and he lost it all, to repay his debt of honour to Tony Manson. I tell you, Ruth, Big Lennie is certainly the toughest man I've ever come up against, but he sure as hell isn't the worst.'

The recorder whined a warning that its micro-cassette was about to run out.

`Right,' said Skinner as he switched it off and took out the tape, putting it beside two others in his typing tray. 'That's it. Home, Robert — but on the way let's call in to compare stitches with young Martin.'

He drove the BMW carefully through the morning rush hour, saving his still-aching foot as best he could, enduring the
traffic queues which he normally hated, until he arrived outside the grey Victorian terrace just behind Haymarket where Andy Martin lived. He parked, glancing in the driver's mirror as he climbed
ou
t of the car. He smiled, wincing, as he saw the swelling across the bridge of his nose, and the bruised bump around the cut.

`Let's see if you can beat that lot, boy,' he said to the sunny
morning.

Martin's flat was on the second floor, and his injured foot
made the climb awkward, but eventually he reached the blue-painted front door. He pressed the bell-push and waited. Thirty seconds passed without an answer. He pressed again, and waited for another minute. He smiled and shook his head.

`Dozy bastard,' he said. He pressed the bell for a third time and thumped the door with his fist.
‘P
olis
’
he shouted, disguising his voice, 'Open up in there!'

There was a muffled response from within. At last the door swung open. There stood a young woman. She was wearing a man's satin robe, in blue, with the monogram 'AM' on the breast pocket. She was rubbing her hair vigorously with a huge peach-coloured towel. One of its corners had fallen across her face.

`I'm sorry,' said the hooded woman, her speech muffled by the towel. 'I was in the shower. Andy's just nipped down to the shops to buy a paper and some—'

As she spoke she looked up and, as she did so, her voice grew more distinct, and the towel fell from her face. The sentence tailed off unfinished as she stared at Skinner. Her eyes were wide, mirroring the blank astonishment in his. Her mouth, like his, hung open slightly.

Time stopped. Afterwards, neither would be able to say for
how long they stood there in their frozen tableau. But in
whatever time it was, in that time worlds moved and lives
changed.

Eventually the woman recovered her voice, or at least a
vestige of it. She smiled, tentatively. `Hi, Pops.'