A Double Death on the Black Isle Page 19

  Calum smiled as he gathered his papers to leave. He had enjoyed every moment of their meeting.

  On his walk back to the office, he suddenly remembered the fatal accident inquiry. “Dam and blast it! I forgot to ask how it went.”

  He would read about it in the newspaper, but I should have asked her in person. All he knew about the death of Sandy Skinner he had learned from the Gazette. Remarks overheard in the office from the junior staff filled him in on the community’s reaction. The chief comment was how Mrs. Janet Ord Mackenzie must be relieved her unsuitable son-in-law had met a most unusual end. “The kind o’ thing you see in a film,” one had said.

  It had been two weeks since the inquiry into Sandy’s death, two weeks since Joanne’s account of it was published. Since then, she had heard nothing from Patricia.

  No word from Bill either, nothing about the girls’ future, nothing about a divorce. All this quiet is unnerving, she thought.

  “The hearing with John Skinner is at eleven, do you want to come?” Rob asked Joanne.

  “I’m up to my eyes in this report from the local council. It seems it will be doomsday before we get a new bridge. Anyhow, I’ve had enough of the Skinners.”

  “You should have more confidence in your work,” Rob told her with all the experience of a twenty-one-year-old. “One of the best ways to learn is to look at what you’ve written, then look at it in print after Don has slashed your copy to shreds—always cutting out the best bits, naturally.”

  “McAllister said the same.” Joanne smiled, “but I really have to do this. We can’t always be having dramatic headlines, so council stuff it is.”

  “Can I come and take a picture?” Hector asked Rob.

  “Fine, but it’s probably a terrible idea. Remember the last time you took a picture of a Skinner?” Rob and Hector simultaneously had a vision of Rob splashing about in the waters of the canal. “This time, be discrete—if that’s possible.”

  “I’ll sneak behind something and take a picture as they leave the court. You’ll never notice I’m there.”

  When they reached the Magistrate’s Court, Rob left Hector to wait.

  Hector was good at waiting—lurking in corners, behind trees, round the back of dustbins, was his specialty. Time meant nothing to him if he thought there was a good picture in it. He removed his lime-green bobble hat, convinced he was now invisible, forgetting that his beacon of hair was equally lurid.

  When Rob entered the court he was surprised to see Calum Sinclair with John Skinner. He was also curious as to how the Skinners had linked up with the solicitor—it did not seem their style. Patricia, was his guess. Then again, he didn’t think the Skinners and Patricia Ord Mackenzie were on speaking terms. Curiouser and curiouser.

  He took his usual seat in the courtroom. A few seats down, he saw a figure he recognized. It was the man who had closed Mrs. Skinner’s door on him when he was asking questions in the fishing village—John Skinner’s uncle. Seated next to him was a woman Rob took to be Sandy’s mother. She looks as friendly as barbed wire, he thought.

  The hearing had barely started before it ended. Rob was furious. Another nothing story, he thought.

  Calum Sinclair had obviously been given his instructions at the last minute, as there was a sheaf of papers on his table. Folders too. He had prepared well to argue a not-guilty plea and looked no more happy than Rob.

  “I understand you wish to plead guilty to the offense,” the magistrate said.

  John Skinner looked down and said, “Yes” in a faint voice.

  “I have here the report from the procurator fiscal about the incident. I hope you understand the seriousness of the charges,” the magistrate continued.

  “Yes.”

  “This is one of the worst cases of vandalism I have come across.” There was a pause while the magistrate consulted his papers. “However, because of your age, because you have pled guilty, and you have never been in trouble before, the procurator fiscal has recommended a fine. But the sentence could well have been Approved School. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” John Skinner looked down, unable to meet the magistrate’s eye.

  “I also have to remind you that a conviction means you will have a police record for the rest of your life.”

  For the first time, the boy reacted. He glanced at Calum, who nodded an “I told you.” He glanced at his mother—who did not move—then, turning his back on both of them, he said, “Aye. I mean, yes, I understand.”

  Rob had to suppress a smile—it must have been a challenge for the boy to say “yes” instead of “aye” to the questions.

  “I’m sorry,” John Skinner muttered.

  “Speak up, boy.” The magistrate had heard, but wanted the boy’s contrition stated loudly and clearly. Humiliation was good, in his opinion.

  In that moment, Rob remembered John Skinner was fifteen. He watched as the boy again looked at his mother. The woman did not, in any movement of body or lips or expression, acknowledge her son.

  In a loud, clear voice, barely controlling his anger, John said, “I am very sorry The Good Shepphard burned down.”

  “Fined fifty pounds,” the magistrate announced.

  The next case was called.

  Rob hurried out the court ahead of the Skinners and waited on the steps. It took him a moment to spot Hector, who wasn’t hiding, only loitering.

  The Skinner trio walked from the courthouse so fast Calum Sinclair had to hurry to keep up.

  “John . . .” Calum asked, “why did you change your plea?”

  John Skinner looked at his mother and said nothing.

  Politeness demanded a pause, a thank-you and a handshake between Calum Sinclair and the uncle. Mrs. Skinner made a “tssk” sound of impatience. John Skinner studied the pavement and didn’t once take his hands out of his pockets.

  Rob stood in front of them and said, “Highland Gazette. Can I have a minute of your time? John, isn’t it? Why did you burn down your own boat?” They tried to push past him. Rob didn’t move. Only John hesitated before his mother yapped, “John. Wi’ me.” The Skinners parted and moved around Rob.

  “John, what will you do now you no longer have The Good Shepphard?” Rob called after them. “Will you be joining another fishing boat? John?” he shouted when they were a good fifty yards away.

  All the while, unnoticed, Hector was firing off shots, not game to confront a Skinner again, even if it was a woman.

  Calum Sinclair stood by, enjoying the theatrics—it was a modicum of revenge for the way Mrs. Skinner had dismissed him and his hard work in preparing a defense, which, he believed, would have returned a not-guilty verdict.

  “Have you any comments, Mr. Sinclair?” Rob asked when the Skinners had vanished.

  “No, no comment. But I like your style.” Calum laughed.

  “Ta,” Rob grinned. “No comment on the guilty plea?”

  “It would not be worth the bother to comment on Skinner business.”

  All through the brief encounters, Hector had been as good as he had promised—taking the photos discretely and unnoticed.

  That was not the bigger surprise for Rob. “Get any good shots?” he asked as they walked back to the office.

  “Aye,” Hec said.

  “Great. We got some good editions out of The Good Shepphard—fire, bombs, intrigue, great stories, great pictures. Pity the hearing was a fizzler.”

  “How so?” Hec asked.

  “Because John Skinner, Sandy Skinner’s wee brother, pled guilty to throwing the petrol bomb that burned down the boat, so the hearing was really boring,” Rob explained. “John stood up, admitted he was guilty, said he was sorry. He was fined. End of story.”

  “John Skinner. Was he the lad I took the photo of outside the court?” Hec asked.

  “Aye. Did you get a good shot of him?”

  “I did.”

  They were nearing the office. “Come on, Hec, I’ll buy you a coffee.”

  “Fine.”

&
nbsp; Rob noticed Hector did not do his usual jig when he was asked out for coffee.

  They took the long, steep steps down to Castle Street, and had gone about twenty yards before Rob noticed Hector was no longer with him. He turned. Hec was plodding along, camera around his neck, head down, hands in his pockets.

  “Get a move on,” Rob called.

  Hec caught up.

  “What’s your problem?”

  “I canny tell you. I’m scared of what Mr. McAllister will say.”

  “Tell me, maybe I can help.” Rob was used to Hec. A problem could be anything from filling out an expense sheet that would pass Mrs. Smart’s eagle eye to discovering a Second World War spy living in a Dalneigh council house disguised as a coalman.

  “Fine.” Hec stopped in the middle of the pavement. The pedestrians parted around the pair as water round a rock. “You said it was Sandy Skinner’s wee brother, the lad that was in court that threw the milk bottle that burned down the boat.”

  “Yes. . . . And?”

  “It wisney him that threw the bottle.”

  “What? Are you sure?” Rob tried to remain calm, but his instinct was to run across the road, up the wynd, and rush into McAllister’s office shouting “scoop” or something equally childish.

  “I think I’m sure it wasn’t him.” Hector’s bottom lip was sticking out. Rob knew not to ask again. Hec could be stubborn when his judgment was questioned.

  “It’s something about him,” Hec explained with his hands. “He’s no the right shape, his head is no right.” Hec’s hands moved as though describing a ball. “But I’ll need to develop the film to be sure sure.”

  “There’s a bus—run. We’ll make it.” He grabbed Hec’s hand.

  They made it and went upstairs to the front seat. “Two to Dochfour Drive please,” Rob asked the conductor.

  When they had recovered their breath, Rob told Hector, “We are going to your wee shed, you are going to develop this film, I am going to wait, then you are going to explain to me, no, show me, what on earth you are talking about, Hector Bain.”

  “Promise you’ll no tell Sergeant Patience?” Hec was jiggling his legs as though he needed to pee.

  “Promise.”

  I won’t tell the sergeant, thought Rob, but if Hec is right, McAllister will have to tell the inspector, and I will have another great front page.

  There was no hurrying Hector. Rob did not wait patiently, but at least there was a good collection of Broons annuals to while away the time.

  Prints and negatives ready, Rob asked Hec to bring his magnifying glass and they left for the Gazette offices.

  Rob was a long time with McAllister. Hector was with them some of the time. Don spent a half hour with Rob and McAllister, then Hector was sent home to blow up two particularly interesting shots. When Hec came back, there was another long and argumentative meeting.

  “Joanne, come and join us,” McAllister asked.

  “May as well have the meeting there,” Don pointed out, “more room on the reporters’ table.”

  “Aye, but shut the door.” McAllister did not trust Mrs. Betsy Buchanan. Seemed too nosy, was his opinion.

  “Right,” McAllister started, “look at these.”

  At the head of the table, he laid out one shot of a person, standing, watching as the deck caught alight. Then below this, he fanned out a selection of shots of the person running or hurrying away from The Good Shepphard.

  “Quick answers, no thinking,” McAllister commanded. “This one,” he pointed to the top shot, “male of female?”

  “Don’t know,” Rob.

  “Could be either,” Don.

  “No idea,” Joanne.

  “I canny tell in this picture,” Hector.

  “Next.” McAllister chose three pictures of the moving figure.

  “Don’t know,” Rob and Don spoke at once.

  “There’s something about this one. . . .” Joanne hesitated.

  “It’s the walk.” Hector was sure of himself. He grew up when talking about photographs.

  “It’s the way this person kind o’ scuttles. See, here, the steps is too short, and the arms are held out like this. . . .” He stood, held his arms out from his sides slightly, his hands at forty-five degrees. “Looks like a woman to me.”

  Joanne smiled at Hector’s imitation of a woman; it was funny but also impressive—he knew what he was talking about.

  “This is the most important shot, though,” Hector took over the meeting from McAllister. McAllister did not mind one bit.

  “See, the hood from the jacket has fallen down.” Hec pointed to it with a pencil. The shot was taken at such a distance that the blow-up was blurry. “Never mind the face,” he continued, “look at the head. See, small, ’cos the hair is flat, and see this,” he tapped a dark blur at the back of the head, “I’m thinking this could be a woman wi’ her hair in a bun.”

  The others stared. Hec reached for another print of the same image and passed it to Joanne.

  “I see what you mean,” she agreed.

  “Now look at these.” Hector pulled out the pictures taken that morning outside the courtroom. There were two shots of the Skinner family as they descended the steps and one as Calum Sinclair shook the uncle’s hand.

  Hec then produced blow-ups of the heads of John Skinner and his mother, taken at different angles. Mrs. Skinner’s hat obscured the top of her head, but a small, round skull, with the hair in a tight bun at the back, was clear.

  What was really interesting were the shots of John Skinner and his uncle. Like the late Sandy Skinner, their skulls were long and narrow.

  Weasel-like, had been Joanne’s mental image of Sandy Skinner at that terrible Easter Monday picnic on the Black Isle. The photos in front of them confirmed that impression—there was indeed something feral about the Skinner features.

  “Well?” McAllister held his hands up and out like the ringmaster in a circus. “Are we sure?”

  “It’s her.” Rob was certain because he wanted it to be so. “She was the one who started the fire.”

  “It certainly looks as though it could be her,” Joanne said.

  “I agree, it’s her,” said Don, “but remember what happened the last time. The police will no be happy when they see this.” He tapped the picture of Mrs. Skinner running away from the fire.

  “The police?” Hector wailed like a banshee. “I’m no going to the police! Rob, you promised.”

  Don stuck his fingers in his ears. Joanne put an arm round Hec. Rob looked away. McAllister rolled his eyes, “Hector, shut up. We have to report this.”

  “I’ll run away,” Hector moaned.

  “Hector, listen to me.” Rob was terrified Hec might cry. “I made you a promise and I meant it. Listen, this is what I’ll do . . .” For once, he was stuck for an idea.

  McAllister took over. “What I’ll do is tell DI Dunne how Hector Bain has done their job for them. I will point out that it took the photographer from the Highland Gazette to discover what no policeman noticed, and how Hector has solved the crime for them.”

  “You’ll be a hero, Hector,” Rob said.

  “Really?” Then Hec thought of something more, “But if Sergeant Patience thinks I’ve showed him up, he’ll hate me even more.”

  “Leave that to me,” Don told him. “If the Sergeant says one word, I’ll tell him it will be front page of the Gazette that our photographer showed him how to do his job.”

  “Jings.” Hector’s mouth dropped open, and even after years of a diet of Irn-Bru, boiled sweeties, and sherbet dabs, Joanne could see he had not one filling in his back teeth.

  It took a day before McAllister received the call telling him of the arrest of Mrs. Skinner. The uncle had also been questioned, but there was no evidence he had been involved, especially as John Skinner refused to implicate him.

  “Thanks for the tip-off,” DI Dunne said when he called McAllister.

  “Not at all,” said McAllister. “We want to keep on the rig
ht side of the police.”

  “And have a front-page scoop.”

  “Absolutely,” the editor agreed. “Will you need Hector as a witness for the trial?” McAllister asked.

  “Not if I can help it,” DI Dunne said.

  The tone in his voice made McAllister laugh.

  “No,” the policeman continued, “we have no problems with the case. Mrs. Skinner gave a full confession. She admitted throwing the petrol bomb. The idea of blaming John Skinner was all hers—she believed he would get off lightly because of his age and no previous record.”

  “I suppose that is why she persuaded him to plead guilty, to avoid scrutiny.”

  “Yes, that’s what she said.”

  “Did she say why she burned down the boat?” This was the aspect of the whole affair that intrigued McAllister and everyone else at the Gazette.

  “Only that Sandy Skinner was no son of hers, and she’d rather the boat was destroyed than him have it. Family feuds,” Dunne continued, “they never make much sense.”

  “One final piece of information . . .”

  “Yes?” McAllister said.

  “You didn’t hear this from me, but the fiscal is furious at the waste of police time over this whole business. He will be asking the magistrate to give Mrs. Skinner a custodial sentence.”

  “Sure he’s not furious because it took the Gazette to discover the truth?”

  “Now, now, no need to rub it in,” Dunne said, although privately he knew this was true. “But it’s true. If it hadn’t been for Hector Bain, we’d all be none the wiser.”

  “I don’t suppose you could let him know that?” McAllister asked.

  “Don’t worry, I have it all in hand. Sergeant Patience will be writing to you and to Hector on behalf of the constabulary, thanking you both for helping bring the real culprit to justice.”

  DI Dunne had to hold the receiver away from his ear as McAllister roared in laughter.

  Two days after his hearing, John Skinner turned up at Achnafern farmhouse. He was too scared to come to the big house, so Allie Munro phoned Patricia, explained, and asked if she would come over to the farm.

  “Of course,” she replied.