Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel Read Free Page A

collectors who approached her directly. She hadn’t always done that well, though. When she’d become Alex’s day-carer . . . my daughter did not care for the term ‘childminder’ and corrected anyone who was foolish enough to use it . . . the money had come in handy, in the wake of her acrimonious split from the heavy-handed skinflint she’d made the mistake of marrying.

    She’d joined us after a succession of short-term failures. At first Myra’s mother insisted on helping me out, but after only a year she was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma and went back to Lanarkshire to die. After her came a series of women who’d promised that my unpredictable working hours would be no problem, only to discover that they were. At that time, I was still in my twenties, widowed, with a five-year-old kid who was the centre of my world. It might not always have been apparent . . . indeed, today I have an ex-wife who’d take issue with the assertion . . . but through my life my career has come second to my family.

    With the resignation of the most recent ‘carer’, I had a problem, but I had an option open to me, one which I almost took up. When Daisy answered the ad that I’d placed, in desperation rather than hope, in the East Lothian Courier , I was probably within three months of leaving the police force and moving back to Motherwell, to add a law qualification to my arts degree and join my father’s firm.

    She was made for us. Her creative hours were completely flexible, and could be shaped to meet our needs. She’d come in every morning, to get Alex ready and take her to school, then pick her up at the end of the day and bring her home, or if I was working late, take her to her place until I called for her. On the odd occasion when an investigation turned into a crisis, she’d look after her overnight, always at Templar Lane, for Daisy and I agreed early on that she would never sleep over at Goose Green. Villages are villages, even the nicest of them; we knew there would be talk as it was, without our feeding it.

    I thought about letting the answer-machine handle the incoming call, but only for a fraction of a second. I’ve never been able to do that. If the phone rings more than three times, in my home or in my office, it means that I’m not there, unless I’m sound asleep or locked away taking care of private matters. Even then, I once ruined a perfectly good mobile by answering it while taking a piss and letting it slip from my grasp. I stood up from the table, and snatched the handset from its cradle on the sideboard.

    ‘Three two nine one,’ I answered. My phone number. That’s my way. I never give my name when taking a call at home. My life is about having an edge; I’ve always liked to know who’s calling before giving anything of myself away.

    ‘DCI Skinner?’ Male voice, deep, young, just on the confident side of arrogant.

    ‘Who’s this?’

    ‘PC McGuire, St Leonards.’

    I frowned. The name meant nothing to me. ‘This is Skinner,’ I conceded. ‘It’s quarter past seven, and I finished a ten-hour working day just over an hour ago. So why are you interrupting my dinner, Constable?’

    ‘Because my boss told me to, sir.’

    ‘And who would that be?’

    ‘Detective Superintendent Jay.’

    Greg Jay; arrogant prick. I didn’t like him, and I wasn’t alone. ‘I thought you said you were a PC,’ I snapped. ‘Why are you gophering for a CID officer?’

    ‘I was nearest the door; got seconded.’

    ‘And Jay gave you my ex-directory number, just like that?’

    ‘I didn’t know it was X-D, sir. He just told me to call it.’

    ‘And?’

    ‘And to ask you to meet him at Infirmary Street Baths, as soon as possible.’

    ‘That’s how he put it?’

    The PC hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘Actually, sir, he said, “Tell him to get his arse along to Infirmary Street Baths, now.” Those were his exact words.’

    I cut off my retort, just before it left my mouth.