Skinner's Rules Read Free Page A

was unmarried, but was widely believed to be sleeping with Rachel Jameson, an advocate a year or two his junior, both in age and in service at the Bar.
    In common with most advocates, his family background was non-legal. His father, Thornton recalled, worked in a factory in Clydebank.
    ‘Nice people, his Mum and Dad. I remember them at Mike’s Calling ceremony. They were so proud of him.’ He shook his head slowly and sadly.
    ‘Look, Bob, you’d better see the Dean.’
    ‘Of course, Roy. But give me a second.’ He turned to Martin. ‘Andy, will you talk to the security guards. The night shift will be away by now. Find out who they are, get their addresses and have someone take statements.’
    Martin nodded and recrossed the Hall.
    Thornton left Skinner for a few moments. On his return, he motioned to the detective to follow him, and led the way through the long Library, past rows of desks under an up-lit, gold-painted ceiling, to a door halfway down on the left.
    David Murray, QC, recently elected as Dean of the Faculty of Advocates following his predecessor’s elevation to high judicial office, was a small, neat man, with a reserved but pleasant manner, and enormously shrewd eyes, set behind round spectacles. He was a member of one of the legal dynasties who once formed the major proportion of the Scots Bar. He was held in the utmost respect throughout the Faculty and beyond, and his election, although contested, had been welcomed universally. He was a man of stature in every respect other than the physical.
    While Murray’s practice was exclusively civil, he had enjoyed a spell in criminal prosecution as an Advocate Depute. During that time Skinner’s evidence in a number of spectacular trials had helped him to maintain an undefeated record as Crown counsel. He greeted the detective warmly.
    ‘Hello, Bob, how are things. Thornton tells me you want to see me. None of my troops been up to mischief, I hope.’
    ‘David, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but one of your people has been murdered. It happened just a few hours ago. He seems to have been on his way home from the Library when he was attacked in Advocates’ Close.’
    Murray stood bolt upright. ‘Good God! Who?’
    ‘A man named Michael Mortimer. Roy Thornton just confirmed our identification.’
    ‘Oh no, surely not.’ Murray ran a small hand through what was left of his hair. ‘You said murder. Is that what it was, strictly speaking, or do you think it was a mugging gone wrong?’
    ‘David, not even you would have accepted a culpable homicide plea on this one, believe me.’ Skinner shuddered at the memory, still vivid in his thoughts. He realised, with a flash of certainty, that it would never leave him completely.
    ‘Listen, I know it’s early, but do you have a spot of something? I feel the need all of a sudden.’
    The Dean’s room was lined with books from floor to ceiling. Murray walked over to a shelf and removed a leather-bound volume with the title Session Cases 1924 printed in gold on the spine. He reached into the darkness of the gap that it had left and produced a bottle of Glenmorangie. He removed a glass bearing the Faculty crest from a drawer in his octagonal desk, and uncorking the bottle, poured a stiff measure.
    ‘Thanks, David.’ Skinner slumped onto the battered leather couch beneath the tall south-facing window. Outside the day was bleaker than ever.
    ‘Bad one, was it?’ said Murray. ‘I thought Thornton looked drawn when he came in just then.’
    Skinner described the murder scene in detail. Wnen he had finished he looked up. Without a word, the Dean, now ashen-faced, produced a second glass and poured a malt for himself. His hand shook as he did so.
    Skinner watched him drain the glass. ‘David, can you think of anyone with a professional grudge against this man? Had he lost a case? Could this be a disgruntled ex-client putting out a contract from Peterhead?’
    Murray thought for a moment. ‘I can’t see