Skinner's Trail Read Free Page A

value, no value to anyone other than its owner, to whom of course it is beyond price. Mostly, the theft takes place without thought, in a moment of anger, and is regretted the instant it is done. But life isn't a magazine filched from a rack, or a can of beans from a supermarket shelf . You can't sneak a stolen life back to the shop and pretend that nothing happened.'
    The eyes stared at Skinner, upside-down, as he climbed the staircase. The head lolled backwards over the landing; the dark hair looked as if it was standing on end, the mouth hung open, grotesque and oddly obscene, the tip of the tongue licking out over the top lip. The banisters hung by shreds of wood. They were solid mahogany, yet they had been smashed by the bulk of the body and the force with which it had crashed backwards through them.
    The tableau of death offered a surreal and stark contrast to the scene in which Bob had been involved only four hours before, and the private room in the Simpson where he had left mother and son asleep. From birth to death in twenty minutes, he thought. His mind swam for a second, and a violent shudder ran through him.
    Andy Martin was waiting for him in the upper hallway at the top of the staircase, with Alan Royston the force press officer.
    If Martin had noticed Skinner's reaction, he gave no sign. `Stone cold, boss. There's hardly any blood. Single puncture wound straight into the heart. Whoever did this either knew exactly where to hit, or they were dead lucky.'
    `Whoever did this didn't rely on luck. How long has he been dead?'
    The doctor's first guess was that he was done between one and two a.m. The cleaning lady found him. She lets herself in around nine every morning.'
    `He lived alone, still, did he?'
    `Always has done. He's never been married. The odd girlfriend, but mostly he used the tarts from his saunas.'
    Skinner grunted. ‘H mm. A man of simple tastes, then. Who's the senior bod here from Division?'
    The answer came from a room off the landing. 'So far, it's me, sir. DI Donaldson's on leave, and Miss Higgins is over in the west, crewing her brother's yacht on the Clyde.' The husky shape of Detective Sergeant Mario McGuire appeared, framed in the doorway.
    `Where's Roy Old?'
    `Away in Hawick with the Chief and Brian Mackie, looking after the Princess Royal,' said Martin.
    Skinner nodded. 'Of course. Right, Mario, what have we got, then?'
    `Here, sir?' said McGuire. Not a lot, you might say. Only a very dead Anthony Manson. Owner and operator of a dozen housing-scheme laundrettes, eight takeaways, six dodgy lockup public houses, four saunas of ill repute, and one curling club complete with blue-chip membership to make Tony there look halfway respectable. The ideal setup for the biggest drug baron in Scotland.'
    Skinner laughed ironically. 'Come on now, sergeant. The late Mr Manson has never been charged with a single crime or misdemeanour. Okay, so half a dozen of his former employees are doing time for dealing, but that's still no reason to speak ill of the dead.'
    McGuire snorted. 'The only thing I've got to say to the dead, sir, is, "Cheerio, Tony, you won't be missed." We all know what he was.'
    Skinner nodded. 'So the place is clean, then. He hasn't left anything we can stick on him beyond the grave?'
    `Clean as a whistle, boss,' said Martin. 'Not as much as a Beecham’s powder.'
    `What about motive? Any chance it was a house-breaking interrupted?'
    Martin grinned, raising his blond eyebrows. 'Who'd be daft enough to burgle Tony Manson, boss? No sign of theft. His jewellery's untouched, the video's still there, and there's a few thousand in cash in a drawer in his desk downstairs.'
    `So what do we know?'
    `Not a lot, so far. He took a taxi home from the casino in Kent Street a bit after midnight. We traced the driver. Tony bunged him a tenner tip apparently. He'd had a good night. There was a glass with the end of a whisky in it, in the study downstairs. It looks as if he came in, had himself a