The big silver-haired man rushed across the room, hands outstretched when Skinner entered. 'Congratulations, Bob! I couldn't be more pleased for you and Sarah. Both doing very well, I hear. What did he weigh?' He paused. 'Now why do people of my age always ask that?'
Sir James Proud, the Chief Constable, was Skinner's mentor. Their relationship had become even closer over the past eighteen months, until Skinner had come to see Proud Jimmy — as he was popularly known — almost as a father figure.
Skinner laughed. 'Thanks, Jimmy. Eight pounds and twelve ounces, they said. That's one thing that hasn't gone metric yet. Not in the Simpson, at least.'
`So what the Hell are you still doing here? Why aren't you on paternity leave?'
`Things to do, Chief. Getting the Tony Manson show on the road, for one.'
`Yes. That fairly knocked our Royal Visit off the front page. What d'you think, Bob — is it a "gang war"?'
`Buggered if I know. Tony Manson must have had a thousand small-time enemies, but obviously one was serious enough to put a contract out on him. At least that's how it looks. A thoroughly professional job.'
As they sat at his low coffee table, Proud Jimmy pointed to the comb-bound documents which Skinner carried. 'Are those part of it?'
`Mmm. Autopsy report and the picture gallery.' `Why the extra set?'
`I'm taking them in to let Sarah have a look.'
The Chief Constable's jaw dropped in a sudden comic gesture. 'You're joking!' He paused for a second, and a smile spread across his face. But of course you're not. That's typical Sarah. Off you go to see her, then. Her and wee James Andrew.'
`That's Jazz, Chief.'
‘Eh!'
Skinner smiled and nodded. His name. It suits him down to the ground. You'll get used to it.'
`I'm sure I will,' said the conservative Proud Jimmy. 'Hope he does.