Skinner hated the feeling of being becalmed. In his early days as a detective, a senior colleague had nicknamed him ‘jaws', not because of the voracity of his appetite but because, like a hunting fish, it seemed that he could only live if he were moving perpetually forward.
Now, as Monday stretched into Tuesday, and on into Wednesday, without a sighting of Paul Ainscow or a wrong move by Richard Cocozza, he felt a mounting frustration based on every detective's dread that an investigation, in which he requires only a single piece of evidence, had stalled. Skinner's trail had gone cold, and he hated the feeling.
He countered that by throwing himself into other work, at the office and at home. His in-tray was flattened in record time during what remained of Monday, and on Tuesday he went to Leith to begin what he intended would be a week-long tour of unannounced inspections of divisional CID offices. At home he joined Sarah in her tending of their minimum maintenance garden, where he began to build the walls of a sand-pit for Jazz.
On Wednesday morning, he had been about to leave for Hawick, when Ruth came into his office. 'Sir, the Chief called. He has a doctor's appointment this morning, and it's just been delayed by two hours. He's due to go to a civic lunch today as the guest of the Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, and he wonders if you would take his place.'
`Yes, sure. I've got nothing better to do. Where is it?'
`The Balmoral. Drinks at twelve forty-five.'
The Balmoral Hotel, which is still known to most of Edinburgh by its former name, the North British, is one of two great hotels which stand like bookends at either end of Princes Street, vying with each other constantly for the accolade of being Number One in the public perception. After a period of neglect, a multi-million-pound refit and a high-powered management team led by a Scots trouble-shooter with international experience, had restored the Balmoral to the point at which it could compete with its rival, the Caledonian, on equal terms. Its kilted doorman greeted Skinner with a professional smile, and directed him to the hotel's main banqueting hall, a long room with windows which looked westward along the length of Princes Street. He was still looking around the throng for his host, when he heard him call out, 'Bob! Over here.'
Archie Nelson was standing by the window with a glass of white wine in his hand. Skinner accepted a glass of red from the waiter at the door, and walked across the room to join him.
`Hi, Archie. Sorry Jimmy had to drop out. It's his six-monthly at the Murrayfield, and his doc was delayed. So I'm afraid you've got me instead.'
Nelson smiled. 'I suppose I can make do.' The Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, Scotland's senior practising lawyer, was a round, jolly man with prematurely grey hair and twinkling eyes which had beguiled many a witness, only to turn to gimlets as the serious cross-examination began. He had been in post for almost a year, elected in the wake of the elevation to judicial office of his predecessor, David Murray. He and Skinner were old friends, having been allies during Nelson's successful spell as a High Court prosecutor.
`I should know, Archie,' said the Assistant Chief Constable quietly, 'but what's the reason for this beanfeast?'
`Football, would you believe: The City Fathers, whom I represent on occasion, thought it would be a good idea to hold a lunch in honour of Heart of Midlothian winning the Scottish Cup. Thereby they caused outrage and alienated the two-thirds of the population who support Hibernian, Rangers or Celtic. The row gave the Evening News front-page banner headlines for three days on the trot. I'm surprised you didn't know.'
`I've been away a lot recently. Sarah and I went off on a holiday of sorts after the baby was born.'
Nelson's face was wreathed in a sudden smile. 'Oh, yes, I heard about that. A son, I heard. Congratulations. How's he doing?'
`Absolutely great. Sleeps a lot, smiles a lot, shits a lot. That just about sums up the boy's life at the moment.'
`That's quite a gap between your offspring. How is Alex, by the way?'
`Fine as far as I know. I've been trying to catch up with her all week. Haven't succeeded yet. She's got a new man, I think.' `Yes, I heard a rumour. Was it a surprise to you?'
Skinner looked at him, slightly puzzled, but before he could respond he was interrupted by a diffident cough and a quiet familiar voice. 'Hello, Mr Skinner. Remember me?'
He turned to find Greg Pitkeathly at his shoulder.
`I haven't had a chance to thank you for sorting that matter out for me. Paul Ainscow sent me a cheque and a note of explanation. I'm glad I've got my money back, but that was a terrible thing about Santi Alberni. A major fraud, Ainscow said. How big was it, can you tell me?'
`About a million sterling.'
`Good God! No wonder he hung himself rather than face that.'
`Mmm,' Skinner muttered. 'Convenient all round.
`You know, it was a bit macabre for me, that time,' said Pitkeathly. 'Death seemed to be following me around. I spoke to Tony Manson only a few days before I saw you, and then he was murdered. I go looking for Alberni, and he dies. They say that death comes in threes. I'm glad that hasn't been true in this case.'
`Don't be so sure,' said Skinner. 'You say you spoke to Tony Manson. How well did you know him?'
`Not very. I'm a curler. A member of his club. We used to pass the time of day, but I'd heard too much talk about him to want to be a close friend.'
`When you spoke to him,' asked Skinner, 'did you mention your Spanish problem?'
`As a matter of fact, I did.'
`Did he seem interested?'
`As a matter of fact, he did.'
`Did you tell him you were coming to see me?'
Pitkeathly thought for a second. 'Yes, I did. He asked if I wasn't going a bit over the top. I remember saying he should try telling that to my wife! Poor man. Whatever he may or may not have been, that was a brutal way to die.'
At the far end of the room, the toastmaster's gavel called the gathering to order.
`Must go,' said Pitkeathly. 'Thanks again for sorting it all out.' He slipped away into the throng.
`What was all that about?' asked Archie Nelson.
`I'm not sure,' said Skinner softly, as if he had been asking himself the same question. 'Maybe nothing at all. Maybe a hell of a lot. Either way, I'm going to have to find out.'