do it over the phone. Sorry about the gear,’ he grinned and raised his right foot to display a tan moccasin but no sock. ‘I’m hot off the plane.’
‘You’re lucky it’s warm here today. It was chilly for most of last week.’
‘The weather hasn’t been holding you back, from the sound of your message. So that definitely was old Bella that got washed up, was it?’
McGuire nodded, in confirmation. ‘Most of her; there’s not a chance of us ever finding the rest.’
‘And you know that she was killed in her house?’
‘Her flat, yes, in Caledonian Crescent.’
‘She moved up in the world then,’ Skinner observed, ‘from that fucking awful street she lived in. You know, Mario, for years I had this mad idea. I was going to advertise mystery tours for Festival visitors, fill up buses, then drive them round some of our worst housing schemes, to show them the conditions that the city council was prepared to tolerate.’
His friend laughed. ‘Nice idea, but it would have been a crap career move. Have you always been a closet leftie?’ he asked.
‘I’ve never hidden it. I was married to a Labour politician, wasn’t I?’
‘True . . . but not for long. Anyway, Bella had no choice but to move up. They demolished her street twelve years ago, and there was no “down” from there. We’re not sure where she lived in the period after that, before she moved into Caley Crescent.’
‘I can’t see that mattering,’ Skinner said. ‘How’s the investigation going?’
The other man frowned. ‘At this moment, we’ve got no obvious suspects,’ he admitted. ‘In fact we know very little about the woman’s life in the years since we investigated her son Marlon’s murder. It’s a gap that I’d like to fill.’
‘Why are you talking to me about it? I know that she worked for Tony Manson after that but she was always under the radar as far as we were concerned. I can’t help you there.’
‘Maybe not, but you know a man who can.’
‘I do? How come.’
‘Bella didn’t own the flat she lived in,’ McGuire said, ‘but she didn’t pay rent on it either. In fact, she didn’t pay anything. The council tax, gas, the electric, phone, broadband and cable telly were all taken care of. She wasn’t short of cash either; as well as her state pension, she had six hundred quid paid into her bank account every month, not taxable income, but an allowance.
‘We only found out this morning who her benefactor was, when Karen Neville spoke to a partner in the law firm that manages the property. It’s owned by a company called Dominic Jackson Investments, and they cover all the costs and forward Bella’s money too.’
‘Dominic Jackson,’ Skinner repeated.
‘That’s right. The name was news to me at first, but it’s familiar to you, yes?’
‘Of course it is. Dominic Jackson doesn’t exist; the name’s an alias, set up a long time ago by Tony Manson as an alternative identity for his informally adopted heir, someone you and I both met in extreme circumstances: Lennie Plenderleith.’
‘That’s right; the team found that out this morning. Are you surprised that Lennie’s been looking after the old bat?’
‘Now you tell me, I’m not a bit surprised. You know as well as I do that Bella didn’t just work for Tony Manson. With that history, I can see that Lennie should have looked after her.’
‘Do you think he might have got fed up with it?’ the ACC asked, quietly.
‘And had her bumped off?’ Skinner exclaimed. ‘Not a fucking chance. You’re not serious about that, are you? Or do I detect David Mackenzie’s steely mind behind the theory?’
‘Hell no! Anyway, Mackenzie’s warned off; he tried to grab the glory when the body was found, and I had to point out to him a bit forcefully that’s not his role. I think he’s in the huff. He missed his Monday meeting with Mary Chambers, and I haven’t seen him since. But no, I’m not really serious about Lennie being involved,
‘You’re lucky it’s warm here today. It was chilly for most of last week.’
‘The weather hasn’t been holding you back, from the sound of your message. So that definitely was old Bella that got washed up, was it?’
McGuire nodded, in confirmation. ‘Most of her; there’s not a chance of us ever finding the rest.’
‘And you know that she was killed in her house?’
‘Her flat, yes, in Caledonian Crescent.’
‘She moved up in the world then,’ Skinner observed, ‘from that fucking awful street she lived in. You know, Mario, for years I had this mad idea. I was going to advertise mystery tours for Festival visitors, fill up buses, then drive them round some of our worst housing schemes, to show them the conditions that the city council was prepared to tolerate.’
His friend laughed. ‘Nice idea, but it would have been a crap career move. Have you always been a closet leftie?’ he asked.
‘I’ve never hidden it. I was married to a Labour politician, wasn’t I?’
‘True . . . but not for long. Anyway, Bella had no choice but to move up. They demolished her street twelve years ago, and there was no “down” from there. We’re not sure where she lived in the period after that, before she moved into Caley Crescent.’
‘I can’t see that mattering,’ Skinner said. ‘How’s the investigation going?’
The other man frowned. ‘At this moment, we’ve got no obvious suspects,’ he admitted. ‘In fact we know very little about the woman’s life in the years since we investigated her son Marlon’s murder. It’s a gap that I’d like to fill.’
‘Why are you talking to me about it? I know that she worked for Tony Manson after that but she was always under the radar as far as we were concerned. I can’t help you there.’
‘Maybe not, but you know a man who can.’
‘I do? How come.’
‘Bella didn’t own the flat she lived in,’ McGuire said, ‘but she didn’t pay rent on it either. In fact, she didn’t pay anything. The council tax, gas, the electric, phone, broadband and cable telly were all taken care of. She wasn’t short of cash either; as well as her state pension, she had six hundred quid paid into her bank account every month, not taxable income, but an allowance.
‘We only found out this morning who her benefactor was, when Karen Neville spoke to a partner in the law firm that manages the property. It’s owned by a company called Dominic Jackson Investments, and they cover all the costs and forward Bella’s money too.’
‘Dominic Jackson,’ Skinner repeated.
‘That’s right. The name was news to me at first, but it’s familiar to you, yes?’
‘Of course it is. Dominic Jackson doesn’t exist; the name’s an alias, set up a long time ago by Tony Manson as an alternative identity for his informally adopted heir, someone you and I both met in extreme circumstances: Lennie Plenderleith.’
‘That’s right; the team found that out this morning. Are you surprised that Lennie’s been looking after the old bat?’
‘Now you tell me, I’m not a bit surprised. You know as well as I do that Bella didn’t just work for Tony Manson. With that history, I can see that Lennie should have looked after her.’
‘Do you think he might have got fed up with it?’ the ACC asked, quietly.
‘And had her bumped off?’ Skinner exclaimed. ‘Not a fucking chance. You’re not serious about that, are you? Or do I detect David Mackenzie’s steely mind behind the theory?’
‘Hell no! Anyway, Mackenzie’s warned off; he tried to grab the glory when the body was found, and I had to point out to him a bit forcefully that’s not his role. I think he’s in the huff. He missed his Monday meeting with Mary Chambers, and I haven’t seen him since. But no, I’m not really serious about Lennie being involved,
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