Let’s show these people what it’s all about.’
Skinner sighed and nodded. They exchanged bows and moved to the centre mat, surrounded by a group of around twenty policemen and women in white tunics. Skinner was aware, suddenly, for the first time ever, that he was the oldest person in the room.
The thought was still in his mind when the man kicked him painfully on the left calf.
‘Just trying to get your mind on the job, sir.’
Cheeky bastard, thought Skinner. But he did not react. The cocky look grew in the man’s eyes. Another flashing kick caught the tall detective on the right thigh.
‘Still haven’t got your attention, sir.’
Skinner feinted to his right, then pivoted on the ball of his left foot. His right toes, bunched, jabbed the inside of the soldier’s thigh, with force. The foot swept up, the outside edge slamming into the testicles. The leg retracted, then swung up and round, until the foot slammed into the soldier’s left temple. Clutching his groin, the sergeant collapsed in a crumpled heap.
‘You’re wrong, son,’ said Skinner to the white-clad figure. ‘I couldn’t take my bloody eyes off you. Class dismissed!’
He took a quick shower and caught up with Andy Martin in his office. One of the detective constables in the class had beaten him there from the gym, carrying the news that the boss had kicked the shit out of the karate instructor.
Martin eyed him warily. ‘You all right? Or are you still in your Bruce Lee mode?’
Skinner cocked an eyebrow at his assistant. ‘Never better, Andy. Let’s drink some lunch. Fancy a pint in the Monarch?’
They found a Panda car heading out on patrol. It dropped them outside a big grey pub which was situated on the edge of one of the city’s worst crime spots, and which boasted one of the biggest beer sales in the East of Scotland. Skinner had no doubt that the two statistics were related.
When the two policemen entered the public bar, several patrons drank up fast and left by the nearest available exit.
‘Thanks very much, Mr Skinner,’ said Charlie, the manager. ‘Not even the Salvation Army can clear this place quicker than you can. Thought you’d be up the High Street the day, onyway.’
‘We won’t catch anyone up there in the daylight, Charlie. And the way our luck’s been, we wouldn’t spot the bastard if he was running down the High Street waving a chainsaw.’
‘Naw, youse’d probably jist think he was yin o’ thon Labour cooncillors. By the way, ah wis sorry tae hear on the radio about the young polis.’
‘Thanks, Charlie.’
Skinner ordered and, despite Charlie’s protests, insisted on paying for two pints of McEwan’s 80 shilling ale. He took a bite out of the thick, creamy head, and motioned Martin over to a table. The inspector could see that the unaccustomed black mood had gone.
‘You know, Andy, all of a sudden I feel optimistic. Daft, isn’t it. Not a clue, almost literally, yet there’s a voice in here that’s telling me we’re going to catch this guy. There’s still something there that I’m missing, but I’ll get it. And when I do, I’ll get him.
‘I think that this man’s too intelligent to be killing just for fun. There has to be something behind it. Let’s assume that neither John Doe the Wino, or wee Mrs Rafferty, or even Mortimer had stumbled over the truth behind the Kennedy assassinations. So what else can it be?
‘I’m going back to square one, with Mortimer. I’m going to see David Murray, and go through his professional life, trial by trial.’
Martin looked at his boss. Bob Skinner’s success was founded on intellect and powers of analysis, two of the three secrets of successful detection. The third, Andy knew, was luck, and history showed that Big Bob made his own.
Skinner had been Martin’s role model almost from the day he had joined the force. He had shocked his parents, both doctors, by turning his back on Chemical Engineering, his original career choice, after
Skinner sighed and nodded. They exchanged bows and moved to the centre mat, surrounded by a group of around twenty policemen and women in white tunics. Skinner was aware, suddenly, for the first time ever, that he was the oldest person in the room.
The thought was still in his mind when the man kicked him painfully on the left calf.
‘Just trying to get your mind on the job, sir.’
Cheeky bastard, thought Skinner. But he did not react. The cocky look grew in the man’s eyes. Another flashing kick caught the tall detective on the right thigh.
‘Still haven’t got your attention, sir.’
Skinner feinted to his right, then pivoted on the ball of his left foot. His right toes, bunched, jabbed the inside of the soldier’s thigh, with force. The foot swept up, the outside edge slamming into the testicles. The leg retracted, then swung up and round, until the foot slammed into the soldier’s left temple. Clutching his groin, the sergeant collapsed in a crumpled heap.
‘You’re wrong, son,’ said Skinner to the white-clad figure. ‘I couldn’t take my bloody eyes off you. Class dismissed!’
He took a quick shower and caught up with Andy Martin in his office. One of the detective constables in the class had beaten him there from the gym, carrying the news that the boss had kicked the shit out of the karate instructor.
Martin eyed him warily. ‘You all right? Or are you still in your Bruce Lee mode?’
Skinner cocked an eyebrow at his assistant. ‘Never better, Andy. Let’s drink some lunch. Fancy a pint in the Monarch?’
They found a Panda car heading out on patrol. It dropped them outside a big grey pub which was situated on the edge of one of the city’s worst crime spots, and which boasted one of the biggest beer sales in the East of Scotland. Skinner had no doubt that the two statistics were related.
When the two policemen entered the public bar, several patrons drank up fast and left by the nearest available exit.
‘Thanks very much, Mr Skinner,’ said Charlie, the manager. ‘Not even the Salvation Army can clear this place quicker than you can. Thought you’d be up the High Street the day, onyway.’
‘We won’t catch anyone up there in the daylight, Charlie. And the way our luck’s been, we wouldn’t spot the bastard if he was running down the High Street waving a chainsaw.’
‘Naw, youse’d probably jist think he was yin o’ thon Labour cooncillors. By the way, ah wis sorry tae hear on the radio about the young polis.’
‘Thanks, Charlie.’
Skinner ordered and, despite Charlie’s protests, insisted on paying for two pints of McEwan’s 80 shilling ale. He took a bite out of the thick, creamy head, and motioned Martin over to a table. The inspector could see that the unaccustomed black mood had gone.
‘You know, Andy, all of a sudden I feel optimistic. Daft, isn’t it. Not a clue, almost literally, yet there’s a voice in here that’s telling me we’re going to catch this guy. There’s still something there that I’m missing, but I’ll get it. And when I do, I’ll get him.
‘I think that this man’s too intelligent to be killing just for fun. There has to be something behind it. Let’s assume that neither John Doe the Wino, or wee Mrs Rafferty, or even Mortimer had stumbled over the truth behind the Kennedy assassinations. So what else can it be?
‘I’m going back to square one, with Mortimer. I’m going to see David Murray, and go through his professional life, trial by trial.’
Martin looked at his boss. Bob Skinner’s success was founded on intellect and powers of analysis, two of the three secrets of successful detection. The third, Andy knew, was luck, and history showed that Big Bob made his own.
Skinner had been Martin’s role model almost from the day he had joined the force. He had shocked his parents, both doctors, by turning his back on Chemical Engineering, his original career choice, after
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