Copyright © 2023 Portador Ltd

Skinner’s Elves Copyright © Portador Ltd

The right of Quintin Jardine to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 2023 by

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

First published as an Ebook in Great Britain in 2023

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

Cover design by Patrick Insole

Cover images © Silas Manhood/Trevillion Images

Author Photograph © Chris Close

eISBN: 978 1 0354 0298 4

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Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

About Quintin Jardine

Praise for Quintin Jardine

Also by Quintin Jardine

About the Book

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Chapter Eighty-Three

Chapter Eighty-Four

Chapter Eighty-Five

Chapter Eighty-Six

Chapter Eighty-Seven

Chapter Eighty-Eight

Chapter Eighty-Nine

Chapter Ninety

Chapter Ninety-One

Chapter Ninety-Two

Chapter Ninety-Three

Chapter Ninety-Four

Chapter Ninety-Five

Chapter Ninety-Six

Chapter Ninety-Seven

Chapter Ninety-Eight

Chapter Ninety-Nine

Chapter One Hundred

Chapter One Hundred and One

Chapter One Hundred and Two

Chapter One Hundred and Three

Chapter One Hundred and Four

Chapter One Hundred and Five

Chapter One Hundred and Six

Chapter One Hundred and Seven

Chapter One Hundred and Eight

Chapter One Hundred and Nine

Chapter One Hundred and Ten

Chapter One Hundred and Eleven

Acknowledgements

Skinner’s Elves

Discover more from Quintin Jardine

About Quintin Jardine

Quintin Jardine was born once upon a time in the West – of Scotland rather than America, but still he grew to manhood as a massive Sergio Leone fan. On the way there he was educated, against his will, in Glasgow, where he ditched a token attempt to study law for more interesting careers in journalism, government propaganda, and political spin-doctoring. After a close call with the Brighton Bomb in 1984, he moved into the riskier world of media relations consultancy, before realising that all along he had been training to become a crime writer.

Along the way he has created/acquired an extended family in Scotland and Spain. Everything he does is for them.

He can be tracked down through his website https://quintinjardine.me/.

Praise for Quintin Jardine’s Bob Skinner series:

‘The legendary Quintin Jardine . . . such a fine writer’

Denzil Meyrick

‘Scottish crime-writing at its finest, with a healthy dose of plot twists and turns, bodies and plenty of brutality’

Sun

‘Well constructed, fast-paced, Jardine’s narrative has many an ingenious twist and turn’

Observer

‘Another powerful tartan noir that packs a punch’

Peterborough Evening Telegraph

‘Incredibly difficult to put down’

Scots Magazine

By Quintin Jardine and available from Headline

Bob Skinner series:

Skinner’s Rules

Skinner’s Festival

Skinner’s Trail

Skinner’s Round

Skinner’s Ordeal

Skinner’s Mission

Skinner’s Ghosts

Murmuring the Judges

Gallery Whispers

Thursday Legends

Autographs in the Rain

Head Shot

Fallen Gods

Stay of Execution

Lethal Intent

Dead and Buried

Death’s Door

Aftershock

Fatal Last Words

A Rush of Blood

Grievous Angel

Funeral Note

Pray for the Dying

Hour of Darkness

Last Resort

Private Investigations

Game Over

State Secrets

A Brush with Death

Cold Case

The Bad Fire

The Roots of Evil

Deadlock

Open Season

The Cage

Primavera Blackstone series:

Inhuman Remains

Blood Red

As Easy as Murder

Deadly Business

As Serious as Death

Oz Blackstone series:

Blackstone’s Pursuits

A Coffin for Two

Wearing Purple

Screen Savers

On Honeymoon with Death

Poisoned Cherries

Unnatural Justice

Alarm Call

For the Death of Me

The Loner

Mathew’s Tale

About the Book

On a sunny seaside August morning, a woman on maternity leave spots a body wedged in rocks on a Scottish beach. Gavin Ayre’s riding gear sparks the assumption that he had been thrown by a panicked horse . . . until an autopsy reveals this was no accident. Soon it becomes clear that Ayre’s life was as big a mystery as his death. Detective Superintendent Harold ‘Sauce’ Haddock heads an investigation that is running into the sand, until a link is revealed between the victim and another man in Spain, with a surprisingly similar name.

Faced with the twin puzzle Sauce turns to his mentor, Bob Skinner, moved on from the police service to head an international media group. Soon the two friends are at the heart of a multi-layered conspiracy, as they search for the answer to the prime question . . . who killed Gavin Ayre?

This book is dedicated to Dr Harry Bennett, of PAEP,
Edinburgh, who sees everything and helped me do the same.

One

Noele McClair flexed her shoulders, adjusting the chest carrier in which Matilda, her six-week-old daughter, was soundly asleep.

‘Is she too much for you?’ her mother asked anxiously, following in her footsteps.

‘Nah, we’re good,’ she promised. ‘I need to do this, Mum; I have to keep in shape, post-pregnancy. I didn’t after Harry was born, and I suffered for it. I put on so much weight that when I looked in the mirror I thought I was still up the duff. Also,’ she added, ‘it’s a lovely day, so let’s the three of us take advantage of it.’

The grassy path on which they were walking widened into a small clearing, flat enough for a wild camper to have pitched a tent. The man, who was dressed in a Levi Strauss sweatshirt and khaki shorts, was sitting on a folding chair in front of the open flap, frying bacon and eggs. Inside the tent two sleeping bags could be seen, disturbed. He nodded a greeting as they passed in front of him. Noele kept walking, but Sue McClair stopped, for a chat and possibly for a breather.

‘Good for you,’ she told him, ‘using a primus stove rather than lighting a fire. I wish all of you did that.’

‘It’s how I was trained,’ he replied. ‘I pitch here a lot. It’s next to the Nature Reserve but not part of it. We’re bird watchers,’ he added, with a self-effacing grin. ‘My partner’s gone to find the showers; I’ll do hers when she gets back.’

‘Well, enjoy your breakfast, both of you,’ Sue said, ‘and your birds. If you have any bread left over feed it to the birds.’

‘You’re not really supposed to do that,’ the camper said. Then he smiled. ‘But they won’t tell anybody, so . . .’

She set off to catch up with her daughter and grandchild, who were hidden from sight temporarily by the undulations of the terrain before her. As she reached a crest she saw them, a hundred yards ahead, Noele cutting across the edge of the golf course then taking the path that led up to the bench, to the seat on which they customarily paused to take in the view. It had been five days since their last outing; time they had devoted to helping Harry, the baby’s half-brother, into his school routine with the start of the autumn term.

‘Is it to do with Covid and staycationing, do you think?’ Sue asked as she took her place on the bench. Noele had removed the carrier, and was holding it in front of her with its base on the ground. ‘This increase in the number of wild campers?’ she continued.

‘I suppose,’ she said. ‘Maybe we just didn’t notice them before.’

‘Mmm. Maybe not, but we sure do now. They’re all right, I suppose, as long as they behave responsibly and clean up after themselves like that chap. I hear the woods behind Yellowcraig can be bad sometimes.’

‘Bears, shit, and all that . . .?’ Noele murmured.

‘What?’

‘Never mind.’ Sue’s sense of humour was slow to engage.

‘When your maternity leave is over,’ she asked, suddenly, ‘are you really going back to work?’

Her daughter stared at her. The stare became a frown, but its target was unaware of it as she bent to fuss over Matilda, who was showing signs of stirring.

‘Well?’ she persisted.

‘Well what?’ Noele retorted.

‘Are you going back?

‘Of course, I’m going back, Mum,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m a single parent with a new baby and a son who’s only halfway through primary. I don’t have a choice.’

‘Couldn’t you work from home? I know that some other officers were doing that during lockdown.’

Noele stifled a spontaneous laugh as Matilda stirred, momentarily, in the carrier. ‘Mother,’ she chuckled, ‘I’m a detective inspector. I’m part of a Serious Crimes Unit. They’re not going to bring the crime scenes to me.’

‘But what about Mattie?’ Sue McClair persisted. ‘Harry’s no bother, and as you say he’s at school for much of the time, but a baby, that’s a whole different kettle of fish. I don’t know if I could cope with that.’

Noele grinned. ‘Among bad analogies that gets very high marks, but it’ll be okay; you won’t have to breast-feed her. Mum,’ she continued, ‘I wouldn’t dream of asking you to look after a baby on a daily basis; the thought never even occurred to me. You’ve got your own life, especially now that your new man Duncan’s on the scene. Look, by the time I go back to work, Mattie’ll be eight or nine months old. She’ll go to a child-minder, full-time, until she’s old enough to start nursery.’

‘A full-time child-minder? That’ll be expensive.’ She paused. ‘I could help, I suppose . . .’

‘I can afford it,’ her daughter retorted, cutting her off. ‘A DI’s salary is over fifty K, and Terry’s life insurance took care of the mortgage, remember. Nobody’s going to suffer.’

‘But what about your house? It’s fine for you and Harry at the moment, and the baby, but as she gets older . . .’

Noele eased herself on to the left side of the bench, finding an area free of bird droppings. ‘Well . . .’ she said, drawing the word out, ‘the thing is . . . I will be moving, but I’m not quite sure where. It’ll still be in Gullane . . . I wouldn’t take Harry out of the school . . . maybe one of the new houses, but I have to take care of some stuff to do with Matthew’s estate before I can focus on that. Thing is, Mum,’ she explained, ‘under Scottish law, Matilda’s entitled to half of her father’s estate.’

Matilda Reid McClair was the product of a very brief liaison between her mother and Matthew Reid, a man thirty years older. He had died before the birth, never aware that he was to parent. His will had named another police officer as his heiress, Karen Neville, the daughter of Reid’s long-dead best friend and his unofficial niece.

Sue’s eyes widened as she gasped. ‘But that’ll be a . . . Matthew was well off, wasn’t he?’

‘Maybe not as well off as people might imagine,’ Noele countered, ‘but yes, he was comfortable, let’s say.’

‘You too? Are you entitled?’

‘Don’t be daft, Mum. Of course, I’m not; we didn’t cohabit. My God, I only slept with him once.’

‘Will you have to go to court? It won’t get messy, will it?’

‘Hopefully not. Karen’s not only the beneficiary of Matthew’s will, she’s the executor. As such, she had legal advice. As a matter of fact, it was Karen that approached me about the situation.’

‘Did she ask for DNA proof?’ Noele was not taken aback by the question. She knew well enough that her mother was sharper than she appeared to others.

‘No, but her lawyers did, and it’s been provided. I’ve instructed Paris Steele, my solicitors in North Berwick, to liaise with them and reach a simple agreement. When it’s sorted, whatever Matilda inherits will go into a trust fund for her that’ll be managed by Euan, my financial adviser. I’m not going to touch it, not at all. I won’t even tell her until she’s old enough to get her head round the idea.’

‘Wouldn’t it help towards your new house?’

‘Absolutely not!’ Noele declared. ‘That’ll be completely separate. I’ll probably go for one of the houses they’re building close to the school. I’ve got my eye on the site . . .’ Her voice faded in mid-sentence, eyes narrowing as she gazed past her mother.

‘What is it?’ Sue asked.

‘Down there.’ Rising to her feet, she pointed towards the green L-shaped fence that served as a safety barrier on the twelfth tee of the golf course. It was the longest of three on the par five hole, sited on a small piece of flat land above a sheer hundred-foot drop, and used only for club competitions. ‘Look just to the right of the fence, the cage thingy,’ she exclaimed, her voice rising, ‘then down at the shoreline, on the rocks. Can you see it?’

Her mother turned to follow her pointing finger, but shook her head. ‘I can’t see that far away,’ she admitted. ‘I think my cataracts are beginning to affect my long vision. What is it?’

‘That might be “Who is it?”, Mum.’ Reaching down, Noele found the clasp of the baby harness and snapped it loose from her leg. Slipping free of the straps, she passed the drowsy Matilda to her grandmother. ‘Look after her,’ she ordered. ‘I need to get down there.’

She jumped from the bench back on to the well-worn track; her left foot slipped momentarily on a small gravel patch but she steadied herself, walking more carefully, but still with purpose. The way ran between the partly fenced rectangle and the forward tee that was used for regular play. As she passed by, her movement distracted one of a group of three golfers as he steadied himself to drive, but she was unaware of his glower or his hiss of exasperation as she pressed on. Ahead of her, a huge concrete cube, an immoveable relic of the Second World War, marked the start of the descent towards the shore. The natural path was steep and it was narrow; one slip and she might have tumbled to the beach below, but she made her way carefully down until finally she felt the soft sand beneath her feet.

A high pillar of rock rose vertically on her right, the outcrop on which ‘the cage’ stood; it was red, in contrast with the horizontal grey stone for which she was headed, and was a barrier blocking her way. She picked her way around it, but saw only another rugged rocky obstacle, topped with brown seaweed waiting to be washed by the incoming tide. Finding footholds, she climbed up and on to its flat surface. She scanned the surrounding area, but saw nothing. Doubt crept over her. She was sleep-deprived from the frequent night feeds that Matilda still demanded. Had her eyes been playing tricks? Puzzled, she jumped down on to damp sand, moving backwards towards the waterline but gazing upwards until her mother came into view, still sitting on the bench, holding Matilda, who had been released from her carrier. Frowning, she looked around, questioning herself ever more. Maybe it was time for an eye test. Until, finally . . .

Her gaze fell on a calf-length brown boot. It protruded from what she realised was a V-shaped wedge, formed by two ancient slabs of stone that had been ground over millennia by the force of pounding waves, rising four or five feet above a rock pool, from which, on the edge of her vision, she saw a small crab crawl.

Noele found new footholds and levered herself upwards, to stand once again on the smooth surface. She moved towards the fissure, picking her way carefully, mindful of the treacherous clumps of bladderwrack beneath her feet, until finally she saw what had attracted her from high above.

She knelt on the edge of the space in which the object that had drawn her to it was wedged and looked down. The boot was worn by a man, but she knew at once that it, and its owner, had taken their last steps. Glazed half-open brown eyes stared upwards but saw nothing. She lay flat and reached down into the crevice, checking the neck for a pulse that she knew she would not find.

Her second realisation as she brushed the dead man’s clothing was that it was dry, her third was that he was still warm. The unvoiced assumption that she had made from above was wrong. This was no drowning victim brought in by the tide; he had died on shore, within the last hour or two. In that moment all of her training and professional instincts kicked in. Detective Inspector McClair took out her phone, activated its camera and began to record video with an audio description.

‘The casualty is male, most likely in his thirties, forty at the oldest,’ her commentary began. ‘He’s wearing denim cut-offs and a sweat shirt. There are signs of an injury on his left temple; there’s blood but not much. I’m guessing that he was walking on the rocks in the wrong footwear, slipped and fell in there, smashing his head on the way down and sustaining a fatal injury. Except . . . hold on.’ She zoomed the camera. ‘He’s got spurs on,’ she said. ‘Those are riding boots. So where’s his helmet? Or wasn’t he wearing one? And where’s his horse?’ She paused. ‘Unless the boots were all that was handy when he decided to go out for a walk. Still . . .’ she murmured.

Stopping the recording, she stood, her camera and her eyes scanning the mile-long beach. She knew that horses were often exercised there, particularly when the tide was out, but there were none in sight. Switching off the phone, she looked around. ‘Gotcha!’ she murmured. Down on the sand, just beyond the rock pool, she spotted a riding helmet, its strap unfastened. From her vantage point she zoomed in and took a still photograph. ‘No doubt now,’ she murmured. ‘Carelessness costs lives, you poor man. If that helmet had been secure when your horse got spooked and threw you, you might still be alive.’ She sighed. ‘But why the hell did you forget it for me to find you?’ Noele McClair had seen more than enough of violent death, personally and professionally.

Turning her attention back to her phone, she found a number in her directory and called it. She had expected a constable or sergeant to answer and was surprised when Ronnie Hill, her successor in the Haddington office that she had left to go back to CID, picked up himself.

‘Station Inspector,’ he said, cautiously. The number was a direct line, listed only in internal directories.

‘Ronnie,’ she replied. ‘It’s Noele McClair.’

‘Noele,’ Hill exclaimed, obviously relieved. ‘I thought you were on maternity leave. How’s the bairn?’

‘I am, and she’s fine. Right now she’s with my mother. I’m on the rocks at the west end of Gullane beach, standing beside what appears to be a fatal accident victim. He’s male, thirty-something likely, and he’s wearing riding gear. His injuries suggest that he’s been thrown by his horse and cracked his skull on the way down. You’ll need to get uniforms and some sort of recovery vehicle down here, and I suppose a doctor to formally certify death. You need to do it sharpish though. The tide is on the way in, and I’m not about to haul him out of where he is, not on my own. I’ve shot some video at the scene. Give me a mobile number and I’ll forward it to you.’

‘Okay,’ Hill replied, fully engaged. ‘Can you stay till we get there?’

‘It looks as if I’ll have to. It isn’t busy, but there are punters about on the beach, and potentially there’ll be golfers up above who can see him too. We don’t want a crowd scene developing.’

‘Have you got any idea who he is? You live thereabouts, don’t you, Noele?’

‘Yes, I do, but I’ve never seen him before. He possibly has ID in a pocket but I’m not in a position to access it.’

‘Would the horse no’ give you an idea who he is?’ her colleague chuckled, grimly. ‘Do they have to wear identification like dogs?’

‘Who knows? When you find it, you can interrogate it,’ she said. ‘It’s bolted. In the meantime, Ronnie, please get some people here, now.’