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

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

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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 ever
ything 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.