Free Head Shot by Quintin Jardine Page A

only pleasantries and platitudes. The FBI men had asked no personal questions, nor had they referred to the reason behind his visit. But finally, they were almost there.
    'Do you know the people who'l be meeting us?' he asked.
    'No, sir,' said Special Agent Kosinski, glancing in the mirror once again. 'We're New York City operatives; this is not territory where we'd normal y be deployed, unless an interstate crime was involved.' Skinner nodded; he knew enough about American policing to understand the rivalries between the agencies. 'This is the jurisdiction of the New York State Police Department homicide squad. The local county police department is very small; they don't have a detective division, so when they run across something like this, they cal for help, damn quick.'
    Ahead, the gloom seemed to lighten, and the track widened out.
    'Almost there, sir.' The agent slowed the car, a big General Motors off roader, as he approached a small clearing. A black Pontiac saloon, with State Police markings, and a Ford Explorer were parked at its edge, on either side of a mailbox, which was set on a pole. He leaned out and read the name on it. 'Grace. Yup, this is it.'
    The three men climbed out of the vehicle. Skinner saw that there was a path behind the box; through the trees he could make out the broad shape of a single-storey, chalet-style house. He sniffed the air; it was crisp and fresh, and in the distance he heard water lapping and birds crying. They set off. Brand and Kosinski taking the lead on the narrow walkway.
    One crime scene looks like any other. Skinner thought as, final y, he reached his destination. We follow the same rituals, with the tape and everything . . . as if that's worth a damn out here.
    'Hey there in the house,' Brand cal ed out as they stepped around the side of the cabin.'FBI!'
    The front door creaked as it opened, and two men stepped out; as he looked at them, the Scotsman found himself thinking in American football terms. A quarter-back and his minder. They were both blond and 56

    clean-shaven; one was around six feet tall, wide at the shoulders, narrow at the waist, probably in his mid-thirties, the other a few years younger, and enormous, his body looking as if it was fighting its way out of his clothes. About six eight. Skinner guessed, weight at least three hundred pounds. He wondered how he had squeezed into the Pontiac.
    'Hi,' the smal er man greeted them, as he walked down the steps from the porch. 'You didn't need to tell me you were the Bureau guys. I'd have known you by those suits. I'm Dave Schultz, lieutenant, State Police Bureau of Criminal Investigation . . .' He directed their eyes behind him with his thumb.'. .. And this is Detective Toby Small, one of life's great ironies.' The giant gave them an amiable grin.
    Schultz looked at Skinner. 'So you, sir, must be the victims' son-in law. Deputy Chief Skinner, is that right?'
    The Scot nodded, reaching out a handshake; there was enough in the lieutenant's tone to tell him that, alien or not, his rank was going to count for something.
    'Did you have a good flight from Scotland, sir?'
    'No. I had a long flight from Malaysia.' He decided that a little more personal information would do no harm. 'I was due to address an international drugs conference there.'
    'You got that problem too?' asked Smal , as if to prove that he could speak.
    Skinner glanced up at him. 'Detective, everyone has that problem. In our case we have one of the largest unprotected coastlines in Europe. So every comedian with a boat thinks he can stuff his ballast tanks with hashish, sail it up to Wester Ross, offload it and get away clean. More often than not he's right, as well.'
    His eyes snapped back on to Schultz. 'Okay. Let's get something out of the way. Was it either of you guys who phoned my wife?'
    The New York policeman seemed to recoil slightly; he held up a hand as if to ward Skinner off. 'No, sir,' he said, vehemently. 'It was not. We heard about that and we