Skinner’s round

Fifteen

Suddenly Skinner realised that everyone was looking at him. He disguised his discomfiture behind a cough, and gathered his concentration together once more. His hands, which had been miming the shape of his putting grip slapped down on to the table.

`Sorry, Constable. I didn't realise you had finished. That's all you have to say to the Board, is it?'

The square-shouldered young man, sitting bolt upright in the chair opposite him, nodded his close-cropped head. Skinner looked left along the table, then right. Any other points?' he asked his four companions.

`No?' He looked back at the Constable. 'In that case, thank you for your attendance, PC

Harris. You will be advised in writing of the outcome.'

The young officer rose, replaced his uniform cap, and saluted smartly before turning on his heel and marching from the room.

Skinner had no time for the formality of the Interview Boards which were part of the process of determining fitness for promotion. For one thing, it obliged him to wear uniform which, secretly, he hated. For another, he would have opted for a more relaxed approach, to contribute towards more analytical discussion with the applicants. Ultimately, he would have preferred to rely on his own judgement of a police officer's capability to cope with higher rank. But the system was entrenched, with observers from the Police Board and Police Federation among those entitled to attend, and he knew that he would have to live with it, and its imperfections, at least until he was in a position to do something about it.

He glanced again at the two officers nearest to him, on either side. They were the voting members of the Board. One was a Superintendent, and the other a woman Chief Inspector.

`Have you completed your assessment forms?' he asked.

`Yes sir.' The answers came simultaneously.

`Right, the next applicant is WPC Polly Masters. She was a lateish entrant to the service, after working in marketing for a while. Now aged thirty-four, she's done very well in the written part of the process. I note that she served in Dalkeith for three years, until she was transferred six weeks ago to the Press Office. I have to confess that I haven't met her as yet, but Alan Royston sent me a private note commending her. For all that, her experience is weak without a stint in CID.'

He checked along the table. 'Everyone ready? Right, let's have her in.' He pressed the green button on the panel by his right hand. A few seconds later the door opened, and a small woman entered, immaculate in a Constable's uniform. She sat down on Skinner's nod, and took off her cap, revealing short, well-groomed dark hair. Huge brown eyes looked nervously, but smiling, along the five Board members, finally coming to rest on Skinner with a directness which, a few years before and out of uniform, might have caught his attention in more ways than one.

His uniform belt dug uncomfortably into his ribs, and cut off the smile which was twitching at the corners of his mouth. `Right, WPC Masters..

Three hours and seven applicants later, Skinner, thoroughly irritable, hung up his uniform on a hook in the small changing room attached to his office. The face of the little WPC was still fresh in his mind. He found her annoying in a strange way, but could not work out why. She had passed her promotion examination with flying colours, but Skinner made a mental note to transfer her from the Press Office to CID, and out of headquarters, at the first opportunity.

He slipped on his jacket and glanced at his watch. It was three-fifteen; another hour of paperwork lay before him before he could beat an early retreat to prepare himself for his appointment on the practice ground with Darren Atkinson. He stepped out of the changing room to find Brian Mackie standing in his office. The Chief Inspector held several sheets of fax paper in his hand.

`Hi, Brian,' said Skinner. 'What's up?'

A message from South Africa, boss. They want us to pass some dodgy news on to someone.'

He waved the fax pages. The ACC frowned. 'Oh? Who is it?'

It's one of the golfers in the big tournament, sir. The young chap, Oliver M'tebe. Apparently someone's kidnapped his father. They don't know whether he's dead or alive.'

`What does the message tell you about the background? Is it a gangland thing, or what?'

Mackie shook his dome-like head. 'No, sir. That's the odd thing. The South African police say they don't understand it at all. M'tebe senior is a Presbyterian minister. He's very popular, does lots of work for poor black families, doesn't upset people by getting involved in politics, so apart from his son being famous he doesn't have a high profile at all. Just not the sort of chap to get into trouble.

`Yet, apparently he left home this morning for a meeting with some elders in his church.

Didn't turn up, and he hasn't been seen since. His car was found forced off the road along the route. One eye-witness, a parishioner, claims that he saw the minister being bundled into a Land Rover by two men, both white. He said that he looked bewildered, as if he didn't know what was going on.'

`Sounds like a real mystery, doesn't it? I take it that the South Africans want us to ask the son whether he can suggest a motive for his father being snatched.'

`Mmm, that's right.'

Skinner raised an eyebrow. 'Could be that the kidnappers are after a ransom from the son?

Any communication from them at all?' Mackie shook his head.

OK. I'm heading out that way. Get me a copy of that message and I'll take care of it. Gives me an excuse.' He pointed at the pile of correspondence on his desk. 'I've seen enough of that stuff for now. On days like this I feel like a paper-pusher, not a copper!'