Aftershock

Eighty

Lena McElhone, the First Minister’s private secretary, was happy again. During her boss’s absence on holiday, the deputy First Minister had been in charge of Scottish affairs, and Lena did not trust him to find his way to the toilet unaided, much less to take important decisions.

Consequently, she had hidden the more important submissions and correspondence from him, even though several were stamped ‘Urgent’ in red, risking complaints about delay from people who were considerably senior to her in the civil-service hierarchy, but fielding them firmly when they arose.

Although Aileen had noted that her blue box was full to overflowing when it was delivered to Gullane at the weekend, she had not been surprised. The deputy First Minister was a political necessity, forced upon her by the electorate, but she and Lena were agreed that he should never be allowed to do any damage.

She had worked all morning in her St Andrews House office to clear the backlog, sending back the red-letter submissions, with decisions rendered, and had spent much of the afternoon in a catch-up meeting with the Permanent Secretary, her most senior civil servant, but eventually she was finished. She pressed a button on her desk console; less than a minute later the massive door opened and Lena stepped into the room, a folder in her arms.

‘More?’ she complained.

‘Diary stuff, First Minister, that’s all. The usual raft of official invitations to events.’

‘Such as?’

‘Hibernian Football Club want you to unfurl the league championship flag at the start of the new season.’

‘No danger. I’d upset half my voters.’

‘I thought you’d say that. Delegate to the sports minister?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought you’d say that too, so I warned him. Next, there’s an invitation from Scottish Opera to a performance of Tristan and Isolde. That’s in October, in the Festival Theatre. Does Bob like opera?’

‘Bob likes most music, except Wagner. Have you any idea how long Tristan and bloody Isolde lasts? Going on for six hours, and I couldn’t dare fall asleep, or it would be all over the gossip columns. That one’s for the arts minister.’

‘Very good,’ said Lena. ‘I thought I’d give her this last one too. It’s only just come in and it’s very short notice, next Tuesday. It’s an art exhibition, in a new gallery down in Home Street. It’s of work by a Scottish-born painter, just back from the US; she studied there and exhibited in New York and Washington. Her name’s Caitlin Summers. Her agent says that if you’ll agree to open her show it’ll help him make a big splash in the press and get her the attention she deserves. She’s very new on our scene, though, not really your weight.’

Aileen smiled. ‘My weight, is it? I put on a couple of pounds on holiday, but I hoped it wasn’t that obvious. What the hell? I can’t be turning everything down. Tell them I’ll do it. What else is there?’

‘That’s it, boss. The rest is pure gossip.’

‘You’d better pour us a drink, then. There’s some white wine in the cold cabinet. In fact, do you fancy eating somewhere quiet a bit later on? I’m a single woman for the next few nights.’

‘That would be good. Just like old times.’

Aileen watched as her assistant drew the cork from a bottle of Cloudy Bay. ‘What’s the goss, then?’ she asked.

‘Fresh from the Crown Office,’ Lena replied, as she handed her a glass. ‘The Lord Advocate called to tip you off before it breaks in the media. It’s a bit of a misfortune for the police in Dundee, where Bob’s pal’s the deputy. They have a big drugs case in the works. The man they’ve got for it is being tried for murder first, but they had this as a back-up. There was a big row when you were away: they were ready to begin the murder trial last week, but the Crown forgot to get the accused to the court. The judge gave them pelters.’

‘No wonder. So, what have the police cocked up?’

‘They’ve lost the evidence in the drugs case, a serious amount of heroin and cocaine. It’s gone missing, assumed stolen from the evidence store in the Tayside Police headquarters. The Lord Advocate said the Crown Agent nearly split his sides laughing when he heard about it.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Aileen, ‘and I know why. You tell the Lord Advocate from me that if Mr Dowley does any side-splitting in public, I will ask Sir James Proud to send me a copy of a so-far confidential report he has sitting in his office, with a view to disciplinary proceedings. We’ll see if the so-and-so finds that funny.’