Fallen Gods

Nine

Afternoon was turning into evening as Martin rang the doorbell, and waited. He was no longer in uniform, but dressed in jeans, a white tee-shirt and a black bomber jacket that he had owned for years. Its leather was creased and softened with wear, and it was the most comfortable garment he had ever known.

The day had gone from warm to hot, but the air conditioning in his new

Mondeo was efficient, and so he was comfortable despite the seventy-five-mile drive.

Rather than the few moments he had expected, his wait turned into minutes. He rang the bell again, frowning. Finally, the heavy front door opened.

The man who stood there was wearing only shorts and trainers, and was glistening with sweat. He was taller than Martin at around six feet two, and looked at least ten years older. His face was lined, with a deep scar above the nose, and his gun-grey hair was sticking to his temples and standing up in spikes on top. But his body was that of a much younger man, wide-shouldered, narrow-wasted, with long muscles on his arms and legs and a six-pack that looked rock hard.

He swung the door open wider and smiled, that warm, endearing grin that

Andy knew so well. "I'm sorry, son," he said, then stopped. "Listen to me, calling you son. I should probably call you "sir", since you're a serving deputy chief constable and they've got me destined for the scrap heap

"Come on in, anyway. I was working out in my gym upstairs. I thought

I'd have plenty of time before you got here. Either you've come down that road like a bat out of hell or I'm slowing up."

"Jesus, man," said Martin as he stepped into the house. "You were out running earlier when I called you on the mobile. You shouldn't be going at it this hard."

Bob Skinner's smile disappeared. "Too fucking right I should," he snapped. "I'm going to show a few people just how stupid they are."

"You are taking this too personally," his friend replied, allowing himself to be led into the kitchen. "They're just being cautious, that's all. Remember when Jimmy had his heart attack? It was a while before they'd let him back to work."

The bigger man sighed, as if he was making an effort to be patient.

"Listen, Andy, for the umpteenth time, I did not have a heart attack. I had an incident that turned out to be something called sick sinus syndrome, a condition in which your heart rate drops without warning and you pass out. They put me on a treadmill in hospital in the

States, once I'd recovered, with all sorts of monitors attached to me.

You're supposed to walk steadily on it; I ran nearly two miles in the ten minutes of the test.

"The bloody thing's hereditary; my mother had it when she was in middle age, and so did my Uncle George. It passed off with them as they grew older. They didn't know what caused it then and they still don't."

He reached up and touched his chest, about four inches above the left nipple. "If these things had been around then they'd probably have had them fitted as a precaution, just as the Americans insisted on doing with me."

Martin looked at the area where the pacemaker had been inserted. The scar was still fresh, but it had begun to fade and had been overgrown already by chest hair. The flat lump that he had seen before, where the device lay on top of the ribcage, had almost disappeared, enveloped by renewed muscle.

"I tell you, Andy," Skinner insisted, "I am as fit as I have ever been and, probably as a result of this thing, fitter than I've been for years. I went round Gullane One in seventy-three yesterday, and I've never hit the bloody ball as far."

"Doesn't the pacemaker affect you at all?"

"No. It's set to kick in if my pulse rate drops below fifty-five, or if it rises to one-seventy-five. Even when I'm running flat out it never gets that high."

"Nonetheless," said the other man, 'you have to ally a bit of patience to this physical work you're doing. Rules is rules, like they say, even for Deputy Chief Constable Bob Skinner. When are you due for your next medical?"

"Not for another month, on the present timetable… but I'm going to do something about that."

"Why, for fuck's sake? You haven't had a sabbatical in years. Play bloody golf, enjoy yourself, go back to Sarah in the States; stop doing your head in, and everyone else's."

"Don't mention Sarah to me, please. She actually wants me to chuck the police. Can you believe that? And why the hell should I go to her?

Okay, there's legal work to be done tidying up her parents' estate, but there is such a thing as airmail. Anything she has to sign could be sent over here and notarised here."

"It's a lot of money, Bob."

"So? It's her money. And how does that affect my career?"

"Significantly, if you choose to look at it that way."

"Which I do not!" Skinner opened the big larder fridge in a corner of his kitchen and took out two cans of Seven-Up. He popped them both and handed one to his friend. "You, at least, know how I feel about my job," he said, more quietly. "Sarah seems to have gone native back in

Buffalo; she's moved Trish, the nanny, over there, and she's settled herself and the kids comfortably into her parents' home. She's even sending Mark to school over there."

"But she says it's temporary, doesn't she?"

"She says so, but I don't think I believe her, Andy. She's turning back into a Yank and she wants me, and my kids, to become Yanks too. It may be her world over there, but it is not mine. There's no logic to her, anyway. Her parents died over there, tragically, and some stuff happened in the aftermath that I can't tell even you about. You'd have thought she couldn't wait to get back here, to our life, after all that."

"Maybe that's why she's reluctant to come back right now," Martin suggested. "Maybe she still has some getting over to do."

"And maybe that's why she wants to turn me into a kept man?" Skinner shot back at him.

"Don't be daft; it's not that and you know it. Whatever you call it, you dropped like a stone at her feet and she thought you were dead.

That's how she put it to me; she's a doctor, and she thought that. It might have turned out to be a freak condition, but your heart stopped, man. For ten to fifteen seconds, so she told me. Of course she's worried about you… and she does want you around, for all that you say."

"Is that so? Well, last time I spoke to her, she told me that if I was so devoted to Scotland I could and I quote, "fucking well stay here".

She told me in a loud voice too."

"When was that?"

"Last night. I called her again at lunchtime and she wasn't even there. Trish said she's gone off on some sort of trip, but she wasn't sure where."

"Call her on her mobile."

"She's left it behind. She's probably got herself sorted out with a man over there."

"Bob!"

Skinner glanced at him, defensively. "Why not?" he muttered. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"All the more reason to go back over there then, is it not, if that's what you're thinking?"

"Ah man, I'm not. She's just playing me along, that's all. She thinks

I'm being unreasonable; I fucking know that she is." He paused, to take a swig from his can. "Look, I've been obsessive in the past, I admit that. But this is different. I have enemies on the joint Police Board, as you well know. Councillor Agnes Maley and her friends have always been afraid of me, and they haven't gone away; Jimmy Proud's squashed them in the past, but he could never get rid of them. Forget their politics, that doesn't have much to do with it. There are a couple of them who are friends of, or friends of friends of, people with whom you and I have had professional dealings in the past. That's to say, we've banged them up.

"These characters, led by Agnes, have wanted me out for years. They tried once before, remember, without success; now they've plucked up the courage to have another go. Even as I speak, there's a group of them on the manpower sub-committee who are trying to change the rules, so that people who've had a range of specified complaints and incidents, including the minor heart procedure that I've had, must be retired on grounds of ill health. They're saying, for example, that the chief should have been retired automatically after he had his wobbler. It's not just about me, you see, although I'm the prime target. These people want all the power over the police that they can get. They're not an isolated group either; that sort of thinking runs pretty high up in the current regime. Look at these civilian patrols they've got in some places now. Fucking crap." He paused.

"Jimmy Proud's fighting it, of course, but if they bring a positive recommendation to the full committee and put a three-liner on, it could go through. Once I'm back on duty, though, they're stuffed. They can't do it retrospectively, because I'd sue them and win, and they know it. That's why they've told me I have to have another month's recuperation before I have my medical." He smiled, wickedly.

"So on Monday, I'm going to demand a definitive medical, now. If the force examiners, who report to… and take their orders from… this wee sub-committee, try to stick to their timetable, I'll go to court and interdict them. Mitchell Laidlaw has the petition ready to roll.

He's acting for me, by the way. I need the best there is, in the circumstances."

"What if you lose?"

"I won't. Mitch never loses."

"But if he breaks his duck this time, and you don't succeed; will it be the end of your life, Bob? No, it won't."

"That is unthinkable, pal. It's not going to happen. I won't have my career end just because of a temporary electrical malfunction in my ticker. I've got places to go yet, as you know."

"That wouldn't scupper your plans though, would it?"

"If I wasn't a serving officer, yes it would."

Martin frowned; he was silent for a few seconds as he considered what his friend had said. "I see," he murmured at last. "Bob, I'm sorry.

I've been so wrapped up in my new job that I didn't realise things were so serious for you. I understand now."

"I'm glad you do. There are four people in the world I need to have on my side over this; Neil Mcllhenney, you, my Alex, and Sarah. You make it three for; it's the one against that's tearing me apart."

"Would you like me to call her, Bob, to put your case, so to speak?"

Skinner smiled, gratefully. "It's nice of you to offer, son, but she has to work it out for herself." He drained the can. "But listen, when you said that there was something you wanted to talk to me about,

I didn't get the impression that it was my bother with the Maley tendency on the Board."

"No, it isn't."

"Fine, but give me a minute, will you. I'm fucking honking; I must have a shower, or I will start to rot. Once I've done that, we'll go for a walk on Gullane beach and enjoy this fine day, and you can tell me what the problem is." He left the kitchen.

On his own, Andy wandered through to the living area. He knew the house well: the Skinners had built it after their split, and reconciliation, when they decided to sell both their weekend house and their Edinburgh bungalow, and bring up their family full-time in the

East Lothian village of Gullane. He looked at the photograph of Sarah, in its usual spot on the sideboard, and began to worry. He was slavishly devoted to her, remarkably so, for she might have become his mother-in-law. He had been engaged for a while to Alexis, Bob's daughter from his first marriage; the engagement had ended acrimoniously, but both he and Sarah had made sure that it did not affect their friendship. He thought about what Bob had said. He gave no credence to his suggestion that she might have found someone else, but he knew that she was as stubborn as her husband; if she had taken up a position, she would not give it up easily.

The living room opened into a big conservatory; he wandered through the glass doors and gazed out across Gullane Bents and over the Firth of

Forth to life. He saw three tankers moored in the wide estuary, riding high in the water as they waited their turn to take on a cargo of oil at Hound Point.

"Okay, then?" Bob's voice snapped him back to the present. His hair was still damp from the shower, but he was ready to go, having changed into light cotton trousers, a pale blue polo shirt, and Timberland sandals.

They left the house, Skinner setting the alarm with quick, nimble fingers, and headed out into the village street. One left turn took them down on to the Bents, down the road that led to the car park, thronged as always on a June Saturday afternoon. "Where'll we go?" Bob asked, then said, 'tide's on the way out; the Nature Reserve." Decision made. He led the way, half running, half walking, down the narrow path that led to the sands. Jumping down from a dune onto the beach, he started to head westward, then stopped.

"What's up?" asked Andy.

Skinner pointed, with his right index finger. His friend followed its direction until he saw, near the water's edge, a big, dark-haired man, muscular in a shortsleeved shirt and denim cut-offs, knocking a brightly coloured ball towards a toddler.

"That's McGuire, isn't it?" Skinner muttered.

"Yes. That must be the kid I heard he and Maggie are adopting."

"Let's go the other way then. Mario's a good guy, but I'm not in the mood for any more chat about my career prospects." Without waiting for an answer he turned on his heel and headed off towards the rocks and dunes at the eastward end of the big bay.

"I didn't see Maggie there," said Martin, 'but I've heard the talk. How are things with him and Detective Superintendent Rose?"

"Officially, fine. But in reality, from what Neil tells me, they're rocky. I didn't press him about it, for in truth it's none of my business, but I think it's to do with Mario becoming a trustee of the family interests, along with his cousin. You know his cousin, do you?"

"Paula Viareggio? Stevie Steele's ex? Oh yes, I know her all right."

Skinner laughed. "Christ, not her too! Is there a woman in Edinburgh you didn't shag when you were single?"

"Plenty, and I didn't know Paula in that way. I just met her a couple of times. She's a deep one; she had a way of letting you know right from the off where you stood with her, and the answer I got was always

"No way". Her and Mario? Is that what they're saying? No, they're cousins, remember."

"They're also Italian." Skinner laughed. "But Mario doesn't run the trust on a day-to-day basis. He's appointed a lawyer to do most of the work for him, so that he's hands-off. He only takes decisions on her advice."

"Her?"

"Alex. My kid's getting on in the world."

"Glad to hear it. How is she?"

"Very well, and before you ask, she isn't behind McGuire's problem with Maggie either. She's still based in London; there's an actor bloke in tow, I believe, but I've still to meet him. Anyway, enough of all that. How about you? How's Karen? How's the baby?"

"Lovely, both of them. Bob, I wish I could ask you and Sarah to be godparents, but I think you have to be Catholics."

"Don't worry about it. I'm the wrong guy to ask anyway; God and I are barely on speaking terms most of the time. There's not much point asking Sarah and me to do something together either, but let's not get into that again. Tell me about the job, how are you liking Tayside?"

Martin smiled. "It's excellent, Bob, it really is. Sure, compared to ours… yours, I should say… it's a pocket-sized force, but I'm coming to think of that as an advantage. The clear-up rates are about as good as they could get, for a start. Graham Morton's a first class chief constable, and so are all his officers. I can say honestly that since I've been there, I haven't come across a single piece of dead wood."

"No Greg Jays, then?"

"None at all," he replied, then realised he had been tricked into a comment. "Greg isn't all that bad, though," he added, quickly. "He's a divisional CID commander after all."

"Aye, but he's past his sell-by date for the job. He's lost his spark, and the new blood, like Rose and McGuire, are showing him up. He's still well short of compulsory retirement though, and unless he chooses to go that gives me a problem. I think I've solved it, though. Willie

Haggerty was all for giving Maggie Manny English's job when he goes next winter, but I'm planning to put Greg in there. It's uniform, it's a nominal promotion and it needs a good book operator, which he is." He paused, and his face darkened. "Mind you, before I can do that, I need to get myself back on the job."

They walked on in silence for a while, until they had left the big bay behind, passed Freshwater Haven and come to another beach, this one deserted, without a soul on its pale golden sands. Skinner pointed to a path that led off inland. "We can take that and get back round the edge of Muirfield," he said, 'or we can go on and have ourselves a real walk."

Andy Martin frowned. "The short route will do me fine," he replied, firmly, 'but before we go any further in any direction, I want to get down to the thing that brought me here."

"Do that, by all means. I'm intrigued."

The younger man stopped, beside the ruins of an old stone cottage, and took a seat on what was left of a wall. Skinner followed his lead and perched alongside him, on his right.

"You'll have heard about the flood we had up in Perth," he began,

'after all that freak snow melted."

"The El Nino thing? Sure, I heard. I still find time to watch the telly, son."

"In that case you can imagine what the place looks like now that the water's gone down."

"A quagmire, I'd guess."

"Right. This morning we began the clear-up operation in the houses that were flooded out. I was warned to expect all sorts in there; cats, dogs, fish and frogs, sheep and even a few deer. I was not warned to expect what we did find. I went with an old lady into her basement, where she came upon the body of a man."

"Shit. Washed away by the flood?"

"Aye, with a mark on his wrist that could have been left by a rope, and a mark on the side of his head that could have been put there before he went in the river. There was enough about it for us to be treating it as a suspicious death."

"Dramatic. You sure he wasn't the old lady's bidey-in?"

"Miss Bonney wouldn't know what a bidey-in is, Bob. She's sweet seventy-six and probably never been kissed."

"Lucky for her. So what do you want from me? If it's advice on the flood patterns of the silvery Tay, I know fuck all about them. If it's the loan of some people to help with your investigation, you'd better talk to Haggerty rather than me."

"That's a "No" to the first. As for the second, we're not at that stage yet, and when we are it'll be my head of CID who does the asking of Dan Pringle."

Martin reached for the back pocket of his jeans, then paused. "Once the photographer and the doc were finished, we went through the man's pockets."

"We?"

He grinned, fleetingly. "Okay, our young DC did. There was no wallet, no driving licence, no old envelope with his name on it." Finally, his hand completed its journey to his pocket. "Only this," he said, drawing out the monochrome photograph, still in its plastic container, and handed it over.

Skinner took it from him; as he looked at it, Martin watched him intently. He had never seen a reaction remotely like it, not from Bob

Skinner, at any rate. His eyes widened, his mouth fell open, he seemed to slip, for a moment, on his stony seat, and he gulped.

His friend sat, listening to the gulls as they broke the silence, waiting as he stared at the photograph. Finally he was able to form a long slow whisper. "Oh my God."

"You see?" said Andy. "That's you as a young man, isn't it?"

It was his turn to be astonished, as Skinner shook his head slowly.

"You can be forgiven for thinking it, my friend; yes, even you. But this is not me. No, this is a photograph of my father."

"Your father?"

"Sure as God made wee green apples." He looked to his left into

Martin's green eyes. "The man in the river: how old was he?"

"Bob, he'd been down there for a week and more, first in water, then half buried in mud."

"I don't want his date of birth, son. Roughly, how old was he?"

Andy frowned, and looked out to sea. "If I have to guess, I'd say he was mid to late fifties."

Skinner stood up, rising off the wall in a single movement. "Come on."

He was heading up the path towards Muirfield Golf Course even as he spoke.

Taken by surprise, Martin had to break into a trot to catch up. "Do you think you know who he is?" he asked.

"I'm coming back up to Perth with you," his long-striding friend announced.

"Fine, but do you think you can identify him?"

"I'm bloody certain of it."

"So?"

"Let me see him first, Andy, and before the pathologist starts to hack him about, too. After that, I'll tell you all about him."