Fatal Last Words

Forty-seven

‘I’m going to miss this view,’ Bob Skinner whispered to the room that had been his since his promotion to chief officer rank. He had taken over the office as an assistant chief, and had insisted on retaining it on rising to deputy. For how many years had it been his? Not being one for calendars or metaphorical milestones, he found that he was unable to recall off the top of his head.

In an ideal world he would have stayed there for good, but the chief’s office had added privacy, in that his secretary’s office was en-suite. More than that, there were the security considerations that suggested he should be at the back of the building rather than the front. He knew them well, since he had put the argument forward himself.

He was still turning over Proud Jimmy’s revelation, that he would inherit the accommodation across the corridor without opposition. He had expected that there would be a contest, and had hoped genuinely that it would be so. Why? Perhaps, secretly, because it offered his last escape route. For years, his gut feeling had been to stay where he was, for a few more years at least, perhaps pitching for the Strathclyde job once he was past fifty. Conventionally, he would not have been promoted to head his own force, but circumstances, and Sir James’s machinations, had made him eligible, and since then all of the counsel of those closest to him had pointed him in the same direction, until he had no counter-arguments left. So he had declared his candidacy, but with the thought in the back of his mind that he might not be the certainty everyone assumed, and that a stronger runner than he might emerge and win through in the interview process. If Andy Martin had decided to contest the position, he would not have held that against him, although he knew that if the younger man had been successful, he could not have worked for long under his command.

But all of that had become academic. Barring an upheaval within a generally supportive Police Board, he would be chief constable in twenty-four hours.

He looked down the driveway that led to the main entrance to the police headquarters. He saw Sammy Pye park his car in one of the visitor spaces and climb out, heading, Skinner guessed, to brief Neil McIlhenney on the Ainsley Glover investigation. The detective superintendent would be waiting for him, having just returned to his office after giving the DCC an update on the murder of Asmir Mustafic, and on the disappearance of Hugo Playfair.

‘I knew there was something about that wee bastard that didn’t ring true,’ he had told his colleague. ‘I thought he was watching over the travellers as a group like a mother hen, but now, it seems, he was only looking out for one of them.’

‘But why?’

‘That’s why we’re detectives, mate. . and make no mistake, when I’m across the way I will still be a detective, because we answer questions like that. Find Playfair; at least, do the best you can. From what you’ve told me, it might not be that easy.’

He watched as Pye turned left at the top of the crest and headed for McIlhenney’s office. The next time he saw the DI, they would be facing Bruce Anderson across a desk. There you go again, Bob, he thought, letting instinct override common sense. He knew that most officers would have arrested the fugitive and held him for questioning, until he had been eliminated as a suspect. But he knew the man and he knew his weaknesses, and in his judgement, his lack of moral courage made it inconceivable that he could plan and execute a crime as meticulous and cold-blooded as the killing of Ainsley Glover. He hoped that he would not be proved wrong, but decided he would rather deal with that than with the consequences of a highly public arrest, followed by a vindication. He nodded, as if in confirmation; at the same moment there was a soft knock on the door. He had no need to call ‘Enter,’ since his green light was on, but he did anyway, out of habit.

Gerry Crossley, the secretary he would inherit, stepped into the room. ‘Sir, I’ve got the Duke of Lanark on the phone. He’s come through on the chief’s line, but he’s left for his farewell tour of the divisional offices, so he’s asked to speak to you. I’ve tried to press him, but he won’t say what it’s about. Can I transfer him to your line, or would you rather be unavailable?’

Skinner smiled. ‘What would Sir James have done had he been here?’

‘He’d have growled a bit but taken the call. He always does.’

‘Then that’s how it’ll continue, Gerry, probably with the growling as well. Put him through. And don’t worry, I reckon I know what it’s about.’

‘Do you want me to listen in?’

‘No, not to this one.’

‘Understood.’

He left. The DCC stared at his phone, waiting for it to ring. He had no problem dealing with the aristocracy as a rule; he had met the Duke of Lanark once, at a reception hosted by his friend the Marquis of Kinture, but the encounter had been brief.

‘Mr Skinner.’ The voice was softer than he had recalled, or expected. ‘I assume that you can guess what leads me to call you.’

‘I tend to keep my guesses to myself,’ he replied. ‘So why don’t you tell me, formally.’

‘Of course. It’s about my daughter; she was arrested today in connection with the possession of Class A drugs.’

‘Yes. She’s been charged and she’s being held in custody overnight. She’ll appear before Sheriff Morgan tomorrow.’

‘You endorse the decision to detain her?’

‘Absolutely. I have no problem with it, none at all.’

‘Mmm,’ the Duke murmured. ‘In that case, I simply want to assure you that I don’t either. I will of course support her, in that I’ll pay for her defence, but I have no expectations and I will not attempt to exercise any influence on the court. I’m in London just now, and I have no intention of returning for her appearance. I want Anthea to get what’s coming to her. My daughter is a self-indulgent brat who is an embarrassment to me, to her mother and to her siblings, and I’ve had enough of her behaviour. I’ve tolerated her past indiscretions, but she’s gone too far.’

For a few moments, Skinner sat silent, wondering how he would have dealt, as a parent, with a similar situation. ‘I see,’ he said finally. ‘For our part, I have to tell you that we’re not out to make an example of her just because of who she is. From what I’m told, a guilty plea would be very appropriate, but that won’t be expected tomorrow. I won’t oppose bail; if you like I can ask the fiscal what his attitude will be.’

‘No, no, you misunderstand me. You go ahead and oppose bail. I mean it; I don’t want to see Anthea go away for years or anything like that, but a short spell in custody might concentrate her mind. . if she has one left, that is.’

‘I hear what you’re saying, sir,’ the DCC replied, ‘but you can hardly propose that in court. Let’s leave it to the fiscal and the judge to decide the issue, shall we?’

‘I would like you to ask the fiscal to oppose; I really would.’

‘OK, if you feel that strongly, I’ll make that call.’

‘Good man. Thanks. You must come to dinner some time. I’d appreciate a chat with you, and with the First Minister, in calmer circumstances.’

‘That would be interesting,’ Skinner replied, with a smile.

‘Excellent. I’ll have my secretary contact yours when I get back to Scotland.’ Just as he thought the conversation at an end, the Duke continued. ‘What of Bruce Anderson?’ he asked. ‘I’ve already had him on the phone, assuring me he knew nothing of this awful heroin. He doesn’t feel that he can spend another night at the flat, so I’ve invited him and Tanya to stay at my place, until he sorts himself out. They can sleep in the big house tonight, and there’s an empty cottage on the estate that they can move into tomorrow.’

‘I’m glad about that; I’ve cut him some slack, but I confess that I’m more comfortable knowing where he is. . just in case I’ve made a major mistake about him. I’m seeing him tomorrow in connection with the Glover investigation. He won’t be implicated in the drugs business, though.’

‘That’s good. He should have been more careful, but I can’t be too hard on him. People like Anthea are incredibly devious; I know, because I’ve made it my business to study them. I encouraged her relationship with Bruce, because he has skills in that area. In fact I put them together initially. I employed him, truth be told; their thing developed from there.’

‘So he was her counsellor first?’ said Skinner.

‘Initially he was, before they became partners. If you’re worried about the ethics of the relationship, I’m not. He did her good for a while, even though he’s a bit volatile himself. If you ask me, he never had a good counsellor himself when he needed one. Don’t be too hard on him, Mr Skinner. Thank you and good day. I look forward to entertaining you.’

The DCC was thoughtful as he replaced the phone, still surprised by the Duke’s unexpected attitude, and wondering if there was another way of looking at Bruce Anderson. He was so preoccupied that he almost forgot the business that had been on his mind earlier. Almost.

He took out his most private diary, and ran through the list of numbers that he would not trust to a computer; it included several with no names attached, and it was one of those he dialled, on his secure telephone.

‘Yes? How can I help you?’ The call was answered by a woman, her voice pleasant but completely bland.

‘I’d like to speak to Piers Frame. This is Bob Skinner, up in Edinburgh. If you have a problem, call me back; Piers has my number.’

‘No problem, Bob.’ He was picked up instantly, and the Scot could tell that he had been on speaker-phone. He wondered how many other people were in the room, but was put at his ease instantly. ‘It’s OK, I’m clear to speak. What’s up? Have my unruly Ministry of Defence colleagues been annoying you again?’

Piers Frame was one of the most senior intelligence operatives in the country; when the matter of the Glover surveillance had broken surface, he had helped Skinner root out the truth.

‘Christ, I hope not,’ the DCC replied earnestly. ‘The guy they were watching was murdered at the weekend. Very cleverly, a pro job, I’d say, one that we might well have put down as an accidental death. Way too subtle for the soldiers.’

‘Stone me!’ Frame exclaimed. ‘I. . No, no, no; no way would they be involved in something as drastic as that.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so either, but the housekeepers have been at work since then. Someone broke into his house and stole the guts of his computer, and his back-up hard disk. I don’t imagine for a moment that they took him out, but if they heard about it and decided on a precautionary clean-up, then I don’t appreciate that. Apart from the commercial value of what’s been stolen, Glover’s files might be essential to my investigation and I fucking well want them back.’

‘Understood. If they did that, it sounds like excessive zeal, even if they were working in association with the Americans. Leave it with me and I’ll make some discreet noises.’

‘Fine, thanks. By the way, while I’ve got your attention, have you ever heard of a man called Coben, or of anyone who might on occasion use that name?’

‘Coben? Not one of this department’s, I can tell you that. Why do you ask?’

‘He’s more likely to be military than one of yours. Don’t worry about it; he’s just someone who came up on my radar. That said, if your MoD friends do know of him, it might be worth warning him that he doesn’t want to show up there again. If he does, I won’t appreciate that either.’

‘In that case, if he is connected to HMG in any way, he will definitely be told. I’ve seen what you can do when you’re annoyed. I’ll be in touch.’