Fatal Last Words

Fifty-one

‘Is this the biggest day of your life, Bob?’ asked Assistant Chief Constable Brian Mackie.

Skinner looked at him, eyebrows raised. ‘Shit, no, not even close. The day I married Myra; the days my children were born, the day I met Aileen; they all rank way above today.’

‘Professionally, man; I meant professionally.’

‘I know. I’m only pulling your chain. Maybe you should ask me after the Board meeting, when they call me in and tell me to my face, either that I’m chief or that they’ve realised in the nick of time what a terrible mistake they almost made. Until that happens, I won’t know. As of this moment, I rank the day that Mario and I arrested Dražen Boras and charged him with Stevie Steele’s murder as the best of my career. That was some buzz, seeing the look in his eyes when he knew he was done.’

‘Yes, I can believe that all right. When does he come up for trial?’

‘Before the year’s out; that’s all I know for sure. It’ll be in Newcastle, since Stevie died in Northumberland and that’s the nearest Crown Court.’

‘Will you be a witness?’

‘As of this moment, that’s not certain; if the CPS feels the need, they may call Mario and me to give evidence about his arrest. Becky Stallings and Ray Wilding will be for sure. They were directly involved in the investigation on the day of the murder. Jimmy and I were at the scene, but only after the event. Arthur Dorward’s going to be the star turn. It was his forensic work that nailed Dražen.’

‘Will he be all right under cross-examination?’

‘Arthur? Absolutely rock solid. I’m in no doubt about that. He’s built a model of the trap that was set, and it’ll be introduced as an exhibit. The Crown case will be absolutely watertight.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, going back to the present, however this day ends, there’ll be sadness in it, for it’ll be the last time that Sir James Proud will walk out of this building as a serving police officer. When he does, and I expect him to leave around four, after the Board lunch breaks up and after he says his final farewells along the command corridor, I want every available colleague, from you and me down, and the senior civilian staff as well, to form a guard of honour. Will you take care of that, get everyone along?’

‘Sure, Bob, my pleasure. But come on, tell me, how do you feel?’

Skinner shrugged his shoulders, an uncertain gesture that sat strangely on him. ‘Nervous,’ he replied, ‘if you want the truth. I suppose I should be happy about that; it’s how I reckon I should feel.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll have something to take my mind off it, though, in about half an hour. I have Dr Bruce Anderson calling on me, by appointment, for interview under caution by me and Sammy Pye. I’d better go and prepare for him.’

He left the room, and Mackie found himself looking at the door long after it had closed. He had known Bob Skinner for a long time, had even been his executive assistant for a spell, but he had never seen him so edgy. It was a momentous day, undoubtedly; end of an era, and the new one would bring change. How much? Maybe less than people expected, the ACC mused. The new chief was inheriting a highly motivated force, in good shape. He was too smart to stand that on its head.

The ringing telephone broke into his thoughts. ‘Mackie,’ he replied automatically as he snatched it up, feeling instantly foolish as he realised that the call had come from his outer office and that he had no need to identify himself.

Chief Inspector David Mackenzie, the senior officers’ adjutant, ignored the slip. ‘I’ve got someone on the line from Melbourne, sir. She says her name is Assistant Commissioner Gabrielle Robotham, and she’s asking to speak to her opposite number. The control centre reckons that’s you.’

The ACC frowned. ‘Are we sure it’s genuine?’

‘Yes, it’s been screened; she’s calling from Victoria State police headquarters.’

‘Then put her through, David.’ He sat back in his chair and waited.

‘Mr Mackie?’ she began briskly. ‘You’re an assistant chief constable, right?’

‘Right. In charge of uniformed operations throughout the force area.’

‘Fine, sounds like you’re the guy. I’m Gaby Robotham, and I need your help with something. We’ve had an incident here, and a man is dead. He’s Scottish, from your territory, I understand, and next of kin need to be informed fast, because this could leak. . in fact the story’s bound to break sooner or later. . and his name’s going to be all over the media.’

‘Why? What is his name?’

‘He’s been identified as Henry Matthew Mount, he was aged sixty-one, and according to his driving licence his address is number ten, Broadgreen Gate, Gullane, Scotland. His next of kin is shown on his passport as Mrs Trudy Mount, same address. He was travelling alone, so I’m hoping she’s at home or close to it.’

The name registered with Mackie, somewhere, but he was unable to place it, as he thought through the logistics of the request. ‘No problem,’ he told the Australian. ‘We have an operation in that village as we speak. I can take care of that. What happened to the man? How did he die?’

‘That’s the damnable thing. It appears that he’s been shot, but none of my officers at the scene are prepared to tell me how, or even confirm that he was, until our forensic people report. It’s a pretty public place, too. The guy’s a visiting author, and he was killed at the Melbourne Writers’ Festival.’