Fatal Last Words

Fifty-three

Sammy Pye was mildly surprised when he was met by Gerry Crossley at the entrance to the command corridor and shown into the DCC’s room, since Ruth, his wife, was secretary to both the deputy and assistant chiefs, and he knew that she should be in her office. But he assumed she was involved in a task for Mackie, and put the thought out of his mind.

For once, Skinner was not seated behind his desk. Instead his frame was half-sprawled on a long sofa, set against the wall facing the window, and he seemed barely aware that he had company. He was frowning, gazing at the floor, with a mug in his hand, held so carelessly that Pye hoped it was nowhere near full.

‘Morning, sir,’ the DI ventured.

The big man blinked, and looked up, with a momentary flash of annoyance at being caught off guard. ‘Morning, Sam,’ he responded. ‘Sorry, I was miles away there. Grab yourself a coffee from the machine and have a seat.’

‘I won’t, thank you, sir. Ruth has me on a ration.’

Skinner grinned, and was himself again. ‘She’s tried that with me too,’ he said, ‘but since I control the means of production around here, she was doomed to failure. So go on; I won’t shop you.’

The inspector shrugged, poured himself a mug from the half-full filter jug, added a very little milk and lowered himself on to the sofa.

‘Have you spoken to Neil in the last few minutes?’

The DCC’s question took him by surprise. ‘Not that recently, sir. I called him about half an hour ago, but that’s all.’

‘Then you won’t know. The Glover investigation’s just gone global.’ Quickly, Skinner told him of the Melbourne incident, that a second of Edinburgh’s triumvirate of mystery authors had gone to the great publishing house in the sky.

‘We’re sure it’s not a sudden death?’ Pye asked tentatively.

‘From what I’m told, no chance of that. I know Henry Mount. . knew him. He looked after himself; OK, none of us have any certainty of continuing good health, but he didn’t abuse himself, worked out pretty well for a man of his age. . we belong to the same gym. . and he didn’t have any major vices. Yes, there were those cigars of his, but he never smoked cigarettes, and they’re the real killers.’

‘I’m very sorry, sir. I can tell you’re upset.’

Skinner nodded. ‘Yeah, I admit it, I am. I’ve just told you that it wasn’t natural causes, but when someone you know dies, someone who may not be a contemporary but who’s not that far off it, it’s always a reminder of your own mortality. And you know what, Sammy? The older you get, the sharper that reminder is.’

‘Stevie Steele.’

‘What?’

‘You made me think about Stevie. Young guy, walks though the wrong door and bang! that’s it. There are wrong doors waiting for any one of us, I suppose.’

‘Yeah.’ Skinner straightened himself on the sofa. ‘But you and I are still on the right side of ours, so let’s get on with it.’

‘Do you want me to contact the Australian police, sir?’

‘They’ve already been in touch with us. Neil’s handling the follow-up and he’ll let you know all that’s relevant to your investigation. I want you to take a look at this.’ He reached out, picked up an envelope from the coffee table and handed it to the DI. ‘It’s the list that Ainsley Glover gave Andy Martin, his distant cousin, for safe keeping. I retrieved it yesterday from Dundee.’

‘What is it? What’s the list?’

‘Four names, none appear to be British, and none means a damn thing to me. See what you can find out about them. They must be important, given the lengths that Glover went to to keep them hidden.’

‘That’s interesting,’ Pye mused. ‘Becky Stallings recovered a number of email addresses that Glover kept on his daughter’s computer. Some of them appear to be foreign.’

‘Then see if they relate to any of the names on the list.’ The DCC laid his mug on the table and rose easily to his feet. ‘But that’s for later.’ He checked his watch, retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair and slipped it on. ‘We have another priority.’ He stood for a second or to, then stepped across to the window and looked out, checking the section of the driveway car park that was reserved for visitors. As he did so, there was a knock, the door opened, and Gerry Crossley entered.

‘Your visitors have arrived, sir,’ he announced. ‘I’ve put them in the meeting room, as you said. And there’s a dual recorder on the table, plugged in, with a clean mini-disk in each drive.’

‘Visitors plural?’ Skinner mused. ‘So Dr Anderson had the good sense to bring a lawyer with him. Wonder who it is? Can’t be the Barracuda, though; she must be in court with the bad Lady Walters around now, getting ready for some really unwelcome news from the Sheriff.’

‘I’m not sure it’s a lawyer.’

‘Then I’m not sure that whoever it is will be hanging around too long, not even if it’s the Duke of bloody Lanark himself. If Dr Anderson thinks he can piss me about, he’s making a big mistake. Come on, Sammy. Let’s go see him.’ He led the way into the command corridor and along to the small conference room at the far end. He opened the door, stepped inside, then stopped, so suddenly that Pye bumped into him. ‘Jim!’ the DI heard him exclaim. ‘You’re the last person I expected to be chumming our interviewee. Are you his confessor? Because if you are, I have to tell you, this will be on the record, and I’ll be deciding the penance.’ He stepped to one side. ‘Detective Inspector Pye, you know Dr Anderson, but I don’t believe you’ve met His Excellency James Gainer, Roman Catholic Archbishop of St Andrews and Edinburgh.’

The man with whom the DI shook hands was mid-forties, as tall as he was, and more heavily built, with big shoulders and a thick neck. He wore blue chinos, and a light cotton jacket hanging open over a white T-shirt with the simple message, ‘Souls saved; apply within’, printed in two lines on the front. Pye had heard tales of the charismatic priest, stories of a wild youth, redemption, and of late-night cruising round the city on a high-powered motorcycle. He had written them off as media fantasy, but as he looked the man in the eye, he realised that they were almost certainly true.

‘My pleasure,’ said the archbishop with a smile, then turned back to Skinner. ‘Bruce doesn’t take confession,’ he went on, ‘any more than you do. He isn’t one of mine either, any more than you are, but I like to think that we all play in the same team, just in different positions, that’s all. I’m here because he’s asked me to be, to help him out with a little ethical difficulty he has.’

‘Ethical? Jim, we’re investing a breakage of the sixth commandment. As far as I’m concerned, that sets all other considerations aside.’

‘I wouldn’t quote commandments if I were you, chum,’ Gainer chuckled. ‘You break the third one all the time. I don’t agree with your statement either; there are areas of unshakable confidentiality reserved for doctors, as Bruce is, and for priests, like me. You’ve got a murder on your hands. We’re here to help you, but you have to understand his position.’

‘His position would have been easier if he hadn’t lied to my officers.’

‘I know that, Bob,’ said Anderson. ‘But I had a reason. Can we explain it to you?’

Skinner nodded. ‘Let’s hear it.’ He moved towards the square table in the centre of the room. ‘Take a seat, you two back to the door, us facing.’ He touched the black recorder box as he sat. ‘I was going to do this formally, under caution, but your presence changes that, Jim. We’ll leave this thing switched off for now. If I feel the need to go on the record, we can do that later.’ He looked at Anderson. ‘Tell us about Saturday night.’

‘From the beginning?’

‘No, your argument with the dead man has been well covered. Let’s start from when Lord Elmore and his wife saw you walking away from Charlotte Square.’

‘OK. I did go home, be in no doubt about that. I didn’t want to bring her into this but if you need reliable confirmation, my daughter can provide it. The light was still on in her room; when I looked in, she was reading. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, as I recall. I told her to turn it in and go to sleep. Then I went to my own room; Anthea was asleep already. . although given what I’ve learned since, I suspect she may have had help.’

‘We don’t need to go into Lady Walters’ problems,’ said Pye.

‘We might later,’ Anderson countered.

‘But go on for now,’ Skinner told him. ‘Lady W’s in the land of nod.’

‘Yes. I wasn’t remotely tired, so I was a little annoyed that she hadn’t waited up for me. However, I had set the television to record Match of the Day, so I went off to catch up on that. And then the phone rang.’

‘The phone rang,’ Pye repeated. ‘Going on for midnight?’

‘Yes. It happens. I have calls at all hours of the day, and sometimes at night.’

‘Professional?’

‘To do with my profession, yes.’

‘That’s a carefully worded reply, sir.’

‘True.’ Anderson shifted in his seat.

‘So who was the caller?’

‘It was me, Inspector,’ said Archbishop Gainer.

‘You, sir?’

‘Yes. Someone I know needed help, so I rang Bruce, knowing that if he was available, he’d provide it.’

‘How long have you been an addiction counsellor, Dr Anderson?’ Skinner asked.

‘I’ve been doing it for years, since my days as a GP in Glasgow, even when I was a Member of Parliament. A few of my colleagues at Westminster, and some party staffers, had problems, and I helped them, very discreetly though. When I dropped out of politics and went back into medical practice in a limited way, I went back to counselling in my old stamping ground in Glasgow, and worked with charities too.’

‘How did you come to take your services upmarket? It was news to me, I have to admit.’

‘I have always been discreet, Bob. I have never mentioned that side of my work to anyone, always taken pains to keep it confidential. I take the view that these people are ill, and as such they have the same right to medical confidentiality as any other patients. Of course, when I helped colleagues in politics, that was never going to be an issue. Front-bench spokesmen are never going to own up to a drug problem, are they?’

‘Not while they’re still there, that’s for sure,’ Skinner conceded.

‘That said, it was one of those people who made me broaden my patient base, if I can use the term. An MP I had helped to get himself clean found himself on the board of a quoted company; its managing director had a bad cocaine habit. They thought about sacking him, but if they had, the share price would have dived. As a last resort, my friend approached me. I arranged to treat him in a clinic in the borders that’s best known for providing a haven for rich alcoholics. I got him straightened out, and afterwards the clinic asked me if I’d continue to work with them. I do, and they’re the only patients from whom I take fees. All the others are pro bono, as lawyers call their freebies.’ He paused. ‘I met Anthea through the clinic. Archie. . that’s her father. . went there looking for help for her, about three years ago, and was referred to me. We had a chat, he brought Anthea along, and I put her on a withdrawal programme. She was badly hooked, so I had to stay very close to her. When she was in recovery, I carried on seeing her, and eventually moved into her place in Darnaway Street.’

‘And yet you’ve still kept this part of your life a secret?’ the DCC exclaimed. ‘I’m astonished.’

Anderson shook his head. ‘It hasn’t been that difficult. I’m known in the clinic as Andrew Bruce, and it’s Mr, not Dr. Many of my patients never get to know my real name; those who recognise me realise very quickly that we have a mutual interest in confidentiality.’

‘There’s no threat implied, is there?’ asked Pye.

Anderson scowled at him. ‘You mean do I threaten to “out” them if they “out” me? Certainly not, and I resent the suggestion.’

‘Nothing’s being suggested, Bruce,’ the DCC intervened. ‘It was a legitimate question, and you’ve answered it.’ He glanced at the archbishop. ‘How did you two meet?’ he asked.

‘I have a parishioner,’ Gainer began, ‘and a friend, a very well-known and respected public figure, who has an addictive personality. You name it, he’s ingested it. I can’t tell you how I found out about it; I’ll just leave you to speculate. When I did, I spoke to another parishioner, who is on the board of the clinic. He mentioned Mr Andrew Bruce to me, and I facilitated a meeting. My friend was rescued; in the aftermath Bruce and I had a number of meetings and I became involved in his charity and public sector work, as an additional counsellor. Sometimes we even work together. On Saturday night, I had a call from my friend. He had relapsed, and he was in a bad way. His cry for help was more of a scream; I called Bruce, and asked him to come with me to see him. He agreed, but he’d had a couple of drinks, so couldn’t drive. Rather than be seen picking him up in the house, I agreed to meet him in George Street, at midnight.’

‘That was where I was heading when your witness saw me,’ Anderson interposed. ‘Jim picked me up on his bike, outside Brown’s. .’ He looked at Pye. ‘Yes, he had a spare helmet, Inspector. We visited our patient, I sedated him, called an ambulance and had him taken down to the borders and admitted. That’s why I bolted yesterday. I did not want to get into that area. I didn’t want to involve Jim today either, but I knew you’d insist.’

Skinner waited until he had caught his eye. ‘You’re not going to tell me who this patient is, are you?’ he said.

‘No. Under no circumstances.’

He looked at the archbishop. ‘You’re not bound by the doctor-patient relationship, though, Jim.’

‘Maybe not, but I can claim another privilege.’

‘Fair enough. The matter is closed, Dr Anderson,’ he said abruptly, then paused. ‘Jim, do you mind if Bruce and I have a minute alone?’

‘How can I?’ Gainer chuckled. ‘Private conversations are at the heart of my priesthood.’

Skinner sat quietly as the cleric and the DI left the room. ‘Tell me this, Bruce, please,’ he began after the door had closed. ‘How can a man who does the sort of work that you clearly excel in be such an abrasive, lying, manipulative arsehole of a politician, with both entities crammed into the same body?’

Anderson smiled, sadly. ‘Do you think I don’t ask myself that question every so often? I have the occasional glimpse of my own faults. My only answer is this: I believe that I’m so good at my private work because I have an addictive personality myself. My drug is politics, and in its pursuit I’m a different man to the one my patients meet. My judgement goes out the window sometimes, as it did when we had our differences, long ago, and again when I lost my temper with Glover the other night. What the man said was true. I saw my flirtation with the rebellious side of my party as a way back in; that’s why I reversed my position on the Trident issue. That’s why, even now, I’m tempted to contest the by-election for the newly vacant Holyrood seat. . which, I repeat, I had no hand in causing.’

‘Well, physician,’ said Skinner slowly, ‘my advice to you is this. Heal yourself of your addiction; get rid of your Mr Hyde. Don’t yield to that temptation. Focus on doing good, and nothing but good. For if you don’t, then pretty soon you’re going to come into conflict with the lady I’m going to marry, and I won’t like that. I told you yesterday that I don’t bear grudges for myself, but anyone who goes out of his way to hurt her. . and, Bruce, that’s how you play the game. . that person’s letting himself in for more grief than he could ever handle.’