Fatal Last Words

Fifty-eight

Chief Constable Bob Skinner leaned back in his familiar chair and stared at a less familiar ceiling. ‘Well,’ he whispered, ‘there’s no going back now, young man.’

He thought back to his recent conversation with Brian Mackie; he was no longer in doubt as to the most momentous day of his career. It had arrived. The call had come at ten past twelve, an invitation to join the Police Board meeting, at Edinburgh’s city council headquarters. When he had entered the room, the first thing that he had noticed was the smile on the face of the chair, Councillor Terence Secombe; that was the only sign he needed. There had been no last-minute upheaval.

‘Mr Skinner,’ the councillor had begun, as soon as he had taken his seat, ‘given that you are the only suitable applicant, and that you have qualifying service outside this force within the meaning of the regulations, the Board has decided, unanimously, to offer you the position of chief constable for a period of seven years. As you know, we are required to seek approval of the Scottish Government; that has been given, by the Justice Minister, the matter having been delegated, on personal grounds, by the First Minister. Do you accept the post?’

He had taken a deep breath, and looked slowly round the table, before replying, ‘Yes, sir, I do.’

And that had been all there was to it. He had lunched with the Board members, and with his predecessor (he could not recall having seen Jimmy look so relieved, or so relaxed), seated next to the chairman. The discussion had been light, mostly about the relative fortunes of Heart of Midlothian and Motherwell football clubs, but at one point Councillor Secombe had leaned close. ‘One thing, Bob,’ he had said softly. ‘During our discussion of your appointment, the only reservation that was raised, by one of the SNP members, concerned your relationship with the First Minister. I don’t need to tell you about the regulation prohibiting serving officers from getting actively involved in politics; all I will say is, watch your back in that respect. Say and do nothing that might compromise you, and make sure that Aileen doesn’t either. When’s the wedding, by the way? It hasn’t gone unnoticed that she’s been wearing a ring.’

‘Soon, Terry, soon,’ he had replied. ‘But nobody outside our circle will know about it until after it’s happened.’

‘Wise man.’

Oh, but am I? he thought, making a mental note to change the ugly light fittings in his new office. If I was a target before, through Aileen, what am I now?

Sir James had stayed with the Board members, but he had declined coffee and had returned to Fettes. The first thing he had done was to tell Brian Mackie, Gerry Crossley and Ruth Pye what had happened. The second was to wheel his chair across the corridor and put the outgoing chief’s big black rocker in its place. The third was to transfer the contents of his safe, his personal records and files, and his computer to their new home.

He was still contemplating the future when there was a knock on the door and Alan Royston, the force’s media relations manager, was shown in, offering congratulations. Skinner sensed that he was a shade nervous, as relations between them had not always been cordial. He decided to clear the decks. ‘Thanks, Alan,’ he said. ‘I’m looking forward to working with you in the future. What’s first?’

‘You should see this release, sir. It’s being issued any time now by the Board, through the city council press office, announcing your appointment, with immediate effect. We’ll have the media on our backs, and I’d recommend getting that over within one hit, by holding a general press conference at four o’clock.’

‘Set it up. I’ll wear the deputy’s uniform. The new one won’t be ready for a few days.’

‘Do you want Sir James to be there?’

‘That will be his decision. But I don’t want the Board chairman, even if he asks to be there. He’s warned me to steer clear of politics; he’s going to find that I’m taking his advice from the off.’