Fatal Last Words

Sixty-one

The pictures on the wall have been changed already, Neil McIlhenney noted as he took his seat alongside ACC Brian Mackie around another innovation, the new chief constable’s meeting table. Opposite was Chief Inspector David Mackenzie, with Skinner, in uniform, between them.

‘I’m about to face the media,’ he explained, ‘hence the silver braid, but I wanted to speak to you guys first. I won’t be taking too many questions down there, but one or two things might be said that you should hear first.’ He glanced around. ‘What I don’t need to tell you is how sad part of me is feeling; there’s going to be a ghost in this room for a long time to come. Jimmy has decided that he wants to leave quietly, and so as soon as Alan Royston has all the press gathered in the gym,’ he checked his watch, ‘in about ten minutes, he’ll make his exit. Brian’s told everyone else, and we’ll all be there too, lined up to say farewell. Gerry will give us the word when he’s ready.’

‘The press might be miffed when they realise they’ve missed it,’ Mackie suggested.

‘They’ll get over it. Until he leaves it, this is Jimmy’s building, and things will happen as he wants them to happen.’ He smiled. ‘After that. . what’s going to be different?’ He looked at each of his companions in turn. ‘It may be that a new deputy will come in and affect my thinking on this, but my intention is that change will be minimised. You all know that in his later years as chief, Sir James effectively delegated control of criminal investigation to me.’ He paused, as if inviting comment, but there was none. ‘Well, guys, I’m keeping it. My intention is that the head of CID,’ he nodded towards McIlhenney, ‘and in his absence, you, Neil, will continue to report directly to me. I will also take personal command of special operations as they arise, state visits, EU ministers’ meetings, and the like. Special Branch, though, will continue to report to the deputy, whoever he or she may be.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I know there’s been a lot of speculation, assumptions, even, that Andy will come back to fill that post, but that is a decision for the Police Board to make. I know the regs say they consult me, but I won’t try to influence them in any way, unless I really do not fancy a particular candidate. However, whether the job goes to him, or to you, Brian. . I can’t order you to apply for it, but I hope you will. . or to someone else, the new person will find himself. . or herself. . handling some of the things that were previously in Sir James’s court. There are politics attached to my post, and I want to keep as far away from them as I can, at least for long as my other half remains First Minister. The new deputy will be responsible for day-to-day relations with the Police Board, with Scottish Government, and with cross-border matters involving the Home Office.’ He turned to Mackenzie, immaculate in his chief inspector’s uniform.

‘That person’s going to take time to settle into the job, David, even if it’s Brian, or someone else from within. While he, or she, does, and beyond that, they will need support, and you will be the guy who provides it. Your job at the moment is command corridor adjutant; and you might still be called that, but you will have more clout. If the new deputy is on leave, or for any other reason can’t handle, let’s say, a meeting with government civil servants, he won’t pass it up the line to me, he’ll delegate it to you. And just in case the mini-mandarins feel slighted at being palmed off on to a chief inspector, you will be promoted to superintendent, with immediate effect, so get your epaulettes changed.’

Mackenzie’s face flushed with pleasure, but before he could speak, there was a knock at the door. Gerry Crossley’s head appeared. ‘That’s the press checked in, sir.’

‘OK,’ Skinner replied. ‘Spread the word, and get everyone in position at the front door. Sir James is in my old room. I’ll collect him and escort him downstairs. We’ll be a couple of minutes, that’s all.’ He turned back to his colleagues. ‘Anything else, before we wind up?’

‘Two things. . Chief,’ said Neil McIlhenney. ‘One’s for information, on the other I need a decision. First, Mario’s established, for sure as far as he and I are concerned, that Henry Mount’s death is linked to Glover’s.’

‘Fred Noble?’ The question was instantaneous.

‘He’s being taken care of. The second thing is this. The only potential suspect we have for the Mustafic murder is Playfair, the guy you met. He’s disappeared, but in trying to trace him, the only thing we’ve established for sure is that he’s been using a false name. DS McDermid has been to see Derek Baillie at the official site where his group’s stopping, and she’s come back with a photo that has Playfair in it. It’s good enough for us to extract an image for issue to the media. George Regan has asked if he can do that. What do you reckon?’

‘Do it. Issue the image, but have an artist play with it to come up with an impression of what he would look like without a beard and with his head shaved. He’d stand out like a pillar box the way he looked when I met him, so if he’s on the run, there’s every chance he’s tried to change his appearance. But first,’ he cautioned, ‘you have to get Crown Office permission. Get hold of the Lord Advocate or the Solicitor General; tell them I’ve authorised the request as I believe it’s in the public interest. Get on to it as soon as we’ve seen Proud Jimmy off into retirement.’ He stood, and the others followed his lead automatically. As if I was a head of state, he thought.

As they headed for the stairs, he crossed the corridor, to the room that had been his, and stepped inside, with yet another pang of regret. He heard the phone ring, somewhere behind him, but ignored it.

Sir James Proud stood at the window; he had changed out of the uniform that he had worn for the Board meeting. . worn for the last time, in fact. . into a pale green linen suit. It struck Skinner that he had shed five years in age, along with the blue serge. ‘Christ, Bob,’ he exclaimed, ‘you look like the prison governor come to take me to my doom. Where’s the chaplain?’

Skinner laughed. ‘Thanks for the warning. I feel like an old friend, come to send you on a long holiday; I must make sure that’s clear to everyone.’

‘You are sending me on holiday, of course, since I don’t start drawing pension until the middle of next month. Better to go out this way, though.’

‘What’s your first act as a free man?’

‘Chrissie and I are being picked up this evening by a chauffeur-driven car, and taken to Manchester. That’s why we can’t join you for dinner later. We spend the night in the airport hotel and tomorrow we fly to Singapore, first class. We spend a few days there, then we go to Penang for a week, and finally back to Singapore for what’s left of a fortnight. It’s my lovely wife’s retirement present to us both: she’s been saving in secret for years for it. Once that’s over, we get on with the rest of our lives. Do you know, I’ve had three offers of company directorships already?’

‘It doesn’t surprise me. Are you going to accept them?’

‘If I think them appropriate, I’ll consider them. Chrissie says she’s not having me lolling around the house all day. She wants to move, too; somewhere down your way, she says.’

‘If Lady Chrissie wants it, then it’ll happen. I’ll look forward to having you as a neighbour, boss.’

‘Boss?’ Proud Jimmy chuckled. ‘Not any more, son.’

Skinner grasped the older man’s right hand in both of his; for a moment his eyes moistened. ‘Sir James,’ he said, ‘you will always be the boss to me.’

‘That’s nice to know. I’ll always be available to you, of course, whenever you need to bounce things off someone outside the office, and away from home. I’ve never told you this, but I admire the way that you and Aileen have handled your growing relationship. As Terry Secombe told you, I think, it worried some of the Board members, but he and I damped that down pretty firmly. Now,’ he declared, ‘I mustn’t keep that car waiting. Lead on, Chief Constable.’

His successor nodded, opened the door and stepped aside. Gerry Crossley was waiting outside, ready to accompany them downstairs, although he and Proud had already said a private goodbye. ‘Two calls for you, sir,’ he told Skinner. ‘One from Mr Laidlaw, at Curle Anthony and Jarvis, and the other from DCC Martin. Neither left a message, but Mr Martin did say his call was urgent.’

‘Not more urgent than this, though, Gerry. I’ll return them both when I get back upstairs, after I’ve sparred with the media and had my picture taken.’

The three men walked slowly downstairs into the foyer of the headquarters building. Police officers of all ranks, CID and uniform, and civilian staff formed two lines. They broke into spontaneous applause as Sir James appeared. He paused, smiled, then made his way through the honour guard, shaking hands with each person and thanking them, by name. Finally, he stepped through the door, with Skinner behind him. A police car waited outside, its uniformed driver, Sergeant Ian McCall, who had won a ballot for the honour of taking the old chief into retirement, standing at attention. Proud Jimmy returned his salute, shook hands with his protégé for the last time, then slid into the back seat. A few seconds later, he was gone.

Skinner stood, looking after the car as it cleared the gateway. Eventually he became aware of Royston standing beside him. ‘On with the new, Alan?’ he murmured.

‘We better get to it, Chief,’ said the civilian. ‘The natives have figured out what’s been going on, and they’re restless.’

‘Let’s chuck them a few buns, then.’

The two men walked back inside, turning right and heading for the gym, where major press briefings were held. ‘Before you go in there,’ Royston murmured, ‘I get the impression that there’s something up. Nobody’s said anything, but I have a feeling that you might have more to deal with than your own agenda.’

The chief constable frowned. ‘Maybe they’ve got wind of Henry Mount’s death earlier than we thought.’

‘That could be.’ The media manager pulled open one of the double doors. ‘Whatever,’ he said ‘we’ll find out soon.’

Skinner stepped into the hall. As usual, his place was at the far end, beneath the force crest on the wall. He made his way past the crowd, television cameras positioned at the back, press and radio reporters towards the front, and photographers to the side. His table was littered with the usual array of microphones. He took his place facing the crowd, surprised once more by the number of journalists that Edinburgh could turn out, and a little flattered that they had come because of him. But was that the only reason? Bearing in mind Royston’s warning, as the cameras flashed, he studied the faces, trying to read them. Most were smiling, but one or two were sombre. Expectant? Maybe. His bellwethers sat in the front row: John Hunter, the ancient freelance, unchallenged doyen of the press corps, and Jock Fisher, chief reporter of the Saltire. Many years before, there had been an Evening News reporter called John Gunn, and it was a source of regret to the two veterans that he had not survived to their time, otherwise, as they put it, often, ‘You’d have had hunting, fishing and shooting sitting side by side.’ He smiled at them; Hunter nodded back, amiably, and Fisher gave him a brief smile, but yes, there was something behind it, an awkwardness, perhaps.

‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘I’ll take your questions, but first I’d like to say a few words. As you’ve been told, today the Joint Police Board offered me the position of chief constable of this force, and I’m pleased to say that I have accepted. I feel sad and proud. . yes,’ he grinned, ‘I should use that word. . all at once: sad to see the departure of a great police officer, and a great friend, in Sir James, but proud to be given the honour of succeeding him.’ He stopped, leaning back and looking Hunter in the eye. His seniority was rarely challenged; if it was, by an outsider who did not know the ropes, the intruder was always ignored. ‘John,’ Skinner invited.

‘Is this the culmination of your career, Bob?’

‘I hope not. I have a seven-year contract and plenty to do.’

‘Will there be changes in the way the force is run?’

‘None that you or the public will notice, I hope.’

‘When will the new deputy be appointed?’

‘That’s a matter for the Board.’

‘On your advice.’

‘No. The rules don’t go that far; they say I may be consulted.’

‘Is the First Minister pleased?’ a woman asked. He looked in her direction, and recognised her: Rebecca Unthank, the Daily Mail political reporter, not a regular presence at police briefings.

‘OK,’ said Skinner. ‘Here’s the ground rule for this and all future occasions. I will be as open to the media as possible, but my private life is off limits. I won’t answer questions about my partner under any circumstances, and the best that’s going to happen to anyone who persists in asking them is that they’ll be ignored.’

‘Does that apply to every member of your family?’ Unthank shot back.

The chief constable’s eyes turned to ice as he stared at her, unblinking. He said nothing, but she seemed to shrink and her eyes went to the floor. A ripple seemed to go through the crowd, a faint collective sigh. ‘What?’ he snapped.

When no one replied, he looked at Hunter. ‘John, what’s up?’

The old man shook his head. ‘This is not for me, Bob,’ he replied. ‘I wouldn’t touch it with the proverbial.’

He moved on to Fisher. ‘Jock,’ he asked, ‘are you going to let me in on the joke?’

‘No joke, Bob,’ the Saltire reporter sighed. ‘I wish it was; I hate these things.’ He reached into a side pocket of his jacket, took out a brown envelope that only just fitted, and passed it across the table. ‘About half an hour before this meeting was due to begin, every news desk in Scotland received these by email, from an unknown address, with no covering message. I had our IT people trace the source. They were sent from an internet terminal in a café in Leith. Apparently you don’t have to register with it; you just sit down, put money in the slot, and go ahead.’

Skinner ripped the envelope apart; two photographs fell on to his table, face up. He picked them up and stared at them. The first was a location shot, showing a building, centred on an uncurtained window. Alex’s apartment building: Alex’s apartment: Alex’s bedroom. In the shot, there were two figures, close together, indistinct, but one, a dark-haired woman, was wearing a blue robe, and the other, a fair-haired man, was naked from the waist up. The second image, taken with a telephoto lens, was much closer. The blue robe was gone, and the woman was unfastening the man’s belt. The figures were recognisable, all too recognisable: Alex, with Andy Martin.

‘There were others,’ he heard Jock Fisher say, somewhere. ‘I chose not to bring them with me.’

He stared at the images, then turned them over. He was about to rip them into shreds, he was about to slam them on to the table, he was about to explode with rage, when he remembered that he was under the scrutiny of a room full of people, that the video cameras were still running, and that the stills photographers were still snapping. And so, albeit with a great effort, he laid the pictures down, and looked up at Fisher. ‘Yes?’ he asked. He spoke quietly, but in that instant, the air in the room seemed to have been chilled.

‘My paper wouldn’t dream of using those, Bob,’ the Saltire reporter replied, ‘but their very existence is a story and we can’t ignore that.’

‘Is that your daughter?’ Rebecca Unthank shouted, her courage seemingly restored.

‘I didn’t answer your earlier question,’ he told her. ‘For the avoidance of doubt, I will not discuss any family matters in this forum with you or anyone else.’

‘Were you aware that she’s still seeing DCC Martin, even though he’s married?’ the woman persisted.

‘Are we speaking the same language?’ he fired back. ‘Are you short of comprehension as well as manners?’

His gaze returned to Hunter and Fisher. ‘Listen,’ he began, in a voice loud enough to be heard at the back of the room, ‘I understand and respect the job that the responsible media have to do, but I won’t tolerate irresponsibility, wherever I find it. The only other personal comment I’m prepared to make is this: I regret that people who take and disseminate photographs like those I’ve just been shown are not subject, in this country, to criminal prosecution.’ He paused, frowning, as Alan Royston approached, and handed him a folded note. He opened it, read it, nodded, then looked back across the crowd of reporters. ‘Some news for you,’ he told them. ‘I’ve just received this message from Mitchell Laidlaw, chairman of Curle Anthony and Jarvis, solicitors. Any newspaper or broadcast organisation that publishes those images, or names the people in them, will be in breach of an interim interdict that has just been granted to my daughter by the court.’ He stood. ‘Any other questions you can put to me through Mr Royston,’ he said. ‘I have a job to be getting on with.’

He swept from the room, impassive, as a young journalist tried to block his way, only to be swept aside by the media manager. He was aware of eyes upon him as he walked from the gym and along the corridor, until he turned the corner and was out of sight.

He took the stairs two at a time, and strode along to his new office, pausing to open the door of its anteroom, where his secretary sat. ‘I’ll return Andy Martin’s call now, Gerry,’ he said. ‘I want you to listen in to this one,’ he added.

He had just eased himself in behind his desk when the phone rang. He was about to snatch it up when he stopped himself, and took a deep breath. ‘Calm,’ he whispered.

‘Bob,’ said Andy Martin.

‘Do you know what you’ve done?’ he asked, conversationally, as if his toe had just been stood on, nothing more. ‘My introduction to the media as chief constable, and I find myself looking at my daughter, in the buff, easing her way into your jockeys.’

‘Christ, Bob, listen-’

‘I don’t want to listen to you, Andy,’ he said. ‘I know it takes two to tango, but you have to understand that I’m biased here. I will do anything to protect my daughter, and her interests, private and professional. I’m going to assume that Karen knows about this, or will find out. Well, you make fucking certain that you give her my sincere, personal apologies for Alex’s involvement with you. And this is personal too; you can be sure that I will do everything in my power to thwart any thought you might have of ever working in the same city as my kid again. You will not see her again, you will not approach her, you will not accept any misguided calls she may make to you. Now, I don’t imagine that you rang her doorbell and asked her if she fancied a shag. You were in her house, so I must assume that she invited you there. Well, she’s got my genes, so in her personal life she’s going to make a few mistakes. To be honest, I always regarded you as one of them, although I kept that to myself when you were together. I’ll help her through this. What you have to do now is get your sorry arse home, get down on your knees, and rescue what’s left of your marriage, if you can. As for your career, you’ve crossed me, so that’s fucked.’

He replaced the phone in its cradle, gently. A few seconds later, Gerry Crossley came into the room, his face paler than before. ‘Boss, did you really want me to hear that?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes,’ the chief constable replied. ‘If I hadn’t known you were on the line, I reckon I would really have lost it with my former best friend. Now, get me my daughter, please. . but don’t listen in this time.’

It took the secretary a few minutes to make the connection, but finally he buzzed through. ‘I have Ms Skinner for you, sir,’ he said.

‘Hi, kid,’ Bob murmured, as she came on line. ‘You’ve had a tough afternoon, I hear.’

‘Oh, Pops,’ she sighed; he wondered if she was in tears. ‘I’m so sorry; for this to have happened today of all days, and for it to have embarrassed you. I heard about your press briefing from Alan Royston; it’s just awful. There’s nothing I can say to excuse myself. It was a one-off, a meeting between the two of us, for a chat, as it was for a while, until it got out of control. I should never have put us in that position. It was my fault, so don’t be too hard on Andy.’

‘Alexis,’ he told her, ‘I couldn’t be too hard on Andy, short of killing him. You’re vulnerable where he’s concerned, and he took advantage of you. The guy’s got a pregnant wife, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Dad, don’t make me feel worse. You and he have been friends for ever. He even gave you a clear run at your new job.’

‘I never asked him to do that. Anyway, the truth is, he wouldn’t have had a prayer against me, and he knew it.’

‘I’ll give tonight’s dinner a miss,’ said Alex suddenly.

‘Then it’s cancelled,’ her father replied firmly. ‘If you’re not there, it doesn’t go ahead, and Aileen will back me in that. You’ll be among friends, so you’re coming.’

‘I need them,’ she confessed heavily. ‘I’ve just had Karen on the phone. That’s why I was delayed taking your call. Mitchell Laidlaw wasn’t going to let the switchboard put her through, but I insisted.’

‘How was she?’

‘Icy and tearful, all at once; not surprising, in the circumstances. She told me that I was a treacherous slapper, and that she’d like to tear my hair out by the roots. I told her more or less what I’ve just told you, and said that Andy was mortified afterwards, that he called me later to say it could never happen again.’

‘He did that?’ Bob barked. ‘Better to have said nothing at all than to rub your nose in your own mistake. The bastard! I tell you, they’re going to be selling tickets at the next ACPOS meeting.’

‘Dad, stay away from him!’ she said apprehensively.

‘It’ll be the other way round, baby; I’m pretty sure of that. I saw him yesterday; if he was my true friend, and yours, he would have told me about what had happened between you, and apologised. But he didn’t have the balls to do either. He won’t come near me for a long time, if ever.’

‘Oh, Pops!’

‘That’s how it is, wee one. Subject closed. Now, this interdict of yours; that was fast work.’

‘The photographs arrived in my email,’ she told him, ‘followed shortly afterwards by a call from a Sun reporter. I told Mitchell at once, of course; what affects me affects the firm. He went straight up to the court and got the interdict preventing publication.’

‘Is he happy that it will hold?’ he asked.

‘He said that if it doesn’t, the editor who publishes the pictures, or even our names, will wind up in jail for contempt. We’ll go for a full interdict in due course.’

‘In a couple of days, kid,’ her father assured her, ‘this will have blown over as far as the media are concerned. They’ll have some sort of a story today and tomorrow, but with no names and no pictures, it won’t feature very high up the news schedules. Still, you’re staying at our place tonight, no question.’

‘If you say so.’ She fell silent for a few moments. ‘Pops, what I don’t understand is who would do this, and why? Those pictures weren’t taken by accident. Somebody was watching my flat. And the timing too. . just before your unveiling as chief constable. Is somebody out to get me? Have I upset a client that I don’t know about?’

Bob chuckled, taking her by surprise. ‘Alex, from what I know of your firm’s client list, it’s unlikely to include someone who’d take it out on a junior member of staff by photographing her in an intimate situation. You’re a bystander in this business, even if you’re not entirely innocent. Don’t worry, I’ve been wondering the same as you. Whoever’s behind this is either after me. . but when I ask myself who would be that crazy, I can’t come up with a name. . or it’s Andy who was the target. I promise you this, I’ll find this character. When I do I’m going nowhere near him myself, but I’ll have him charged with breach of the peace, that wonderful Scottish catch-all which lets you do just about anyone for just about anything. And the first person I’m going looking for is a man who calls himself Coben. See you tonight, babe,’ he said softly. ‘Keep your chin up, but most of all,’ he laughed, ‘please keep your bedroom curtains closed in future.’