Murmuring the Judges

10

Like many policemen, even of the most senior rank, Sir James Proud was wary of the press.

Dislike was too strong a word to describe his attitude; he was shrewd enough to appreciate the role of newspapers and the electronic media in shaping public perceptions of his force and its effectiveness. For that reason he had always been assiduous in maintaining friendly working relationships with editors and proprietors.

However, facing a mass of hungry hacks across a table was another matter entirely. There was something about their collective attitude which made him feel as if he was in the centre of a pack of predators, every one with his scent in their nostrils, every one waiting to fire questions with teeth in them.

Proud Jimmy could not be described as shy, nor nervous. He feared no man, except, privately, Bob Skinner, when aroused to a rage. But it was in his nature to measure his words, and to weigh his reply to every question put to him. He envied his deputy and his Head of CID their calm assurance in media briefings, knowing that while they always seemed confident and assured, invariably he presented an image of hesitancy and stiffness.

He had once heard himself referred to as Pinocchio in a whispered aside by a journalist after a briefing, and he had never forgotten it.

Nevertheless, there were some situations in which he could not delegate the responsibility of facing the press, and the early evening gathering in Galashiels which he faced now was surely one of them.

The Chief Constable sat alone at the black-covered table, set up in the canteen of the small, country police office, having declined Andy Martin’s offer to accompany him in the briefing. ‘No, son,’ he had said, ‘it wouldn’t be right for me to be seen to be leaning on anyone at a time like this.’

The wall behind him was bare and shabby, but he had refused to allow Alan Royston, the force media relations manager, to erect the portable backdrop which he had brought with him from Edinburgh. ‘No slogans, Alan. Not this time.’

He picked up the statement which he had written half an hour earlier, glanced at his audience, and at the array of microphones on the table before him and began to read.

‘At twelve-thirty-five this afternoon three men entered the Royal Bank of Scotland in Galashiels. They were armed with shotguns and threatened customers and staff, holding them at gunpoint and forcing bank employees to hand over a large sum of money.

‘In the course of the robbery, a bank customer, Mr Harry Riach, grappled with one of the gunmen and was shot. Mr Riach died instantly. As the three men left the bank they encountered an officer of my force, PC Anne Brown. Miss Brown was shot also, and died shortly afterwards in Borders General Hospital.

‘The three men made good their escape, in a car believed to be a grey Ford Escort. The most strenuous efforts to trace them are being made. On behalf of all my officers and staff, I extend sincere condolences to the families of Mr Riach and PC Brown, and promise them that none of us will rest until their killers have been brought to account.’

He sighed, squared the silver-encrusted shoulders of his heavy tunic and laid his statement on the tables. ‘I will take questions, ladies and gentlemen.’

Every one of the eighteen journalists in the room raised a hand simultaneously. The Chief settled on the youngest face in the room, a girl in the front row. She looked barely out of her teens, and she was ghostly pale. ‘Yes, miss,’ he offered, kindly.

‘Alice Collins, sir, from the local paper. Can you tell me how old PC Brown was?’

‘She was twenty-three.’

‘And Mr Riach?’

Sir James glanced at John McGrigor who stood, beside Andy Martin, at the side of the room. ‘Harry was fifty-two, sir,’ the Superintendent replied to the unspoken question.

‘Was PC Brown married?’ Alice Collins asked.

‘No. She was engaged, to a young man from Galashiels, I believe. Mr Riach was married, though. He leaves a widow and three sons, aged between eighteen and twenty-seven.’

‘Is this the same Harry Riach who played rugby for Scotland back in the early seventies?’ Sir James looked across to the other side of the canteen, recognising the voice before he picked out the grizzled face of John Hunter, a veteran freelance from Edinburgh. ‘From the youngest to the oldest,’ he thought.

‘That’s right, John. He won nine caps, playing in the second row. He played club rugby for Gala. The other lock in the team was Detective Superintendent John McGrigor over there. He’s known Mr Riach all his life.’

‘It must have been terrible for the Superintendent, then,’ said Hunter, ‘when he got to the scene.’

‘It was, John,’ said Proud Jimmy, quietly. ‘It always will be.’

‘Where’s Bob?’ the old journalist asked, almost too casually.

‘DCC Skinner is on holiday with his family, but he was informed by fax. He called me an hour ago, to say that he is returning at once. He’s driving, so I expect him back tomorrow evening.’

If the Chief Constable had looked, he would have seen Andy Martin lean his head against the wall and close his eyes. He was imagining the next morning’s headlines, given the spin which his commander had added unwittingly to an already hot story. ‘Skinner rushes back to take charge of double murder hunt.’

‘Next question, please,’ Sir James invited, ponderously. Once again the forest of hands shot up. ‘Julian Finney, Scottish Television,’ he said, pointing to a man who stood at the back of the room, beside a camera and its operator.

‘Thank you,’ the reporter acknowledged. ‘Sir, do you know how much money was stolen?’

‘The bank staff are still checking the exact amount, but we know it’s more than seven hundred thousand pounds.’

A collective gasp sounded around the room.

‘If that’s the case,’ Finney went on, his tone quiet and inoffensive, ‘it can’t have escaped your notice that it will bring the total stolen in armed robberies in your force’s area over the last three months to around two million pounds, with over a million and a half taken in the last week.

‘Are these robberies the work of the same gang, Sir James?’

As Proud shifted in his chair, a muscle clenched at the base of Andy Martin’s jaw. He wanted to intervene, to give Finney a stalling answer, but he knew that he could not undermine his Chief. He closed his eyes once more and hoped. In vain.

Honesty is never a weakness, but an inability to prevaricate can be a fault. ‘We’re in no doubt that they are,’ the Chief Constable responded solemnly.

Finney’s eyes narrowed, very slightly. ‘In that case, can you tell us something about your strategy to protect banks and public from future attacks. . particularly now that these people have shown themselves capable of murder.’

Proud Jimmy stared back at him. ‘I don’t know if I can discuss operational matters,’ he began, as the potential for disaster dawned on him.

‘Surely, Chief, when lives and property are at stake, the public has a right to know?’

Looking at the little man, Sir James knew suddenly the torment and fears of a baited bull. ‘Say nothing to start a public panic,’ his inner voice told him. He gazed at Finney for several seconds, unaware of anyone else in the room.

‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘we are in active consultation with the banks and building societies, and have offered them our advice on branch security. We are also scheduling our routine patrols so that as far as possible all bank premises will be under constant observation.’

‘That’s very reassuring, sir,’ Finney agreed. ‘But have you considered stationing armed police officers inside banks?’

Proud spluttered, in spite of himself. ‘We don’t have the resources, man.’

‘Well have you considered allowing the banks to employ their own armed guards?’

For once the Chief did not measure his response. ‘Not for a second,’ he barked. ‘That would just add to the public danger. Anyway, it would be against the law.’

As he looked at Finney, his mind’s eye saw him moving in for the kill; and he knew that his own honesty made him defenceless. ‘In that case, Sir James,’ the television reporter went on relentlessly, ‘what you’re telling us is that if armed men succeed in entering any bank, it, its staff and its customers will be completely vulnerable. Is that true? Yes or no, please.’

For Andy Martin it was too much. ‘I’m sorry, Julian,’ he said firmly, from the side of the room. ‘The Chief can’t get into a discussion with you or anyone else about the security arrangements within banks. But you can take it that anyone who stages an armed robbery in the future is in for a few very nasty surprises.’

‘Fair enough,’ Finney nodded, looked across at Martin then back at Proud.

‘May I ask one final question, Sir James?’

The Chief nodded his silver head.

‘Other than the man currently awaiting trial for his alleged part in the first robbery, do you have any clue to the identity of these men?’

All that Proud Jimmy wanted to do now was to clear the room, to escape from the sharp-toothed questioning. ‘No, Julian,’ he said, weariness in his voice. ‘As of now, we do not.’

‘Thank you. Sir,’ replied Finney, sincerely, his sound-bite secured.

Before another hand could be raised, the Chief Constable rose and swept from the canteen, Martin, McGrigor and Royston following behind.

Proud led the way into the Station Inspector’s empty office. As the door closed, he turned to face the Head of CID, his eyes blazing. McGrigor and Royston each glanced at the exit.

‘That fucking wee ferret Finney!’ he exploded. Inwardly, each of his three colleagues breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Mr Nice, but all the time he’s at your throat.’ His expression softened. ‘Thanks, Andy, for jumping in when you did.’

‘I’m sorry about that, Chief, but I just felt I had to.’

‘I know. Christ, all the time I sat there looking at him with tomorrow’s headlines, Police powerless to stop killers, swimming before my eyes.’ He paused. ‘Mind you, I felt I had to give him a straight answer to his last question.’

The Chief Superintendent nodded. ‘I agree. If you had come out with something even as innocuous as “Following several lines of inquiry”, you’d just have dug a hole for us.’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought. Anyway, that’ll be my last press briefing for a while. They’ll be down to you from now on.’

‘Or to Bob.’

‘That’s for you to decide, between you,’ said Proud Jimmy. ‘By the way,’ he added, after a pause, ‘what did you mean when you said the gang would be in for “a few very nasty surprises” if they tried again?’

‘Ah,’ said Martin. ‘That was a device that I use very occasionally with the press in a tight spot, if I think it’s in everyone’s best interests.’ He smiled, grimly. ‘Even though Alan here cringes when I do.

‘It’s called a lie.’