Pray for the Dying

Twenty-One

‘Sod this!’ Skinner muttered. When he had plugged his landline into the wall ten minutes before six o’clock, it had told him that nineteen messages had been left for him. In theory his number was private and unlisted; he knew that some of the Scottish news outlets had acquired it by means he had chosen not to investigate, but he had no idea how many. The call counter gave him a clue. Making a mental note to have it changed, he held his finger on the ‘erase’ button until the box was empty. If any friends or family had called him, he guessed they would have rung his personal mobile as back-up.

He switched that on; there were no message waiting, but he had only just stepped out of the shower when it rang. He answered without checking the caller. No journalists had the number. . no active journalists, but there was a retired one who did.

‘Bob,’ a deep familiar voice rumbled, the accent basically Scottish but overlaid with something else.

‘Xavi,’ Skinner exclaimed. ‘How are you doing, big fella? And those lovely girls of yours?’

Xavier Aislado, and his ancient half-brother, Joe, were the owners of the Saltire newspaper. Their father had escaped from Civil War Spain to Scotland, and eventually they had chosen to return, although in different circumstances and at different times.

Xavi, after a promising football career cut short by injury, had been the Saltire’s top journalist, and had been responsible for its acquisition by the media chain that Joe, thirty years his senior, had built in Catalunya.

Their family structure was complicated. Xavi’s mother had left him behind as a child, and had gone on to have twin daughters, by a police colleague of Skinner. One of the two had taken over from Xavi as the Saltire’s managing editor, although she had been completely unaware of their relationship until then.

‘We’re all fine,’ he said. ‘Sheila and Paloma are blooming and Joe’s hanging in there. He wasn’t too well during the winter, but he’s got his love to keep him warm too. But more to the point, what is happening in your life? June called me at some God-awful hour about a story that everybody’s chasing, about your wife. She and I want you to know that we owe you plenty, so if it’s all balls, you have open access to the Saltire to help knock it down. If it’s true. . we’ll ignore it if that’s what you want.’

‘I appreciate that, Xavi,’ Bob assured his friend. ‘As it happens it is true, but we’re proposing to deal with it like two grown-ups. Tell June to be ready for a joint statement this morning; that should put a lid on it.’

‘How about this man Morocco? Look, I’ve been there; I know how you’re liable to be feeling about him.’

‘Liable to be,’ he agreed, ‘but I’m not. Morocco’s a relative innocent in this carry-on, so don’t go looking to give him an editorial hard time. Let him stay a Scottish celebrity hero. Between you and me, the guy’s done me a favour.’

‘If that’s what you want, I’ll pass it on to June.’ He chuckled, a deep sound that made Skinner think of one of his vices, a secret that he shared with Seonaid, his younger daughter: a spoonful of Nutella, scooped straight from the jar. ‘I don’t tell her anything, you understand. On the Saltire, she’s the boss.’

‘I’m sure.’ Bob frowned. ‘Has she brought you up to date with what happened on Saturday, in the Glasgow concert hall?’

‘Yes, she has. From what she told me, it rather complicates the Aileen situation. She had a narrow escape and went running to Morocco, not you.’

‘She didn’t. Have a narrow escape, that is. She wasn’t the target.’

‘You can say that for certain? I thought there was still some doubt about who they were after. A couple of our Spanish titles are running the proposition that the First Minister himself was the target, and they missed.’

‘Then you should kick someone’s arse. Clive Graham might not mind the publicity, but the truth is that the one thing we did know for sure was that the target was female, and we said so at the time. Now we know definitely that it was Toni Field. My team in Glasgow haven’t announced it yet, but they will this morning. Press conference at ten o’clock, the same time as my lawyer will issue our statement, Aileen’s and mine, about our decision, last week, to pull the plug on our marriage.’

‘Now there’s a coincidence. Sorry,’ the Spanish Scot murmured, ‘that was my cynicism showing through.’

‘Hey, Xavi,’ Skinner laughed, ‘I’ve learned many things from you. One of them is how to minimise a story, as well as how to maximise it. Tell June. . sorry, suggest to her, that she forget about us and concentrate on Glasgow this morning. There were developments yesterday, significant developments, and they’re going to blow political marriages off the front page.’

‘Any hints?’

‘Just one. I don’t want anyone approached before the press conference, but your crime reporter might be well employed doing all the research he can on a man named Basil “Bazza” Brown.’

‘Thanks for that. Will you be at the media briefing?’

‘No, I have someone else to see before then. I’ll need to go, in fact; my driver’s due to pick me up in under fifteen minutes.’

‘Fine.’ Aislado paused, then added, ‘You and Strathclyde, Bob. I know how you’ve always felt about it, so how the hell did that happen?’

‘A chapter of accidents, mate. Aileen says that now I’m there it’ll be my Hotel California. You know, I can check in any time I like but I can never leave. I’m not so sure about that, though. I have many things to sort out in my head over the next few weeks.’

‘Well, if you’d like somewhere to sort them out undisturbed, you’re welcome to visit us. I know you have your own place in L’Escala, but we have a guest house here now, and it’s yours for as long as you need it, if you don’t want anyone to know where you are.’

‘Cheers, appreciated. I may take you up on that.’

‘Okay. Bob, one last thing. If we do go looking for this man Brown after ten o’clock, where are we likely to find him?’

‘In the fucking mortuary, mate.’