Pray for the Dying

Forty-Nine

Skinner smiled as he gazed at the ceiling. Stanley Baldwin, he thought. He guessed where Payne had been when he had reached him. The abbey was one of his favourite stopping-off places when he was in London.

London. For all that the prospect of an independently governed Scotland was looming, the great monolith in the south remained the centre of power. He had decided that he would vote ‘Yes!’ with his heart in the referendum, but he had no illusions over the difficulty his country faced in extricating itself from the British state, if that was what the majority chose.

Scotland might become a nation, fully self-governing, a member of both the European Union and the UN, but it would still share a head of state and an island with its English neighbours and their common problems of security would remain. He knew better than most what that would mean. MI5 would continue to operate north of what would have become a national border.

Even if a future first minister had access to its work and to those of its secrets that affected his interests, he would have a very small voice in decisions that affected its remit and its funding, and no control at all over its activities. Strings would continue to be pulled in secret, by secret people, like his friend Amanda Dennis and her immediate boss, Sir Hubert Lowery, the director of the service.

It would be up to the new Scotland to come to terms with the need to have its own counter-espionage service, to protect itself against potential threats from wherever they came, even if that was Westminster. He had discussed this with Clive Graham, at a meeting so private that he had kept it from Aileen. Whatever their differences on the unification of the police forces, the two men were agreed that if the time came, their country would need its own secret service. There was also an understanding over the man who would head it.

His smile was long gone when the phone sounded; he flicked the switch that put it on speaker. ‘Yes?’

‘Sir,’ a woman replied, ‘it’s PC May in reception. I’m very sorry to bother you, and I wouldn’t normally, but there’s a man here, an odd-looking wee chap, and he’s asking to see you. He won’t give me his name but he says to tell you that he’s been sent by Mr McGuire in Edinburgh. What should I do?’

‘He’s okay,’ Skinner told her. ‘He’s a tradesman I need to solve a practical problem. Take him to the lift, then come up with him to this floor, straight away. I’ll meet you there and take charge of him.’

He hung up and walked from his office. He was waiting by the elevator door when it opened less than two minutes later. A small wiry man with a pinched face and a jailhouse complexion stepped out.

The chief looked towards his escort. ‘Thanks, Constable. I’ll call you to come and collect him when we’re done. By the way,’ he added. ‘I’m expecting another visitor quite soon. Let me know directly he arrives.’

She was nodding as the lift door closed, leaving Skinner alone with his visitor. ‘Well, Johan,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s good to see you, under different circumstances from the usual.’

Johan Ramsey was dressed in baggy jeans and brown jerkin, over a Rangers football top that his host judged, from its design, to be at least three seasons old. He was one of those people whose only expression was furtive. ‘Is this legit?’ he asked.

Skinner laughed. ‘Johan, I’m the chief fucking constable; of course it’s legit. A wee bit unorthodox, that’s all. Come on.’

He led the way to his office, and into his private room, where he pulled aside the door that concealed the safe. ‘That’s the problem,’ he said. ‘My predecessor took the combination to her grave, and I can’t open it. Six digits, I’m told.’

Ramsey took a pair of spectacles with one leg from a pocket in his jerkin, and perched them on the narrow bridge of his nose. He appraised the task for a few seconds, then nodded, and declared, ‘A piece of piss,’ with a degree of pride. ‘If you’ll just step into the other room, sir, Ah’ll have it open in a couple of minutes.’

The chief’s jaw dropped, then he laughed. ‘Jo, if you think I’m leaving you alone in here, you’re daft.’

The little man pouted. ‘Professional secrets, Mr Skinner,’ he protested.

‘My arse! Jo, you’re a professional fucking thief! I don’t know what’s in the bloody thing. Tell you what, I’ll stand behind you, so I can’t see your hands.’ He took five twenty-pound notes from his wallet and waved them before the safe-cracker’s eyes. ‘And there’s these,’ he added.

‘What about ma train fare?’

Skinner snorted, but produced another twenty. ‘There you are: and a couple of pints when you get home. Now get on with it.’

‘Aye, okay.’

He turned and hunched over the safe. The chief saw him reach inside his jacket again then insert a device that could have been a hearing aid in his ear. Everything else was hidden to him; all he could see were small movements of Ramsey’s shoulders.

‘A couple of minutes’ he had said, and it took no longer, until there was a click, and the safe swung open.

‘Piece of piss, Ah told ye. Three four eight five’s the combination. Four digits, no’ six.’

Skinner smiled as he handed over the notes. ‘Do you know what “recidivist” means, Johan?’ he asked.

‘No, sir,’ Ramsey replied as he pocketed them.

‘No, I didn’t think so. Do me one favour, even though it’ll be a big one for you. Try not to get nicked again on my patch, whether it’s here or in Edinburgh. This can’t get you any favours, and I really don’t want to have to lock you up again. Come on, let’s get you back home. Remember, you were never here.’

His desk phone rang again as they stepped back into his office. He picked it up.

‘PC May again, sir. Your next visitor’s arrived.’

‘Good timing,’ he said. ‘Bring him up, and you can take this one back.’