Pray for the Dying

Fifty-One

‘Who was that little guy?’ Clyde Houseman asked, as he settled into the chair that Skinner offered him. ‘He wasn’t the sort you expect to see on the command floor of the second largest police force in Britain.’

‘Just a technician,’ the chief replied. ‘I had a wee problem, but he sorted it out for me.’

‘Computer?’

He shrugged. ‘You know IT consultants, they live in a different world from the rest of us. Some of them turn up and they’re dressed like you, others, they’re like him. I know which ones I trust more. I’m not a big fan of dressing to impress.’

The younger man winced and his eyes seemed to flicker for a moment. ‘I do. .’

Skinner laughed. ‘Don’t take it personally. I wasn’t getting at you. You’re ex-military, an ex-officer; you’ve had years of training in taking a pride in your appearance. Plus, you’re not a computer consultant; you’re a spook. Whatever, you look a hell of a lot better than you did as a gang-banger in Edinburgh half a lifetime ago.’

‘Thank God for that.’

‘Me, now? I’ve never changed. I joined the police force because I felt a vocational calling, and I followed it even though I knew that my old man had always hoped I would take over the family law firm eventually. I think he died hoping that. I never let myself be swayed, though. I applied to join the Edinburgh force, they saw my shiny new degree and they accepted me. And you know what? The first time I put on the uniform, I realised that I hated it. The thing was ugly and uncomfortable and when I looked in the mirror I didn’t recognise the bloke inside it.

‘It didn’t kill my pride in the job, but it did make me want to get into CID as fast as I could. Look at me now; I’m a chief constable, but my uniform is hanging in my wardrobe next door. I’m only wearing a suit because I feel a wee bit obliged to do that, at least until I get settled in here.

‘The real me might dress a wee bit sharper than the guy you passed at the lift, but it would still be pretty casual. So what you see here, to an extent it’s a phoney. Old George Michael got it right; sometimes clothes do not make the man.

‘But yours, though, they do. They mark you out, they define you. The military defined you. It made you; you became it. Before that you were no more than eighty kilos of clay waiting to be given proper form.

‘I could see that when I came across you in that shithole of a scheme in Edinburgh. That’s why I gave you my card that day: I thought you might see the light and get in touch. You didn’t, but you still went in the right direction. If you had. . you’d still be the man you are, but you’d just look a bit different, that’s all.’

Houseman laughed. ‘Scruffy at weekends, you mean? How do you know I’m not?’

‘I know, because I’ve met plenty of soldiers in my time and quite a few were officers who rose through the ranks, like you. I’ll bet you don’t have a pair of jeans in your wardrobe. Am I right?’

‘You are, as a matter of fact. Is that a bad thing?’

‘In a soldier, no. In a lawyer, no. In an actuary, for sure no. When I hang out in Spain I see these fat blokes on the beach in gaudy shirts and ridiculous shorts, with gold Rolexes on their wrists and all of them looking miserable because their wives have dragged them there and they’re starting to panic because they don’t know who anyone else is and, worse, nobody knows what they are. My golf club’s full of people who’ve never worn denim in their fucking lives, and that’s okay, because if they did they’d be pretending to be something they’re not.’

‘Exactly. So what are you saying?’

‘I’m trying to tell you,’ Skinner said, ‘that conformity is fine for normal people. But you, Clyde, you’re not a normal person, you’re a spook. You’re a good-looking bloke, of mixed race, so you have an inbuilt tendency to be memorable. The way you dress, the way you present yourself, makes you unforgettable, and in your line of work, my friend, that is the very last thing you want to be. If they didn’t teach you that when you joined up at Millbank, then they failed you.’

Houseman’s eyebrows formed a single line. ‘Point taken, sir. Any suggestions?’

‘Nothing radical; the obvious mostly. Vary your dress, and when you go casual, don’t wear stuff with big logos or pop stars on the front. Shop in Marks and Spencer rather than Austin Reed. Let your hair grow a bit shaggy. Don’t shave every day. Wear sunglasses when it’s appropriate, the kind that people will remember rather than the person behind them. Choose what you drive carefully.’

He smiled. ‘That day you and I met, back in the last century, I was driving my BMW. That was an accident; normally I’d have been in my battered old Land Rover. If I had, you and your gang wouldn’t have given it a second glance, and I wouldn’t have had to warn you off.’

‘Then whatever caused that accident, I’m grateful for it. You gave me the impetus to get out of there. Otherwise I might not have. I might have stayed a stereotype and wound up in jail.’

‘Nah, I think you’d have made it. You were a smart kid. You’d have worked it out for yourself, eventually.’

‘Maybe.’ He pulled himself a little more upright. ‘However, I’m sure you didn’t call me here to give me fashion advice.’

‘No,’ Skinner agreed, ‘that’s true. I felt I should give you an update on the investigation, since you were in at the death, so to speak.’

‘Thanks, sir. I appreciate that. How’s it going?’

‘It’s not,’ the chief sighed. ‘It’s stalled. All our lines of inquiry have dried up. There is no link between Beram Cohen and the person or organisation who sponsored the hit. We know how it was done, and even if it points in a certain direction, the witnesses are all dead. That’s probably my fault,’ he added. ‘You had no choice but to take down Smit, but if I was a better shot I’d have been able to stop Botha without killing him.’

‘There will be no further inquiries about our part in that?’ Houseman asked.

‘None. Everything is closed.’

Skinner rose to his feet, and his visitor followed suit. He moved towards the door, then stopped. ‘I’m aware,’ he said, ‘that in Toni Field’s time MI5 policy was to keep our counter-terrorism unit at a distance. It’s okay, I’m not asking you to comment. Toni may not even have been aware of it, but I know it was the case. I just want you to know that while I’m here, I won’t tolerate that. You can keep secrets from anyone else, but if they affect my operational area, not from me. Understood?’

Houseman nodded. ‘Understood, sir.’

They walked together to the lift. The chief constable watched the doors close then went back the way he had come, but walked past his own room, stopping instead at the one he had commandeered for Lowell Payne. He knocked on the door then opened it halfway and looked in.

‘Come on along,’ he said.

Marina Deschamps put down her magazine, stood and followed him. ‘This is all very surprising,’ she murmured, with a smile. ‘Even a little mysterious. By the way, did you solve the mystery of the safe?’

He nodded. ‘This very afternoon. I’ve still to check its contents, but if there’s anything personal in there I’ll let you have it. As for the rest, you’re right, but now I can show you what this visit’s all about.’

He sat behind his desk and touched the space bar on his computer keyboard to waken it from sleep.

‘This room has a couple of little bonuses,’ he began. ‘Having worked next door, you’re probably aware that there’s a security system. There’s a wee camera in the corner of the ceiling and when the system is set, anyone who comes in here is automatically filmed, without ever knowing it.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Some evenings I would be last out of here, and so I had to be shown how to set it.’

‘Yes, I imagine so. But did Toni tell you that it’s more than an alarm?’

‘No, she never did. It is? In what way?’

‘It can also be used to record meetings. Clearly, if that happens, all the participants should be made aware of it, but if they weren’t they’d never know.’ He used his mouse to open a program then select a file. He beckoned to her. ‘Come here and take a look at this.’

As she walked round behind him he clicked an icon, to start a video. There was no sound, but the image that she could see was clear and in colour. The chief constable with his back to the camera and facing him a sharply dressed, immaculately groomed man, whose skin tone was almost identical to her own.

‘Ever seen him before?’ Skinner asked, hearing an intake of breath from over his shoulder.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘That’s Don Sturgeon. What’s he doing here?’