Stay of Execution

36

Brian Mackie’s chief superintendent’s uniform was still new; he looked as awkward in it as Maggie Rose felt in hers. The strangest part of it was the peaked, braided cap, which looked uncomfortable and out of place on his domed head.

‘Hello there,’ she called out as she closed the door of the police command room behind her.

Mackie’s head and those of the two inspectors who were with him turned towards her. ‘Maggie,’ he exclaimed, ‘I didn’t expect to see you today.’

‘Sure you did, Brian.’ She laughed.

‘Yes, well,’ he admitted, ‘maybe I’d have been surprised if you hadn’t put in an appearance.’

‘How’s everything going?’

‘No problems to speak of, although they’ve just had a small incident near the east turnstiles. One of the civilian security guys took it upon himself to try to body-search a member of the public for concealed alcohol, and actually laid hands on him. The man took exception to it, shoved him away and called a constable; rightly so, for the security fellow was absolutely reeking of drink himself.’

‘What did you do with him?’

‘I told the officer on the scene to arrest him, and to note the address of the complainer, so that we can take a statement later. I’m of a mind to charge him with assault; I won’t have these people behaving like that.’ He smiled. ‘Apart from that it’s just another day at the office. These events are not quite like the Hearts-Hibs derby games. They attract just as many prats, but a different sort, if you know what I mean, plus there’s never any aggro between the rival supporters. The main problem we have is with pickpockets. They’ve been known to work in organised groups on days like this; I think they see all these half-cut Watsonians and Academicals as easy game.’

‘Can that not be a bit risky?’

‘It certainly can,’ Mackie agreed. ‘At the last match, a couple of weeks ago, one of them picked the wrong pocket and got his jaw broken.’

‘What did you do about that?’

‘I’d have charged them both, but the pickpocket wouldn’t make a complaint, so only he got done. A pity in a way; the lad involved was a judge’s son. That would have been fun had it come to court.’

Rose frowned. ‘The judge wasn’t Lord Mendelton, was he?’

‘As a matter of fact he was. Why do you ask?’

‘Because his son’s car was torched outside his house last week. George Regan’s still looking for the guy that did it. I’ll pass that on to Mary when I see her on Monday.’

‘Be my guest,’ said Mackie. He led her over to the window of the command room, and together they looked out across the great bowl of the Scottish Rugby Union’s national stadium. With thirty minutes remaining until the scheduled kick-off time, it was less than half full; on the field a pipe band was playing and the New Zealand squad, massive in black tracksuits, was warming up.

‘It won’t look like this in a few days,’ Rose murmured, ‘when the Pope comes here. I am more than happy that you’ll be in charge of that one.’

‘Cheers, pal,’ her colleague grunted. ‘As you say, the stadium will look a bit different then,’ he told her, pointing out on to the field. ‘The main platform will be on the pitch, just beyond the centre spot.’

‘What’s the programme?’

‘Let’s go outside and I’ll take you through it.’

The two chief superintendents left the room and walked down the long staggered stairway that led, eventually, into the tunnel that would be used by the players in twenty minutes or so. As they stepped out of the huge west stand, on to the green, white-laned synthetic running track, the purpose of which was one of the great unsolved mysteries of Scottish sport, Mackie pointed towards the vehicle entrance to their left.

‘It’s relatively simple,’ he said. ‘The papal convoy, the glass bubble thing in front, and limos behind, will enter through there, and drive up to the platform. The youngsters will be in the west, north and south stands; the east won’t be used. His Holiness will get out and will be received at the foot of the steps by the Prime Minister, the First Minister and Lord Provost. . if they don’t fall out over the order of precedence. Then they’ll all mount the steps where some other people will be presented, the three wives of course, then the deputy First Minister and his wife, then the Justice Minister and her partner, then the Moderator of the Church of Scotland and his wife, and finally the chief and Lady Proud.’

Maggie was surprised by the last-named dignitary. ‘It’s not like him to put himself forward.’

‘The Pope insisted,’ Mackie told her. ‘They’re old friends. After all the introductions,’ he went on, ‘there’ll be the entertainment; the bands, the dancers and the singers. Once that part of the programme’s complete, they’ll all line up, and the Pope, the Prime Minister and the First Minister will come down from the platform and review them.’

‘All of them?’

‘Every last one. His Holiness wants to bless them all, personally. Once that’s done, he goes back up on stage and says mass, preaches a sermon, and closes the rally.’

‘At which point,’ said a voice behind them, ‘you all breathe hearty sighs of relief and head for the Roseburn Bar.’

They turned to see Mario McGuire behind them, looking even more solid than usual in a sheepskin-lined bomber jacket, flanked by Neil McIlhenney and Colin Mawhinney.

‘We should be so lucky,’ said Mackie.

‘It’ll be a cakewalk, Brian, don’t you worry.’ He smiled at Maggie in her uniform. ‘Suits you, ma’am,’ he chuckled.

She beamed back at him. ‘So does yours. I can just see you smoothing around the pubs in Leith in that, making your ominous presence felt.’

They turned and headed back towards the tunnel. ‘I wasn’t kidding,’ he said. ‘You really do have a spring in your step in your nice blue suit. . or is it just you?’

‘Maybe it is me. Maybe I’ve got what I want at last.’

‘In that case, love, I’m happy for you. Just don’t put all your cash on one horse.’

‘Sometimes we have to, Mario. Your trouble is that you’re scared to bet at all.’