'If you'd told me that,' Skinner growled, 'we'd be having more than bloody sandwiches. Where's this room, then?'
'Just a minute.' Martin walked across to the reception desk and spoke to a young man behind it. He came out and led them through the hotel to a light, airy room with a conference table that could have seated up to a dozen.
'I'll serve lunch now, shall I, gentlemen?' the manager asked. Skinner nodded, and the man left.
The two visitors looked out of the window across the hotel's attractive gardens. They were in winter mode, befitting the approach of Christmas: the day had dawned crisp and clear and had stayed that way, although it had grown colder through the morning. Kinross was in for a hard frost that night, and maybe snow was not too far away. McIlhenney felt himself shiver.
As Skinner surveyed the grounds his eye fell on a woman pushing a pram or, rather, a modern multi-position device designed for the carriage of small children. 'Hey,' he exclaimed, 'is that Karen out there?'
'Yes,' said Martin, with a sudden dazzling smile and a look in his eyes that McIlhenney had never seen before in him but which he recognised as the pride of the new parent. 'I decided that I'd take the day off and bring her and Danielle down with me. When you two have gone we're going to have a swim in the hotel pool.'
'How's she liking being up here?' asked McIlhenney.
'Ah, she's loving it.'
'Do I detect from your tone that you might not be?' Skinner murmured.
'I'm enjoying my job very much, Bob.'
'That's not an answer.'
'It's the best one I can give you.'
'You know that the chief constable job in Dumfries and Galloway's coming up?'
'I don't have the experience,' said Martin, quickly. 'Why don't you apply for it?'
'That'll be bloody right!'
'There you are, then.'
'Okay,' Skinner admitted. 'I know that job's not for you, but there'll be fall-out from the appointment when it's made… and it could be made soon, for reasons I'll explain shortly. When it's advertised, I'll bet you that a certain stocky Glaswegian ACC, whose office is only a few yards from my own, will be among the applicants.'
'Interesting,' Martin agreed. 'And if Willie gets it there will be a vacancy at Fettes. That's what you're hinting, is it?'
'It's more of a forecast than a hint. Willie's been told to apply for the job, by the outgoing chief, no less.'
'But if he left, you'd promote from within, wouldn't you?'
'Who fills the bill?'
'Brian Mackie?'
'Too new in his present job.'
'Maggie?'
'Likewise; and within these walls I don't fancy any of our other chief supers moving into the Command Corridor. So if and when the vacancy arises, there will be an outside appointment. You want it, you got it, son; it's as simple as that.'
'Food for thought,' Martin mused. He glanced out of the window at his wife and baby daughter. 'I'll keep it to myself for now, though.'
There was a knock on the door; it opened and a waiter appeared pushing a trolley, laden with a large plate of sandwiches, an attractive salad topped with several slices of thick ham, a pot of coffee and two large bottles of mineral water.
As he left, slightly enriched by a tip from Skinner, the three men took places at the table. At first they concentrated on lunch, since they were all hungry, but eventually Martin pushed his plate to one side. 'So, Bob, what's this about?'
'I'm worried,' Skinner replied. 'I think we have something nasty and potentially very dangerous to our service on our hands. What's the respective role of chief constable, board and ministers, in the simplest form?'
'Chiefs are responsible for policing,' Martin shot back, instantly, 'the board for equipping, and the Secretary of State, or First Minister now, for enabling.'
'Perfect. That's how it's always been and how it should be. The problem is that we have a First Minister who wants to change all that: he wants to emasculate the boards and take control for himself. He wants to approve every appointment at our rank, and have the power to fire us, personally, at will.'
'He can't do that!'
'Oh, no? The bill's already drafted. He's sweet-talked his coalition partners into going along with it on the basis that the powers it gives him are for use in extreme cases only. It's as bad in its own way as the Americans' Patriot Act: the law that gives the US Attorney General the right to decide who's a terrorist and who isn't. I suspect that our beloved leader Mr Murtagh might just be a bit of a Fascist, but in rose-red clothing.'
'Have you seen this bill?'
'No, but a friend of mine has and described it to me in detail.'
'What about the new Justice Minister, de Marco? I thought she was supposed to be pro-police. She made her feelings plain on Monday about those people being packed off to Cuba.'
Skinner looked at him and picked up another sandwich. 'She's the friend,' he replied, and took a bite. He let the silence linger until he was finished, reading all the questions in his friend's eyes as he did. 'Aileen didn't make her feelings plain directly; I did it for her. Now she's been coerced by Murtagh into appearing to go along with it, and we've agreed that she should acquiesce for now. The guy thinks he's got me by the balls too, and I plan to let him go on thinking that.'
'So are you going to sit on your hands and let the bastard get on with it?' Martin demanded, as angrily as he could ever sound.
'I'm going to appear to do that. He'll be watching me like a hawk or, rather, his newly appointed Himmler will.'
'Who?'
Skinner raised his eyebrows. 'You haven't heard that Jock Govan's been booted as security adviser? Jimmy Proud told me he'd let all the other chiefs know.'
'It's news to me, but Graham Morton was away yesterday and Monday. I haven't seen him this week. Who's the new guy?'
'Greg Jay.'
Martin gasped. 'You have to be joking.'
'Am I smiling?' Skinner retorted. 'Officially he retired from us last week, but unofficially he's been working for wee Tommy for a while. He's even been checking up on Aileen and me… not that there was anything for him to check up on, in the sense you're thinking.' He caught a flicker of McIlhenney's right eyebrow, but no more.
'He's made his presence felt with other people too. I spoke with Niall Foy, the Chief Inspector of Constabulary this morning. He's absolutely livid, because apparently Jay's been saying that he'll be allowed to conduct private investigations into individual officers and report directly to his boss about them. Again, Murtagh's saying that it would only be in the most sensitive and exceptional circumstances, but if you believe that…'
'This is appalling,' Martin exclaimed. 'What do you think, Neil?'
The chief inspector smiled. 'Just between you and me, Andy? Personally, I think Jay should have been sent home to his garden a while back, when he crossed my friend McGuire, but I wouldn't have dared say it to the boss, would I?'
Skinner grumbled, 'No, but maybe Dan Pringle should have.' He paused. 'Is there anything you wouldn't dare tell me about him?'
'As head of CID,' McIlhenney replied, 'Dan was a man for his time. Now that time's nearly up. There's other things I could say as well, but I'm not going to dig that up.'
'No, best not to. Anyway, back to the pressing matter. I wanted to see you guys today because I want to ask you to put your careers on the line. I want to get that little bastard Murtagh and I want you to help me do it. He is just too bloody slimy to have no skeletons in his closet. I want to find out whose they are, or what they are, and I want to make their bones rattle until they drive him out of office.'
He looked at Martin once again. 'Murtagh may be Edinburgh-based now, but he has a Dundonian background. I want to know all about it. I want to know who his pals were when he was here, whether he preferred women to sheep, where he worked before he gave it up and became a politician. I want schoolfriend anecdotes, office gossip… did he ever feel the typists' bums, that sort of stuff… any weapon you can find me, and as
many of them as you can.'
He turned to McIlhenney. 'Neil, I want you to do a vetting operation on him in Edinburgh. I've already had a conversation with Amanda Dennis. She understands what's at stake and she'll help you in any way she can. I know I'm piling a lot of responsibility on your shoulders, with the other thing on the go, but I have to assume that I'm being watched myself. I won't forget it, don't worry.'
'I never have,' said McIlhenney. 'What about Jay?'
'Jay is a minion.' Skinner spat the word out contemptuously. 'If you think about it, you and I both know already how we can bring him into line. But I will choose my moment. Who knows? Maybe I can turn him into our best weapon against Murtagh.'
He winked at his colleagues, at his friends, and picked up yet another sandwich.
Twenty-six
'I like this pub,' said Maggie, as she looked around the old tavern, strategically placed beside the railway station on the five-pointed Haymarket junction. 'I came here when I was little more than a girl, and it's barely changed since.'
'Unlike too many of them,' Stevie Steele commented. 'I don't like designer boozers, converted banking halls, that sort of thing, but I really hate it when places like this are revamped and modernised just for the sake of it, when a coat of varnish is all they really need.'
'This one's survived, at least'
'But for how much longer?'
'As long as it makes a nice profit.'
He laughed. 'And serves a nice pie.' He looked at her as he sprinkled vinegar on his chips. 'So, love, what's so important or enticing that couldn't wait till tonight?'
Maggie slipped her arms out of her overcoat and let it fall behind her over the back of her chair. She still wore her white uniform shirt, but she had removed the black and white checked cravat and epaulettes. Police uniforms always drew stares in pubs; without the telltale neckerchief, she might have been a bank clerk.
'I had a letter from my lawyer in the mail this morning,' she said. 'He's agreed the financial settlement with Mario's solicitor and it's ready for us both to sign. I'm getting the house free and clear, as Mario promised, and everything in it.'
'That's good,' Stevie replied, quietly. 'But it's no surprise, is it? You didn't expect him to go back on his word.'
'No, of course not, but it's still nice to know that the formalities are done with. Once it's signed it'll just leave one tie to be cut between us, the marriage itself.'
'Divorce, you mean? That'll happen the year after next, won't it, once you've been apart for two years?'
She nodded. 'It would do, if we followed the simple procedure and divorced on the ground of irretrievable breakdown. But if I sued Mario for divorce on the ground of adultery, it could happen virtually right away.'
Stevie's eyebrows rose. 'Would you do that?' he asked.
'I don't know. I don't feel vindictive towards him, or even towards Paula. It depends.'
'Depends on what?
'Depends on whom: it depends on you. Would you like me to be single as soon as possible?'
Stevie stopped in the middle of cutting a segment out of his mutton pie. He frowned, looked at the ceiling for a few moments, then took a mouthful from his pint of orange squash. Finally he looked back at her. 'As in free to marry?' he asked.
'I wasn't implying anything like that,' she answered quickly.
He smiled into her eyes. 'I don't care what you were implying. Whether it was a back-handed proposal or not, the answer's yes. I want you absolutely free and clear from Detective Superintendent McGuire at the earliest opportunity, and I want to marry you. But will it be that easy? Big Mario might not care to be branded publicly as an adulterer.'
'Big Mario does not care. Big Mario told his lawyer to tell mine that if that's what I want to do then it'll be fine by him and Paula, as long as I keep her name off the petition.'
Stevie's smile spread from ear to ear. 'Bloody hell!' he exclaimed. 'That's a twist.'
'But it's not unexpected by me. Mario and I weren't very good at being husband and wife, in any sense, but if either of us needs something from the other, it's as good as done.'
'Should I worry about that, long term?'
'No. Not any more. There's nothing tying us together.' She paused. 'All the bodies have been buried, and all the evidence burned.'
He laughed. 'There's nobody better at a cover-up than a copper. Are you going to do it, then, go for an immediate divorce?'
'Yes. You've just made my mind up for me.'
'I'm glad. Now make me even happier and eat your lunch: it's getting cold.'
They concentrated on their pies, their chips and their beans until they were finished. When they were, they piled their plates one on the other and picked up their drinks. Stevie shook his head, a slightly bemused grin on his face. 'Let's go to Laing's on Saturday,' he said. 'You'll have to steer me: I've never bought an engagement ring before.'
'I'm glad to hear it, but you're forgetting something. I haven't said "yes" yet.'
'Well, will you?'
'Let me tell you something else first,' she replied. 'Then you can ask me again, if you want. My letter arrived okay, but a few days ago, something else didn't'
'Uh?'
'Do you know the last time I missed a period, Stevie?'
His eyes widened. 'I wouldn't, would I?' he whispered.
'The answer's never since I started having them. Regular as clockwork, on the dot; you could set your watch by me. Until this month.'
His mouth fell open; he stared at her, idiotically. 'You mean… Have you…'
'I'm going to give it another day or so, and if nothing's happened, I'll get a kit and do a test. If I am, how do you feel about it? Would you be upset?'
'Upset?' he gasped. 'Think of me waking up as chief constable, us winning the lottery and you being pregnant. That's my wish list, in ascending order.'
'Really?'
'Couldn't be more real. I'll ask you again: will you marry me?'
To his surprise, she blushed bright red, her face in vivid contrast to the white of her shirt. 'I guess so,' she replied.
Twenty-seven
Mario McGuire put the phone back in its cradle; he wondered when, or even whether, he had heard Maggie sound so happy, and the thought sent a sudden feeling of sadness through him. It passed quickly, though, and he smiled. 'By God, young Steele,' he murmured to himself, 'you make a better go of looking after her than I did, or I'll make sure your life will be hell on earth.' She had told him only that she wanted the quickest divorce possible, so that she and Stevie could marry. He had taken her word at face value, but inwardly he wondered whether there might just be more to it.
He picked up the phone once more and called Paula Viareggio at her office. 'Hi, kid,' he said, when she answered. 'You're listening to a soon-to-be-official adulterer.'
'She wants it, then?'
'Yes, and she can have it, as long as you're not named on the petition, which you won't be.'
'That's fine,' said Paula, not quite as unconcerned as she had meant to sound. 'It won't make any difference to us, will it?'
'Not a bit.' He laughed. 'We'll still go on being Leith's favourite casual couple.'
'Yeah? You won't start feeling fancy-free all of a sudden, will you?'
'Don't be daft. I'm happy as we are; never been more so, just like my soon-to-be-ex-wife.'
'In that case,' she told him, 'I'm cooking osso bucco alia Milanese tonight; bring a nice bottle of Barolo with you.'
'One of Nana Viareggio's recipes?'
'Truth? No, I got it off the internet'
'Ah,' he laughed. 'The modern Italian woman. Are Neil and Lou still coming?'
'Of course.'
'Maybe I'll bring two bottles.'
'You'll drink most of them yourself, then: Neil's driving and Lou won't want much, in her condition.'
'I wonder if it's infectious?' Mario muttered.
'We don't need to worry if it is,' Paula countered. 'You've had the vaccination.'
He let
it pass. 'See you later.'
'About seven thirty. Bye, lover.'
He hung up and went back to his paperwork, reports from his CID team on current investigations. He noted, with some satisfaction, a significant drop in reported petty thefts within his division, wondering whether it might have less to do with his arrival than with the disappearance of a certain Moash Glazier.
He was still pondering the fate of the missing thief, when his door swung open. Annoyed by the absence of a knock, McGuire looked up to see a tall, slim, middle-aged man with muddy grey eyes slide into the room, and take a seat facing him. 'Greg,' he exclaimed. 'I heard you'd taken the pension. What the hell are you doing back here? Did you leave something behind when you left this office?'
Jay gave a thin smile. 'Nothing I had any use for, Mario. How are you settling in behind my old desk?'
'The desk's fine, thanks; the chair's clapped out, though. I've asked for a replacement. As for the job, I like it here; livelier than the Borders division, that's for sure.'
'And you're doing very well, I hear. Meeting your targets right across the board, so Pringle told me: you'll be after his job next'
McGuire felt his hackles start to rise. 'I've never been after anyone's job in my life, Greg, not while they were in it at least. I heard you took the hump when you were shifted out of here, but that had nothing to do with me. I didn't ask Dan or anyone else for a move and I certainly didn't ask to be transferred here.'
Greg Jay raised a placatory hand. 'Don't get excited, Mario, I'm not saying you did. I know who was behind the moves, all right. The mighty Mr Skinner: who else? He calls all the shots on this force. If your face fits with him, you're made. You and your ex are classic examples of that. I've got nothing against you, though; don't think that for a minute. I'm happily out of it now, just an interested observer on the sidelines.'
He shot a crafty glance across the desk. 'Have you heard any rumours about Skinner?' he asked.
'For fuck's sake, man,' McGuire exclaimed, 'there are always rumours about Bob Skinner. One minute he's going to the top job in the Met, the next he's taking command of Interpol. They're all balls, every one of them.'
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