08 - Murmuring the Judges

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Aye, well,’ he began, swinging round to look out at the wide waterway. ‘I’m trying not to let it bother me . . . and I certainly didn’t let Jimmy see it . . . but I don’t know how I’m going to handle being acting Chief Constable for four weeks.’

  ‘Hey,’ she broke in, brightly. ‘I’d forgotten about that. You’re the big cheese while Jimmy’s on holiday. Are you telling me that you don’t find that a challenge?’

  ‘Sweetheart, I’m telling you that I find it something of a chore. I’m a policeman by instinct, not an administrator. Sure, I can do Jimmy’s job, but right now, when everyone else in the force is bursting their balls - or their bras - trying to clear up two of the most serious crimes we’ve ever faced, I’m going to find it hellish frustrating to be trotting along to meetings of the Police Board, the Chief Constables’ Association and God knows what else.

  ‘Jimmy even talked me into moving into his office for the duration, since I’ll be using Gerry, his secretary.

  ‘The truth is my love, I’m jealous.’

  ‘Of whom?’

  ‘Of Andy, of Neil McIlhenney, of Maggie Rose, of Mario McGuire, of Brian Mackie, of everyone with hands-on involvement in these two investigations. Christ, I’m even envious of young Sammy Pye, stuck in a room on his own for at least a week looking at video tapes for something that may not be there!’

  She could see the frustration written on his face. ‘Do you know the only criticism I ever hear of you from the people under your command?’

  He chuckled. ‘I’m a brutal bastard to work for?’

  ‘No! It’s more that you’re not. Everybody likes working for you. But what they all say is that you’re lousy at keeping your hands off.’

  ‘And you’re saying that having Jimmy’s job for a month is part of the process of learning to delegate. Is that what you’re leading up to?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is. But what is delegation of authority but a means of ensuring that one’s own time and skills are put to the best possible use? In Jimmy’s case, that means running with the politics of the job, and schmoozing the councillors. In yours, it most certainly doesn’t.

  ‘So sure, delegate. You’re not the only guy in the Command Corridor. Pass on the committee stuff to Jim Elder and stay in touch with the investigations. Keep yourself fully available to Andy whenever he needs to consult you, as he will.’

  He smiled at her. ‘You’re really good for me, you know. But I doubt if Jim Elder will see it that way. If I sling most of the admin. work along to him, who’s going to do his Ops job?’

  ‘Simple,’ said Sarah, rising from her chair and coming round the table to sit on his lap. ‘Are you or are you not a well-resourced police force?’ He nodded. ‘In that case, ACC Elder can learn to delegate, too.’

  30

  Skinner sat behind the Chief Constable’s huge desk, staring morosely at the documents piled high in the in-tray. He swung round in Proud Jimmy’s chair, looking out of the window only to see an array of vents and aerials rising from the roof of the rear section of the headquarters building.

  Suddenly, one of the telephones on his right gave an insistent beep. He picked it up. ‘Can I come in, sir, to run through the day’s appointments?’ asked Gerry, his temporary secretary, who came with his temporary office.

  ‘Sure. If there’s coffee on the hob bring us in a couple of mugs.’

  ‘Mugs, sir?’

  The acting Chief grinned. ‘I’m not going to copy all of the boss’s ways. You use a cup if you like, but I’ll have mine in a mug; touch of milk, no sugar. I need a serious caffeine fix.’

  Within a minute the door opened and Gerry Crossley stepped into the room, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs and a plate of biscuits, and with a folder tucked under his arm. The young man placed a mug on a coaster by Skinner’s right hand, and made to take a seat across the desk.

  ‘Pull your chair round to the side,’ said the DCC. ‘You’re bloody miles away sitting over there.’

  Gerry nodded and did as he had been asked. Skinner looked at him appraisingly. From the day on which he had come to work for Sir James, he had made an impression with his neatness, his efficiency and the speed with which he got things done. Yet even in such enlightened times, a male secretary was still regarded as a shade peculiar, and Skinner had overheard the odd remark calling Crossley’s sexuality into question.

  In fact, Gerry was married to a public relations executive, who was expecting their first child.

  He opened the folder. ‘Today’s business, sir. At ten o’clock, you have two pupils from St Augustine’s High School coming in to receive Certificates of Commendation for Bravery. Their names are Hugh McQuillan and Andrew Byrne, and they tackled a man who was trying to snatch an old lady’s bag.’

  ‘Did they detain him?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He pleaded guilty in Edinburgh Sheriff Court and was imprisoned for eighteen months. The boys’ head teacher proposed them for recognition, through our community relations section.’

  ‘Which reports to ACC Elder,’ said Skinner. ‘In that case it’s only right that Jim makes the award in the Chief’s absence, rather than me. Brief him, please, Gerry. Right, what’s next?’

  ‘At ten-forty-five, sir, you’re scheduled to receive a Commonwealth visitor, Mr Kwame Ankrah, from Ghana. He’s a senior police officer on a Foreign Office-sponsored tour of the UK, looking at methods in this country.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘We’ve been asked to give him a briefing on the force, sir, with the emphasis on criminal investigation.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘It’s scheduled to include lunch, sir, in the Senior Officers’ dining room.

  ‘Who’s accompanying him?’

  ‘Mr David Seward, sir, from the Police Division in Scottish Office, and Miss Hilda Thomson, from the Information Directorate.’

  The DCC frowned. ‘I suppose I’d better do that one myself. Ask Andy Martin to join me, though.’

  ‘Very good, sir. The party is scheduled to depart at two p.m. After that you’re due in Galashiels at three p.m. for young PC Brown’s funeral.’

  ‘That’s going to be tight.’

  ‘Traffic say that it should be easily enough time, sir, as long as you leave at two sharp.’

  Skinner sighed. ‘In that case, I’ll have to receive them in uniform, because it doesn’t sound as if I’ll have time to change after they’ve gone.’

  Gerry nodded. ‘That sounds like a good idea, sir.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, son, wearing uniform is always a fucking awful idea. Any evening engagements?’

  ‘No, sir, not tonight. There’s one on Thursday, though. The City Council is launching a new Zero Tolerance campaign, and you’re invited.’

  Skinner shook his head emphatically. ‘One thing you should know about me. I never take on any engagements on Thursday evenings. That’s Lads’ Night. No, pass the details of the event to DCI Rose, out in Haddington, and ask her if she’d represent the force.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘Tell you what, Gerry, why don’t you cut down on your quota of “sirs”. I’m not really a very formal guy. I look for performance rather than deference, and you have no worries on that score.’

  The acting Chief Constable was immaculate, in full uniform as his secretary announced the Ghanaian visitor, and his party, at exactly quarter to eleven. While Skinner never felt comfortable in official dress, on the occasions on which it was required, he always ensured that his trousers had knife-edge creases and that his silver buttons were sparkling. He stood straight and tall as he shook hands with the stocky African, showing him to an armchair with exactly the right mix of courtesy and authority.

  Beside him, Andy Martin was edgy, trying as hard as he could not to show his impatience at the interruption to his major priorities.

  ‘How long is your visit to Britain, Mr Ankrah?’ Skinner asked, as the pleasantries drew to an end.

  ‘This is my second we
ek. I leave on Friday. I spent all of last week with the Met, yesterday I was in Manchester, and tomorrow and Thursday, I will spend with Strathclyde. I am very pleased. You are the first Chief Officer who has met me personally. The others have sent their press officers or executive assistants.’

  Inwardly, Skinner cursed himself for not thinking of delegating his guest to Alan Royston, but he kept a welcoming smile on his face. ‘What is your rank in Ghana?’ he asked.

  ‘I am Mr Martin’s equivalent in Accra: Head of Criminal Investigation.’

  ‘What sort of crime do you experience?’

  ‘Violence, robbery, rape, drugs: much the same as you, only more of it, and with less resources to fight against it.’

  ‘What have you seen so far on your visit?’

  Ankrah smiled, showing perfect white teeth. ‘I have seen many police stations, Mr Skinner, and I have seen criminals in court. But I have not seen any criminal investigations.’

  The DCC chuckled. ‘It’s easier to lay on lunch than crime. The major investigation which we have underway at the moment, is I’m afraid, stalled. Our only witness fled the country at the weekend.’ Martin glanced at him, wondering for a moment why he had only mentioned one inquiry, until he realised that he would not want to talk about Archergait’s murder with the Scottish Office people in the room.

  ‘Still, this is a very fine police office, and we will be happy to show it to you, and to let you see some of our people at work. I sympathise with your lack of resources, yet in my experience, however much you have, there will always be times when it just doesn’t seem to be enough.

  ‘On the other hand, there can be times when all those resources can be irrelevant. Take our current investigation, for example. Until we can uncover new lines of inquiry, by analysing the material which we have, most of our people are sitting on their hands.

  ‘There’s another essential resource, of course.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ankrah. ‘Instinct. Some things are international. ’

  Skinner laughed out loud. ‘You’re right, of course, but that’s not what I was going to say. I was talking about criminal intelligence. The greatest gift that information technology has given investigators is the ability to source facts and figures about types of crime, and the people who specialise in them, more or less at the touch of a button.

  ‘I thought we’d start our tour with a visit to our intelligence-gathering unit.’

  The five rose and were moving towards the door, when there was a light knock and it opened. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ said Gerry Crossley, ‘but I have Superintendent Pringle on the line for DCS Martin. He says it’s very important.’

  Frowning, the Head of CID stepped into the outer office and picked up the phone which lay on the desk. His back was to Skinner as he spoke, but the DCC could see the change in his body language as his conversation developed. At last he replaced the phone, and stepped back into the doorway.

  ‘They’ve done it again, Boss,’ he said grimly. ‘But this time, they’ve changed the target. Raglan’s, the jeweller in Castle Street, was held up just over half an hour ago by three men wearing Hallowe’en masks, and carrying shotguns.’

  ‘Casualties?’ Tension gripped the room.

  ‘Not this time, thank God, but they’ve ripped off just about every gemstone in the place. I’d better go down there.’

  Skinner turned to his Ghanaian guest. ‘You say you haven’t seen any action since you’ve been here, Mr Ankrah.Well, now’s your chance. If your escorts will allow it, Andy and I will be pleased to take you to see a genuine, fresh, Scottish crime scene.’

  31

  Kwame Ankrah looked across Princes Street at the Castle, silhouetted by the morning sun, as its battlements frowned down on the street to which it had given its name. Changes in the traffic plan had made it a cul-de-sac, accessible only from George Street, but now the lower half was closed off completely, from Rose Street down.

  Skinner looked at the face which Raglan’s showed to the street. He had noticed the shop often, of course, but had never been inside, preferring to make his jewellery purchases from a family-owned business along in Frederick Street than from a public company which boasted two Royal crests above its doors.

  It was a feature of the Castle Street branch that very little stock was displayed in the double window on either side of the entrance. To the left, he saw an exquisitely fashioned suite of emerald pieces, all set in platinum, and to the right, the most expensive items from the most expensive watch brand on the market. Other than that, the shallow windows, with their wood-panelled backings, were empty, but there was no sign that they had been disturbed.

  The manager was slightly over-awed to see a large man in an impressive uniform, and an immaculately tailored African, step into his shop behind Martin.

  Dan Pringle was surprised also, but made no comment, save a brief nod to the DCC as he stepped across to the Head of CID. ‘Morning, Andy,’ he said, quietly. ‘God’s gift to enterprising thieves, this one was.

  ‘I don’t know how their insurers let them away with it, but there’s no video surveillance, and a police-linked alarm system which they actually switch off during the day. The only half-serious precaution is a button entry door, controlled from within the shop.’ The Superintendent shook his head in a gesture of disbelief. ‘The manager was just talking me through the stock loss.’ He turned and beckoned to the man, who stood in a doorway behind a glass-fronted counter, at the rear of the shop. Like every other display case in the big unit, it was strewn with empty trays.

  ‘Mr Rarity, this is DCS Martin,’ he began. ‘The officer in uniform is Deputy Chief Constable Skinner, the other gentleman . . .’

  Martin helped him out. ‘. . . is Mr Ankrah, an African visitor who was with Mr Skinner and me when the call came in. So, Mr Rarity, can you put an approximate value on the haul?’

  The man, who was in his fifties and who stood less than five feet six inches tall, chewed at his bottom lip. ‘At retail prices?’ he asked in a high squeaky voice. The Head of CID nodded. ‘I’ll need to work it out accurately, but approximately, the current sale value of our stock is around four and a half million pounds.’

  For an instant Martin felt his jaw drop and snapped it shut. Behind him he heard the sudden intake of Skinner’s breath and a gasp of surprise from Kwame Ankrah.

  ‘Four and a half-million,’ he repeated, keeping his tone matter-of-fact only with an effort. ‘Your customer profile may be top drawer, but nonetheless, how the hell do you come to be holding that level of stock?’

  Mr Rarity smiled, and gave a tiny, slightly hysterical, little laugh. ‘Oh we don’t always carry that much. We just happened to be holding an exceptionally large quantity of gemstones today.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Two reasons, really,’ the little man squeaked. ‘We’re a key branch in that we wholesale precious stones for other retailers and craftsmen. On top of that we have a few customers who purchase unset diamonds and other stones directly from us. One of them had warned us to expect him tomorrow, and had told us that he wanted to invest at least two and a half million sterling in quality diamonds of one carat and upwards.’

  ‘Forgive me for asking,’ said Skinner, moving closer to the man, ‘but why would a buyer like that come to Edinburgh and to you, rather than going, say, to the diamond market in Antwerp?’

  Rarity fidgeted from one foot to another. ‘I couldn’t say,’ he muttered.

  ‘I could. It is because some people do not want to be seen buying such quantities of precious stones. ’The DCC looked down at Kwame Ankrah, standing beside him. ‘In my country, indeed on the whole of Africa, it is usual for black money - if I may use the term - to be converted into precious metals and stones. Traditionally they are the best hedges against inflation.

  ‘Naturally enough, the people making such investments do not want to be seen trading on the main exchanges. So they buy from private jewellers. In my experience, though, African criminals usually
go to Switzerland or Australia to convert their illegal money.’

  The DCC looked at the little manager. ‘Where does your customer come from, Mr Rarity?’ he asked.

  ‘From St Petersburg.’ The answer was barely above a whisper.

  ‘And how does he pay you?’

  ‘In cash. Invariably in used US dollars. He carries it in a suitcase.’

  ‘A fucking big suitcase, I’ll bet. How often does he visit you?’

  Rarity hesitated. ‘Usually twice a year,’ he answered, at last. ‘Certainly, for the last three years, it’s been twice a year.’

  ‘Spending how much?’

  ‘From memory, the least he’s ever spent was three million dollars. His biggest single purchase was of stones worth eight million.’

  ‘So if I guessed that this man has put ten million dollars a year across your counter, for the last three years at least, I wouldn’t be far off the mark?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Something stirred within the little manager. ‘But in any event, it’s perfectly legal. A sale’s a sale. It’s not for me to ask any customer how he came by his money.’

  Skinner exhaled hard, the breath whistling through his teeth. ‘So are you saying to me that if the people who’ve been knocking over banks in this area walked in here and put one and a half million pounds on the counter, you’d sell them diamonds, no questions asked?’

  Rarity looked at the floor. ‘No. In that case, I suppose I’d alert you.’

  ‘But this chap’s a Russian, so it doesn’t count. Jesus! Do you have to clear transactions like these at Board level within your company?’

  ‘No. Managers have local autonomy.’

  The DCC laughed, harshly. ‘I’ll bet. So that if there’s a can to be carried . . . Meanwhile, with a ten-million dollar boost to your annual turnover, you’re probably the company’s star performer.’

  Rarity flushed.

  ‘What’s this man’s name?’ Skinner fired at him.

  ‘Malenko; Ivan Malenko.’

  ‘Do you have any proof that’s his real name?’