She nodded back, with just a little deference, not because of who my husband was, I knew, but in spite of it, since there was a fair chance that a year down the road I’d be sitting on the other side of the First Minister’s desk.
‘Bollocks,’ I barked.
Clive pushed backwards in ‘our’ chair. ‘Aileen,’ he exclaimed, his tone a little pained.
‘Toni’s no more dropped in for a chat than I have,’ I continued. ‘I know full well why she’s here; she’s reporting back to you on yesterday’s ACPOS meeting, the one you set up to rubber-stamp the police unification process. I even know what she’s told you, that my husband squeaked a negative vote through, courtesy of his best pal being in the chair, but not to worry, that she’ll see him off next time.’ I looked at her, sideways. ‘Am I correct, Chief Constable?’
She smiled, a condescending little smirk that enraged me, but she didn’t reply. I wanted to tell her that she’d made two mistakes in as many days, first underestimating Bob, second, pissing me off, but I decided that could keep, that I’d choose the moment when she found that out for herself, the little mass of political correctness.
She’s so much modern cop that she even has her own Twitter account. A few evenings before Bob had ranted about her, and it, after dinner. ‘She posts everything on it, Andy told me,’ he’d bleated. ‘Her diary for the coming week; she’s even listed our bloody ACPOS meeting on Thursday. What next? Her bowel movements?’
I couldn’t quite share his outrage. The Labour Party press office publishes my engagements too, every day.
‘Let’s take that as read,’ I said to Clive. ‘Now go ahead, First Minister. Since you’re not going to offer me tea, coffee or Irn Bru, you’d better ask me the question you invited me here to answer.’
Unlike Field’s superficial smile, his was open and genuine. In truth, Clive Graham is one of those colleagues that I regard as a friend, all politics set aside. Sometimes I regret that we aren’t in the same party, but no way am I going to join his, and he left mine twenty-five years ago. ‘Okay, Aileen,’ he chuckled. ‘Did you talk to him?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘At least that’s how it started. But I am not going into detail, not even with you, Clive, and certainly not with a third party who doesn’t seem to have any regard for my husband, or any idea of what makes him tick.’
‘And you do, Ms de Marco?’ Field murmured.
Second time around I didn’t even bother to look at her. ‘Oh yes, dear. Be sure I do.’ I focused on the First Minister. ‘Well?’ I challenged.
He nodded. ‘Do we have a problem with him?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ I replied. ‘We certainly do. And if the chief constable here thinks she can sweep him aside in ACPOS, she really doesn’t have a bloody clue who she’s dealing with.’ I held his gaze. ‘I’d like her to leave now,’ I said.
He shifted in his chair, awkwardly, as if his nuts needed rearranging, but Field removed his problem. She stood. ‘As it happens,’ she drawled, ‘I must go anyway. I’ll leave you to your plotting. I find politics so intriguing,’ she added. ‘All that stuff behind the Speaker’s Chair, when we all know how it’s going to finish, even you, Ms de Marco. Your husband is a dinosaur, and their time is long past.’
I couldn’t hold back any longer. ‘And what are you?’ I snapped. ‘The fucking meteor that wiped them out? Alongside him, you’re a pebble.’
I watched her, every step of the way to the door. ‘God, Aileen,’ Clive Graham gasped as it closed, ‘you don’t mind who you cross, do you? That woman is powerful. If she tries to influence her force and their families against you . . .’
‘What’s she going to do? Book me for parking every time I step out of my car?’
‘She has ten thousand people under her command,’ he pointed out. ‘If she spread the word that you were to be opposed at the next election . . .’
‘I’d find out about it the day it happened.’ I glared at him. ‘Clive, I am up to here with being underestimated. Don’t you bloody start or . . .’
‘Or what?’ he chuckled. ‘You’ll wind up the Lib Dems and the Tories to back you in a no-confidence vote? You know that neither of us want that.’ He frowned. ‘So, things did not go well, I gather, when you had your discussion with Bob?’
‘It wasn’t as calm as that,’ I told him.
‘Do you want to back off from public support for the bill?’ he asked.
‘Hell no! The day I vote according to the whim or instruction of Bob Skinner, you’ll know I’m finished in politics.’
‘Fine, but if you want to take a step back when the bill is published, I’ll understand. I appreciate that you’re in a very difficult situation, domestically.’
‘I’m not the one who’s making it difficult,’ I snapped, ‘so I’ll cope.’
‘What’s he saying? Can I ask that? Not to leave this room, of course.’
I looked him in the eye. ‘Can I trust you on that?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, because I know you’ll kill me if I break my word.’
‘True; keep that thought in your mind because it’s apposite. Bob is saying, “Over your dead body,” almost as directly as that. He’s said that he will oppose an all-force merger publicly, and that if he loses and it happens it’ll be a resignation issue for him.’
‘You’ve pointed out to him that the police are meant to keep out of politics?’
‘Of course I have,’ I sighed. ‘You can tell him yourself if you want. He’ll assume that we’re having this conversation, so if you call him in here and warn him off, it won’t make it any worse between us.’
‘Would it work, do you think?’
‘Hah!’ I laughed. ‘No chance. You make your speech, and issue as formal a warning as you like; he’ll point out to you that “politician” and “policeman” both have the same root and mean essentially the same thing, interpreted in different ways. That’s one of his dinner table favourites when he’s among my colleagues. Some of them call him Bob the Greek.’
‘And would it matter,’ he wondered, ‘if I told him he was wrong, that while the two English words are similar, “police” flows from the ancient Greek “polissoos”, meaning city guard, while the derivation of “politics” is the word “politika”, and that comes from Aristotle?’
‘I’d like to be there when you tell him,’ I said, ‘if only to mop you up. You might want to change the waistcoat for a tartan with a bit more red in it.’
He winced. ‘Do think Toni Field can swing ACPOS behind her?’
‘Bob does,’ I conceded. ‘I’m not so sure. When he goes to the next meeting, or even gets on the phone before it happens, and tells them that the main parties are ganging up to force their will on the police service, he may well pull some waverers behind him. And now that I’ve seen how presumptuously fucking arrogant the woman is . . .’
‘Damn,’ the First Minister muttered. ‘I’d hoped to avoid this. I like Bob; I don’t want a confrontation.’
‘Then don’t have one,’ I advised. ‘Ignore him.’
‘I don’t know if I can do that,’ he replied. ‘If he really cranks up his public opposition, I may have to do something about it. I hate to think of suspension, but . . .’
My mouth fell open. ‘Are you crazy?’ I gasped. ‘You suspend him, and you will have one of the smartest young solicitors in the country briefing the best QC in the country, to take you to court. You’ll have made this into an election issue, when that’s exactly what we want to avoid. If that happens my party might well reconsider its support for the bill.’
‘How would you feel about that? Are you one hundred per cent behind it?’
‘Yes, I am,’ I admitted, ‘and not just on cost grounds. But I don’t want to have to tell Bob that. Christ, we’re shaky enough.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Clive said, and I could see that he was.
‘Let it lie,’ I urged him again. ‘Bob won’t keep quiet about the bill, but he won’t lead protest marches either. He’ll use wha
t media contacts he has, the likes of June Crampsey in the Saltire, but he has no power base in our world. Live with it; we have the numbers, and we will win.’
‘But how will you come out of it? Your marriage? What if he does resign, and blames you?’
I shrugged. ‘There’s another side to that coin. Suppose he does kick up a big enough media storm to swing my lot against the bill, with me on record as supporting? I’d have to quit if that happened. Either way, one of us is going to wind up blaming the other. Will we survive that as a couple? To be honest, Clive, I don’t know.’
‘My sympathies, Aileen,’ he said. ‘I’m truly sorry I got you into this.’
‘You didn’t,’ I retorted. ‘He did, by being the most intractable son-of-a-bitch on the face of the earth.’
He reached into the drawer to his right, the one where I’d kept my personal stuff, and took something out. ‘In the spirit of amity,’ he murmured as he pushed an envelope across to me. ‘There’s an event in the Royal Concert Hall in Glasgow tomorrow evening, a concert in aid of a range of charities including police, and one that supports battlefield casualties and the families of the dead. I’m the guest of honour: they’ve sent me four tickets. I had thought to take my private secretary and his wife, but his boss has vetoed it on some spurious ground of official impropriety. If you’d like to come, I’d be very pleased; and if you could talk your husband into escorting you, it might cool things down a little.’
I picked up the tickets. ‘Thanks, Clive, I’ll try to persuade him. If he won’t I’ll come anyway. My stepdaughter might join me, if it’s her scene. Who’s performing anyway?’
‘A classical pianist that I’ve never heard of; I’m more of a jazz man, myself. His name’s Theo Fabrizzi. Quite a star, apparently.’
‘Theo Fabrizzi?’ I repeated. ‘I didn’t know Italy had any pianists. I thought they specialised in tenors.’
‘He isn’t Italian, although most people assume it. They sent me his bio. Yes, his great-grandfather was an Italian prime minister, back in the very old days. He was a socialist, so it got very uncomfortable when Mussolini came to power. He left the country in a hurry and settled his family in Beirut. That’s where Fabrizzi lives.’
‘So he’s actually Lebanese?’
‘By nationality, yes.’ I stood to leave. ‘Would you like to be collected?’ he asked. ‘I can arrange for a government car.’
I smiled. ‘No thank you, Clive. We’re still political opponents, remember. I expect to have access to those in my own right before too long. Until then, I’ll make my own way.’
Mutual interest is one thing, I thought as I left him, but fraternising with the enemy is quite another. But then I wondered, after the set-to of the previous evening, should I regard my husband as the enemy?
If that was the way he wanted it, yes.
Andrew Martin, Director, SCDEA
Mario McGuire and I go back a long way, fifteen years at least, to when he was a plod and I was still a raw detective constable. I’ve made chief officer status, and he’s only one rung short, so you could say that our careers have developed along parallel lines. You could say that, but I’ve always believed secretly that Mario has more ability than me, but less ambition.
I played rugby in my youth, at a very high level, but I set it aside when the job demanded, for that was my priority. As far as I know Mario never played any organised sport in his life, and certainly not rugby; probably just as well, because I’d have hated to have scrummed down against him. But if he had, and had been given the choice between an international future or early entry to CID and a fast track to the top, he’d probably have grinned that piratical grin and gone on to win a boxful of caps for Scotland . . . or Ireland, or Italy, as he’d have been qualified for all three.
He and I do have one thing in common; it’s a link on which nobody ever comments, but I’m only too well aware of it, and I know he is.
Both of us made the same mistake: we each married cops. Mario and Maggie Rose got together on an investigation years ago, when they took the concept of undercover policing very literally indeed; they drifted into a union that seemed happy at first, until the smiles left their faces and the whole thing fell apart. Maggie had a brief breakdown, and Neil McIlhenney dropped a hint about a suicide attempt, but I didn’t pry.
Mario moved on, giving the force a wide berth second time around in his choice of partner, and I hear that Paula’s pregnant: great. Maggie remarried also, only she stuck her head in the lion’s jaws for a second time. But that’s too painful even to think about; it would only depress me.
Karen and me? That’s a long story. At first, she and I . . . honestly, it was lust, pure and simple. Then I had a bad day at the office, a very bad day; my counsellor told me I could expect to experience posttraumatic stress and I told him he could expect to experience my boot up his arse, because I had always been mentally tight and able to walk away from a bad experience then move on to the next good one.
But he was right. I did have problems in the aftermath; nightmares, cold sweats, all the stuff that was only supposed to happen to other people. When they hit me, Karen soothed the fever when I needed it and I decided that what she gave me was what I wanted for the rest of my life.
And yes, I decided that I was well and truly over Alex Skinner.
I’m a Catholic, something else that McGuire and I have in common. But he’s pretty much lapsed, whereas I’m devout . . . when it suits me. That’s why I went off the end when Alex had a termination without telling me. No, let’s be totally honest, Andy. While that was the reason I gave to everyone, myself included, I know now that the real truth was that I resented the fact that she’d made what was in effect a career choice that didn’t fit with the way I’d imagined our future.
I’ve known Alex since she was a teenager, a kid not as precocious as she looked, following her then single dad around like a puppy, and eyeing up every woman he ever dated, even Alison Higgins, whom he did a lot more than date, as a potential interloper.
When she grew up, she did so fast. The kid just disappeared and someone completely different took her place. When she and I got together, as she was moving into her twenties, I hadn’t kept up with her development as a woman, not at all.
Confession: I was pretty dumb where the female psyche was concerned. I had spent too much of my time sowing wild oats to notice that society had moved on from the one I’d grown up in. My mother was a traditional housewife, and I thought of my new young fiancée along those lines. Bottom line, I saw my career as more important than hers.
Alex? Homemaker? Mistake.
When he realised what had happened to us, her father actually apologised to me. I remember it well. ‘Your trouble, Andy,’ he said, ‘is that you’re an old-fashioned Scots proddy cunningly disguised as a Tim. There’s a lot of John Knox in you, not far from the surface. Okay, you might not see women as weak, sick and impotent like he did, and in the workplace you accept them without question as your equal, but at home, whether you know it or not, you’re still the sort of guy who wants the little woman there, tea on the table, kids fed and bathed, when you get home at night. I should have realised it earlier and warned you off, for my daughter will never be like that. I’m sorry, mate, for both of you.’
At the time I told him that he was talking bollocks, but he was right, as I proved with Karen, for that’s exactly what I made her into. I took a strong vibrant woman, encouraged her to leave a job that she probably did as well as I do, and in the process I diminished her being. Where once we had been two pieces of flint, in the end she and I couldn’t manage a spark.
Alex and I, though, we always did that. When our paths crossed again, after a few years, we found that our flame had never gone out, for all that we had stamped on it, hard.
Yet I insist, that wasn’t why Karen and I finished. ‘It isn’t unfaithful Andy I can’t live with any more,’ she told me in the end. ‘It’s the boring middle-aged fart you’ve become at home and the person you’v
e made of me.’
We could hardly post that on the bulletin board, so when I moved out, everyone and his uncle assumed they knew why.
So, Alex and Andy, where are we now? Not where we were, and that is for certain. She will never give me dominion over her and I will never want it, never again. Yes, we have a relationship, but no, there’s no commitment on either side. The only rule is the one that she made, after her first surprise visit to my place, that neither of us will ever arrive unannounced on the other’s doorstep. What she does when I’m not there, I have no idea; and my job as Director of the Serious Crime and Drugs Enforcement Agency involves quite a lot of travel.
It was by sheer chance that I was around when Bob Skinner called me to ask if I could do him a professional favour. ‘No worries if you can’t handle it personally, but if you can’t, I’d appreciate it if you could send me someone senior to sit alongside Mario.’
But I was clear, and to be honest, I saw it as a chance of a long weekend in Edinburgh, since the interview he wanted me to do would inevitably last too long for me to get to my base in Paisley for any sort of meaningful work.
My SCDEA badge didn’t work when I arrived at the police head-quarters building in Fettes Avenue, not even with ‘Director’ on it in bold print. The door security officer didn’t know me from Morecambe and Wise . . . his lack of humour was written all over his face . . . and he made me wait until I could be fetched by someone from CID.
Mario came down himself. He was ready to take a piece off Cerberus, but I hauled him away before he could do too much damage. ‘That’s the trouble with these civilian staff,’ he growled, ‘no nous, no initiative. Ah, it’s not their fault, I suppose. The politicians want to see as many uniforms on the street as possible so we con them by hiring civvy security officers. We have to vet them to make sure they’re legit, and that takes time, then once they’re in the job, they don’t have any flexibility about them. Last month, one of them made Aileen wait down here until Gerry Crossley came to collect her. You can imagine what happened when Bob found out.’
Funeral Note Page 8
