‘But he didn't, Leona,' said Alison Higgins. 'Just keep that good thought in your head, and don't let yourself indulge in might-have-beens.'
The widow McGrath straightened her back. She had a remarkable bearing, Skinner thought, and great dignity. She was a small woman, not much over five feet tall, but she seemed to exude vigour. She nodded her grey-flecked brown curls. 'Yes, Ali. You're quite right, as usual. I won't do that. I have to look forward, for him, and for Roly.'
`That's the spirit, girl.' The voice came from the doorway. Skinner turned and saw, framed there, a tall man. He looked to be around forty, and was dressed in a formal dark suit and white shirt, with a black tie. Dressed for the occasion, the policeman thought.
Leona McGrath turned at the sound of his voice. 'Marsh. How good of you to look in again.'
`Don't be silly. It's the least one could do.' As he stepped into the room, she went to greet him, hands outstretched, rose on her toes as he bent his head forward, and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
‘You probably haven't met,' she said, turning, drawing him with her. 'Alison Higgins, Deputy Chief Constable Skinner: this is Marshall Elliot, Roland's constituency agent.'
Skinner shook the proffered hand. 'No, we haven't met,' said Elliot, 'but I know who you are — Edinburgh's most celebrated policeman. In my job, I meet your Special Branch people from time to time, when we have a VIP visitor. Your name is mentioned frequently.
`Miss Higgins,' he said, with a courtly nod that was almost a bow. 'I've heard a great deal about you also, from Leona. You're a Police Officer too, aren't you?'
`That's right — Detective Superintendent. We have met, though. Very briefly, a few years ago at one of Roly's constituency evenings. But you were terribly busy. I wouldn't expect you to remember.'
`Nonetheless, I stand rebuked. Ungallant of me to forget a lady's face. Unprofessional too, if you're a constituent! Against all my training.' He turned towards Leona McGrath. 'Look, my dear, I'm not interrupting, am I?'
She shook her head. 'Of course not. I wanted to talk to you anyway, about the funeral.'
He sighed, involuntarily. Àhh. In fact, that's why I'm here. To offer my services in making the arrangements. We can expect quite a turn-out, you know.' He hesitated. 'I can say this in the Company of the police, I'm sure. I had a call from Downing Street. The Prime Minister wishes to attend. And I've been told to expect a representative of the Monarch.'
Leona McGrath's eyebrows rose. 'All the more reason for me to accept your offer, Marsh.
I was going to ask you anyway. It's quite beyond Roland's dad, and I.. I. . . Well, I want to give Mark all my time for the next few days.'
`Yes,' said Alison Higgins. 'That's really good of you, Mr Elliot. If there's any help I can give, privately or professionally just let me know.'
'We-ell,' said Elliot. 'There is something professional that we might talk about later.'
Skinner put a hand on the man's shoulder. 'Perhaps you and I could deal with it now, Mr Elliot.'
`Fine. Let's step in here.' He moved through the double doors which led from the McGrath sitting room out into a long conservatory; not a modern PVC and glass pagoda, but a solid structure which, the DCC thought, might have been built with the house a century and more before. The extensive garden was immaculately kept, with touches of colour even in late October.
`There are some lovely old houses down here in Trinity,' said Elliot. 'I used to gibe at Roly, that he didn't actually live in the constituency, but it's easy to see why he didn't want to move from here . . . Mind you, it might have been forced on him soon.'
`What d'you mean?'
The man lowered his voice. 'Well, though one shouldn't breathe such heresy, there was a real chance that Roly would have lost the seat at the next election. Not that people thought that he was a bad MP, you understand. Above average, most would have said. The Association liked him, even the whingers . . . and we have the usual ration of them . . . but the majority was under three thousand, and would have been under serious attack from Labour and the Scot Nats at the General Election.'
Skinner glanced at him. 'What about the by-election?'
`My dear chap, one doesn't discuss the by-election until after the funeral.' He smiled. 'In public, that is. Privately, if Central Office decides on a quick poll, which they will, and we choose the right chap, which I'm sure we will, then the wave of sympathy over Roly's death will sweep us back in. Increased majority, I should think.
Elliot sounded contemplative for a moment, but his tone changed abruptly, almost guiltily.
'Anyway, to business. What I wanted to ask was, have you recovered Roly's body?'
Skinner looked grim as he nodded. 'Yes, we're satisfied that we have it.' He almost added,
'Or as much as we're going to find.' He stopped himself just in time, but Elliot had been thinking along the same lines.
`How about identification?'
`We'll use dental records for confirmation. We won't need to ask Mrs McGrath to look at the remains. Don't you worry about any of that. Well give you a body in a closed coffin.
Just you make sure that it stays closed!'
Ùnderstood. When do you expect to release it? That's the professional matter I wanted to raise,' he added.
`Monday, at the latest. When were you thinking of having the funeral?'
`Next Friday,' said Elliot. 'Provided that doesn't clash with Davey's service. Have you found . . . him, yet?'
`Pass,' said Skinner.
Àhh, I see. Nothing identifiable. So what will they do about a funeral, do you think?'
`Stuffed if I know. We can give them a boxful of something. The trouble is, at the moment it would be a sheep.'
Ùgh.' The agent screwed up his face. 'Have you established the cause of the accident yet?'
Skinner took him by the elbow. 'Let's go back inside. That's something I still have to break to Leona. It might be helpful if you were there when I tell her. She'll need friends around her.'
THIRTY
The Press Briefing Room was as full as Skinner had ever seen it, even in the times of major crises which had marked his career. Six television cameras, including the Force Video Unit, pointed at him, from behind ranks of reporters.
Ì have a very short statement to make, ladies and gentlemen, after which I do not intend to take any questions.
Ìt has now been established that yesterday morning's disaster on the Lammermuirs was caused by an explosion in the cabin of the plane. We are satisfied that a device was smuggled on board the aircraft, although we do not know whether it was intended that it should detonate in flight.
`This Force has now begun a murder investigation. I am in direct control of enquiries, assisted by Chief Superintendent Andrew Martin. He has been appointed Head of CID, in succession to Roy Old who, as you will know, died in yesterday's tragedy. Mr Martin and I will call on other Forces for cooperation and assistance as necessary.
Ì have nothing more to say today, but further briefings will be held as appropriate.'
He stood up amid a clamour of shouted questions, and a forest of waving tape recorders, and walked from the room.
As he passed the back row of journalists, Noel Salmon, an untidy, black-stubbled man who worked for Skinner's least favourite tabloid, chuckled to his neighbour, `D'you reckon Andy Martin planted the bomb so he could get Roy Old's job?'
As a collective moan escaped the lips of all those journalists who were near enough to hear the remark, the DCC froze in mid-stride. He reached down, grabbed the podgy reporter by his leather belt, hauled him from his seat and propelled him bodily from the room. Sammy Pye, on duty by the double doors, held them open for him, unquestioningly, then had the innate good sense not to follow.
The corridor wound to the right towards a stairway, fifteen feet from the doors. Skinner turned into it out of sight, and threw the man against the opposite wall, face first, and very hard.
Salmon squealed: 'That's assault!'
`No, it's
not, it's carelessness. I just dropped you, that's all. I wouldn't dirty my knuckles on a little shit like you, son. But if I ever hear of you saying something as crass as that again, then for the rest of your life you will never know a day when you don't regret it. Now you get on your way, and don't ever present yourself in this office again, or in any other run by this Force.'
Salmon lived up to his name. His face was a deep pink colour. 'You can't take on the Press, Skinner! I'll get you!'
The policeman's face twisted with scorn. 'You? You graceless wanker, you could barely get your own tea. Now shift out of here before I charge you with imitating a human being.'
He pushed the man towards the door, and trotted up the stairway. He was still shaking with anger as he sat down behind his desk. When Maggie Rose came into the room the phone was in his hand and he was dialling a London number.
`Reggie,' he barked, when the call was answered. 'Bob Skinner. Remember you told me that a couple of years ago you sorted out a problem for that newspaper proprietor fellow, the one that owns those nasty tabloids, and that he owes our side a few favours as a result?
You do? Good! Well, now I've got a wee problem, and I'd like him to sort it out. In fact, I'd like him make sure that my wee problem never gets a job in journalism in Britain again ... ever.'
THIRTY-ONE
Neil Mcllhenney was never at his best with lachrymose women. In fact, he was rarely at his best with women in any situation. In their occasional matrimonial jousts, Olive Mcllhenney could best her husband in many ways, from simple tears to extended silence, and others which she still kept hidden in her armoury, just in case.
The moments in his career which he had enjoyed least had been those on the Drugs and Vice Squad when Andy Martin, its Commander, had decreed a crack-down on Edinburgh's burgeoning massage parlours — establishments in which the massage, on offer only to men, was of a localised and specialist nature.
Although he had given of his best, his diffidence had been noticed, prompting Martin to comment to Bob Skinner, 'See that McIlhenney! If I sent him in to sort out a male brothel, he'd tear the place, and the characters in it, apart with his bare fists. But take him on a raid on a sauna and he goes in with his cap in his hand. The fact is, the big fella's just scared of women!'
Àt times, who can blame him?' the DCC, fresh from a roasting by his exam-stressed daughter, had muttered.
No, Mcllhenney was an old-fashioned man's copper, and so, faced across the cream-topped table by the sobbing Shana Mirzana, he was happy to play the part of junior officer, leaving all the questioning to DC' Dave Donaldson.
Ms Mirzana had been Assistant Private Secretary to the Secretary of State for Defence.
She was the third member of the Private Office staff whom Donaldson, Mcllhenney and Maui Arrow had interviewed. Their Metropolitan Police colleague, Detective Sergeant Garen Price, was there simply to throw the cloak of his jurisdiction over the proceedings.
He sat in the corner and sipped coffee.
Ì know this is difficult for you, ma'am,' said the DCI, 'but you will understand that an investigation as serious as this must go ahead with all speed. So if you'll compose yourself, please.'
Listening, Mcllhenney was struck by the way in which Donaldson kept a sympathetic tone in his voice, but did not disguise the fact that the woman was there to be questioned, aggressively if necessary. You're a cold-hearted bastard under that smooth surface, Dave, he thought.
She nodded, dabbing her eyes with a white handkerchief. 'Of course,' she said. 'I'm sorry. I will try to help you.'
`We know you will, Shana,' said Adam Arrow, offering a familiar face as a reassurance.
'Just keep calm.'
He had shown them her Personnel file and her vetting report. She was twenty-seven, the granddaughter of an immigrant from India just as it gained nationhood, his departure sped, no doubt, by the fact that he was a Muslim. The family religion had been retained in Britain, but half a century on, as she sat before them, Shana wore an outfit which was distinctly Western in its style and cut. She had indeed liberated herself considerably, as her LSE degree bore out. She was the daughter of an orthopaedic surgeon, and, while not on as fast a track as Maurice Noble, she was expected to carve out a good civil service career.
The vetting process had thrown up no skeletons, other than a student membership of the Young Conservatives, and a speeding conviction at the age of twenty-two.
When was the trip to Scotland first put into Mr Davey's diary, Ms Mirzana?' asked Donaldson.
'It was talked about perhaps three weeks ago, when the Chief of the General Staff first invited the Secretary of State to visit the exercise.' She spoke with the few faint traces of a Midlands accent to have survived a good education.
`However, Mr Davey did not wish to commit himself at first. He said that he would think it over. I think he didn't really want to go. It was only after we heard from Washington that Mr Massey would be coming that he felt he should put in an appearance. The Secretary of State doesn't like exercises,' she explained. 'His predecessors have worn battledress and driven tanks, but he won't — sorry, wouldn't have done — that sort of thing.
`So it was only because Massey was going that he went?' said Donaldson.
Shana Mirzana surprised them by smiling, for the first time. `Well, not quite. You see, Mr Massey had insisted that he be accompanied by television crews from America, to help the President in the election. When Mr Davey heard that, he said that he had an election coming up too, and that if our cousins were going to do that sort of thing — well, so would he.'
Ì see. So when did he decide to go?'
`Tuesday afternoon. Maurice told me just after the Secretary of State had gone off to the House. The Permanent Secretary had been going in his place, and could still have gone, but when Mr Davey changed his mind, Sir Stewart decided to withdraw.'
`Did Mr Noble always go with Davey on these trips?'
She shook her head. 'Most of the time. Occasionally, I would go. Once or twice at weekends. Maurice didn't like being away from Ariadne, but usually Mr Davey would insist.'
Ànd did he insist this time?'
`Yes, he did. Because of the Americans being here.'
`How did Mr Noble feel about that?'
`He didn't say anything in particular, but I had the feeling that he wasn't very pleased.' She hesitated. 'I can't be sure, but .,
`Go on, please,' said Donaldson. The woman looked questioningly at Adam Arrow, who nodded.
`Well, Maurice didn't discuss his private life with me as a rule, but there was an inflection in some of the things he did say that made me think . . . that things weren't all right at home.'
`Had his behaviour changed at all recently?'
She considered the question for a few moments. 'When he came into the job at first, he was very enthusiastic, very positive, very outgoing. But that soon changed: just lately he had been very quiet. That happens to people in Private Office, though; I know from experience. The job is very stressful, and when your Minister is very demanding, as Mr Davey was, it can take over your life. You have to walk a tightrope at times.'
`What do you mean?' asked Neil Mcllhenney, interested enough to involve himself in the interview for the first time.
Ì mean that the people who do jobs like ours are the Minister's voice when we speak to Department. If the Minister says something critical, or rude, then we have to pass it on, in the terms in which he commented. That can create potential difficulties for us, since we're mainstream civil servants on secondment, and since the people we're bawling out on Our Master's behalf will be very often in a position to have a considerable influence on our future careers. We have to convey meaning directly without ruffling feathers, and that is very difficult. More than one Private Secretary has found that some very high-level knives were out for him after he'd finished his stint and gone back into Divisional work.'
`How would you say Mr Noble was coping?'
'He was having difficulties. I sat i
n on a meeting last week, and when it was over the Secretary of State asked Maurice to wait behind. Even before the door was closed, I heard Mr Davey begin to tear into him for being too soft in a memo to one of the Procurement Divisions. He came out looking very white, and didn't say anything for a while. I felt sorry for him.' She paused again, then burst out angrily, 'Actually, the Secretary of State could be a real shit!'
Immediately, as if a second thought had hit her, she looked at Arrow and said, 'Please don't repeat that, will you? We're trained to be loyal to our Ministers above everything.'
The soldier smiled. 'That's all right, Shana. This one's dead, so it doesn't count. As it
'appens, I think you're being too kind to him.'
Was that the general view of Mr Davey?' asked Donaldson, trying to regain control of the interview.
`No,' said Ms Mirzana, freed by Arrow's reaction. 'I'd say it was the universal view.'
'Why?'
`Have we all day? Let me see.' She thought the question over. `Quite apart from Mr Davey being a school bully who graduated somehow to the Cabinet table, quite apart from him being an opportunist, a misogynist, cruelly sarcastic, and taking a delight in the misfortunes of others, quite apart from all that, there was a special sort of nastiness about him, the sort that in a roomful of shits, has a smell all of its own.'
That just about sums the man up,' said Arrow, laughing out loud. McIlhenney joined in; he had warmed to this woman. In fact, he was studying her technique in vituperation, one of the longer words of which he was proud, for a future debate with an unprepared Olive.
Donaldson allowed their mirth to subside. 'What about Mr Noble? What did people think of him?' he asked quietly.
À nice man, probably out of his depth in any event, but completely unsuited to be Principal Private Secretary to a man like Davey. I don't know what Sir Stewart could have been thinking of when he made the recommendation.'
Skinner's Ordeal Page 12
