A Brush With Death

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘When was that arranged?’

  ‘About fifteen minutes ago. Graeme called to let me know. You slept through that as well.’

  ‘I’ll drive,’ he volunteered.

  She shook her head. ‘No, I’ll pick you up. Your body clock will still be hours out of kilter.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He paused, frowning. ‘Wait a minute, it’s Sunday tomorrow. What about Jakey? Lottie, you don’t need to be there. I’ll dragoon a DC as corroborating witness and cover it.’

  ‘No way. I cannot miss it. If this does become a murder investigation and we get to a trial, I have to be able to give evidence on every aspect. If I have to, I’ll bring Jakey with me; there’ll be a crèche at the hospital.’

  Provan laughed. ‘He’ll love that, being nine.’

  ‘I can park him in Graeme’s office. But it won’t come to that. Auntie Ann will do the needful again.’

  ‘Or his granny?’

  Her face grew thunderous. ‘She’s the very last resort.’

  ‘Needs must,’ he retorted. ‘On you go now, get back to the wee lad.’

  She left him standing on the pavement outside his terraced home. As she reached the junction with the main road, she glanced in her rear-view mirror and saw him gazing after her, keys dangling loosely in his fingers. A flush of unexpected pleasure surged through her, as she realised how much she had missed him.

  She thought about him all the way home, wondering how it could be that she felt safer now that he was back, wondering why there was a smile on her face. ‘Naw,’ she murmured, still grinning.

  The journey to her home in the East End took no more than fifteen minutes. She parked her car in its numbered bay. The smile vanished and her mood changed as she looked around; there was no sign of Auntie Ann’s Mini. She checked her watch and saw that it was eight fifty.

  ‘What’s he been up to?’ she murmured, as she ticked off possible reasons for her aunt’s absence. The most likely, she decided, was that Jakey had persuaded his minder to take him to Frankie and Benny’s for a Saturday-night pizza, a treat she herself had promised him that morning, when all had been calm and all that had been on her agenda was the collection of Dan Provan from Glasgow International.

  She let herself into her little house. She loved the place; to her it was a mansion, representing independence, freedom from her waster ex-husband, and from a marriage that had started with crossed fingers and ended with clenched fists.

  And yet it felt strangely empty. Jakey’s green parka was gone from its hook on the hall stand, Ann’s blue coat with it. She licked her lips, realising that she was thirsty; Dan had emptied the water bottle that she had taken to the airport, and then another. She hung up her own coat where Jakey’s would have been earlier and moved into the kitchen. She was filling the kettle when she saw the yellow note, almost out of sight on the side of the fridge, in Ann’s familiar scrawl: Sorry, as text said, no option. A x

  She frowned, and then recalled a vibration on her phone just as Emily Raynor had come into the room in the Turnberry Hotel. She dug it out of her trouser pocket and searched her messages. Sure enough, there was a text from her aunt: Sorry, L. Bus crash on M8, major incident, all available staff called in. Mrs Mann’s on her way to relieve me. Ouch, I know. Sorry again.

  The bus crash. Second item on the Radio Scotland news after the announcement of Leo Speight’s death. She had still been focusing on Perry Allsop and it had washed over her, but it tied in with Aunt Ann’s message. As an A&E sister at Monklands General Hospital, she would have been at the top of the list to be called.

  So where the hell was Dorothy bloody Mann, and where was her son? No way his skinflint granny would have sprung for a pizza outing.

  She scowled at her phone as she found her ex-mother-in-law’s mobile number in her contacts directory and called it.

  ‘I wondered how long it would take you,’ a combative voice snapped. ‘Just back, are we?’

  She felt her eyes widen; she tried to control herself, with limited success. ‘More to the point, Mrs Mann,’ there had never been any informality between them, ‘where are you? And where is my son?’

  ‘I’ve brought him home. He belongs at his grandma’s, not with someone whose commitment is as semi-detached as his mother’s. I’ve just put him to bed.’

  ‘At quarter to bloody nine,’ Lottie exclaimed, ‘on a Saturday night? What did he say to that?’

  She heard a faint hesitation. ‘We had a small disagreement,’ Dorothy Mann replied. ‘But I was firm with him. It’s time someone was. Eight thirty is a proper bedtime for a child of his age.’

  Lottie’s temper gauge hit the red zone. ‘Now you listen to this, Mrs Mann,’ she barked. ‘When I want your parenting advice, I will ask for it, but don’t hold your breath waiting for that to happen.’

  There was a spluttering sound from the other end of the connection, finally forming into a cry of protest. ‘Really, Charlotte, that is just too much. Have you no concern for your child’s well-being? Not even a scrap?’

  ‘Don’t you dare say that to me!’ she yelled. ‘That stupid bloody hearing gave you access to Jakey, but it didn’t give you the right to uproot him without my consent.’ As she vented her anger, she was aware of an echo, and suspected that she had been switched on to speaker mode.

  That fear was realised a few seconds later when a male voice broke into the conversation. ‘Gimme that bloody phone, Dorothy,’ Arnold Mann demanded in the background.

  ‘Now you listen to me, woman,’ he said, his voice louder and clearer as he commandeered his wife’s mobile. ‘We have a duty to ensure our grandson’s well-being and we’re damn well going to do that. My son—’

  ‘Your adulterous, corrupt, alcoholic son,’ she shot back.

  ‘That’s slander. Living with you drove Scott to distraction.’

  ‘Scott drank himself out of the police force and he’s doing time for resetting stolen police uniforms.’

  ‘A mistake for which he has paid,’ Arnold Mann replied, more calmly. ‘He’ll be released within the next few days, and he will move in with us. The governor described him to me, and to my lawyer, as a model prisoner, and believes that he’ll leave jail a new man. I’m setting him up in business, and I give you notice that as soon as he’s back on his feet, Moss Lee will ask the court to award Scott full custody of Jake.’

  ‘Fat chance!’ she scoffed.

  ‘Every chance. Mr Lee’s confident that his petition’s going to succeed, especially when he tells the court about your continued association with that disreputable wee man who’s old enough to be your father. Uncle Dan, indeed. Jake’s been told never to call him that again, believe you me. By the way, if you were intending to pick Jake up tomorrow, forget it. He’ll stay here, and on Monday morning I’ll take him to school, but only after he’s been for his interview.’

  ‘Interview? What interview?’

  ‘With the rector of Glasgow Academy. Dorothy and I believe it’s time he went to a proper school, not that East End jungle.’

  ‘That will not be happening! I’ll pick him up at nine tomorrow, and you’d better have him ready.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he exclaimed, with a note of triumph in his voice, ‘and what are you going to do with him, being wrapped up in the Leo Speight investigation, according to the man I heard on the radio? There are twenty-nine casualties from that bus crash, fifteen of them serious. Somehow I doubt that your aunt’s going to be available.’

  Eight

  It felt strange to Bob Skinner to be knocking on a closed door in his own house, but he did it nevertheless. It felt even stranger when that door was opened by a younger version of himself.

  This is like a time-slip movie, he thought.

  ‘Hola, Padre,’ the youth said. ‘Hi, Dad.’ He grinned. ‘Have you come for some tranquillity? Is my little sister still digging for her teeth?’


  Bob nodded, returning his oldest son’s smile. ‘She surely is.’ Dawn Costa Skinner, his sixth and, he swore, his final child, was five months old and ruling his household. ‘But Sarah’s just got her off to sleep.’

  ‘Do you want me to sit with the others so that you can take Sarah out? Fine if you do.’

  ‘Thanks, but your stepmother’s pretty much nodding off herself. No, I wondered if you’d like to come out for a swift beer. There’ll probably still be staff in the golf club; if not, we can go into Gullane, to the Mallard.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, Dad,’ Ignacio Watson Skinner replied, ‘I’d rather not. I have an important examination on Monday and that means a full day of study tomorrow. I need an absolutely clear head.’

  ‘Have a soft drink?’

  ‘No, really. We’re fine here, if you want to talk. I have some Fanta in the fridge, and a couple of Saaz beers, the kind you like from Spain.’

  Bob nodded. ‘Whatever.’ He followed his son into the small apartment that he had built above his garage. It had one bedroom, a shower room and a small living area, but it served the twin purposes for which it had been created: to make Ignacio feel like part of his family while allowing him a degree of independence.

  Ignacio, the son whose existence had been kept secret from him until the boy was almost a man; the product of a one-night stand with a dangerous woman from a dangerous, violent and ultimately doomed family. By the time they did meet, the Watson curse had communicated itself to the next generation and Ignacio had been forced to spend a year in a young offenders’ prison, a sentence that might have been longer without his father’s influence and the skills of his half-sister, Alexis, who had organised his legal defence against a charge of culpable homicide, the Scottish equivalent of manslaughter.

  ‘Heard from your mother lately?’ he asked casually, as Ignacio uncapped a bottle of beer and handed it to him.

  The young man grinned. ‘Yes, I have, twice. She called me this morning, full of a story about a party she and Cameron went to last night in a place near Glasgow. Newting Marns? I think that’s what she called it.’

  ‘Close enough. Who was the host?’

  ‘Leo Speight, the champion; El Invencible. It was to celebrate the end of his career as a boxer. Many famous people were there . . .’ Ignacio seemed to hesitate, glancing sidelong at his father, ‘including Joey Morocco, the actor, and . . .’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Bob laughed, ‘Aileen de Marco, the Shadow Home Secretary and my former wife.’

  ‘That doesn’t upset you, to hear of her? With him?’

  ‘Hell, no,’ he exclaimed. ‘I couldn’t be happier for her. She’s got what she really wanted in life, and she’s on the way to being what she wants to be.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Prime Minister. I’m not saying she’ll get there, mind. She has to lead her party first, and the guy in the job isn’t going anywhere in a hurry.’

  ‘What about the actor? What do you feel about him? With her?’

  Bob shrugged. ‘Nothing. I don’t know the man. Our paths have crossed only once, and very briefly, so I can’t really say that we’ve met. The only thing I know for certain is that he’ll never be more than second best to Aileen. Her career will always come first.’ He paused. ‘What did your mother think of him?’ he asked.

  ‘She thought he was vacuous.’ He pronounced the word carefully. ‘All show, no substance, she said. She called him Aileen’s handbag, but I don’t know what that means.’

  ‘It means he’s strictly for show,’ his father explained. ‘I probably was too, when we were married.’

  ‘No!’ Ignacio protested. ‘You were a very important man. You were chief constable. You still are a very important man. You’re a director of a big media group.’

  ‘Only courtesy of the owner, my friend Xavi Aislado. That makes me useful, not important.’

  ‘They wanted to make you a lord; Alex told me.’

  ‘For the wrong reasons, so I turned them down. So,’ he continued, ‘Mia thinks that Joey Morocco’s an empty vessel. What did she make of Leo Speight?’

  ‘She said he was one of the most charismatic men she had ever met. In fact she said she put him in the top three, alongside you and Cameron. She was broken hearted when she called me again after it was on the news that he was dead.’

  Skinner stared at his son. ‘Leo Speight is dead?’

  ‘Yes, didn’t you hear? It was on TV earlier.’

  ‘We didn’t have it on. It hasn’t been on all day, in fact. I took Mark and James Andrew to see Edinburgh City this afternoon, so I’ve missed out on news. What happened? How did he die?’

  ‘From what the man said on TV, they don’t know yet. He said they were looking for the explanation. But there were detectives at the house, filmed arriving in a car, a woman and a man with a very bright shirt.’

  ‘Can you remember the name of the man who made the announcement?’

  ‘Yes, it was funny; made me think of a bird, peregrino in Spanish.’

  ‘Peregrine. Perry Allsop; that’s who it must have been, the communications guy, but he isn’t usually front of house.’ He was frowning; his mind was in another place.

  ‘You want to be there, don’t you, Dad?’ Ignacio said. ‘You miss being a cop.’

  ‘No,’ Bob replied quietly. ‘I’m done with that.’

  ‘I don’t believe you; you miss it. But this man, he may just have died. It may not even be a crime.’

  ‘Trust me, son, Leo Speight did not die of natural causes; thirty years’ experience as a cop tells me that. You said one of the detectives was a woman? Did they say who she was?’

  ‘No. But she had dark hair, and strong eyes, if that helps.’

  ‘It sounds like Lottie Mann, but the guy in the bright shirt puzzles me. Did he have a wee moustache?’ He touched his top lip.

  ‘No. No bigote.’

  ‘Mmm. Dunno who that would have been, in which case the woman could have been Sandra Bulloch. Either way, neither one of them would have been there if the attending officers thought it was a natural death.’

  ‘Your friend was there too. The big man, Mario.’

  ‘In that case, it’s a racing certainty they’re looking at a homicide; the delay will be to establish the cause of death.’ His frown deepened, and his expressive eyes showed a sign of regret. He might have called me, he thought.

  His hand was halfway to his pocket, reaching for his phone, when it played a few bars of ‘Tie a Yellow Ribbon’, the song he had adopted as his ringtone following Dawn’s birth. He peered at the caller identity, his eyes widening in surprise.

  ‘Hello, Amanda,’ he said as he took the call.

  ‘Can you speak?’ the director general of the Security Service asked him.

  ‘Up to a point,’ he replied, ‘if this isn’t a social call.’

  ‘It isn’t. You’ve heard of the death of Leo Speight, the boxer?’

  ‘My son and I were just discussing it.’

  ‘We have an interest in it,’ she declared abruptly.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You know my service has an interest in serious organised crime?’

  ‘Of course I do. Is that a factor here?’

  ‘It might be. Mr Speight himself was as clean as a whistle, but we’re not sure about his extended family.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘His friend Mr Stoddart has associations that aren’t quite so pristine. They’re Russian, with friends in America and Germany, and they played a big part in Mr Speight retiring with the spectacular wealth that he did. Naturally they made even more than he did from his career, but with him apparently threatening to move into their area of operations after hanging up his gloves and his protective cup, we’re wondering whether they might have had an interest in taking him out of pla
y.’

  ‘I can see all that,’ he said, ‘but what’s it got to do with me?’

  ‘I’m hoping you’ll agree to keep an eye on the investigation for us,’ she replied. ‘The temporary accreditation I gave you a few months ago is still in place, as you are well aware. We can discuss the financial details at a later date. Were you impressed by the remuneration for your last involvement with us?’

  ‘Very. I’m not daft enough to ask what budget it came from.’

  ‘One that will never be scrutinised by a Commons Select Committee, that I promise you. So, Bob, what about it? I can even give you a leg man, if a situation arises where you need one. You know Clyde Houseman, my man in Scotland; I’ll put him at your disposal.’

  ‘I’m not sure my former colleagues will be too chuffed,’ he pointed out.

  ‘I’ve just spoken to the chief constable; she would be very pleased to have you around as an observer, but she asks that you try not to be spotted by the inquisitive media. There will be lots of them around, I imagine.’

  ‘That’ll be bloody near impossible; I’ll need a cover story.’

  ‘I agree. Mr Speight’s insurers, I thought. In fact I’ve already made arrangements; officially you’ve been retained by them. That’s what the chief constable believes. They do have an interest, in reality. Mr Speight had a policy to cover his boxing activity. It’s still in place and will pay five million sterling in the event of his death through an outside agency; it envisaged a boxing fatality, but the way it’s written, if he was murdered, his heirs will collect. It was due to lapse six months after his last fight. That was three months ago.’ He heard her sigh. ‘Come on, Bob, you are up for it, aren’t you?’

  He laughed out loud, aware that his son was staring at him with undisguised curiosity. ‘You know me so well, Amanda. Who’s the SIO?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Charlotte Mann. Do you know her?’

  ‘Lottie? Of course I do; which leads me back to an earlier question. Who was the clean-shaven bugger in the garish shirt?’