Lethal Intent bs-15

by Quintin Jardine

  Seventy-one

  When Maggie Rose arrived at police headquarters for her lunch date with Bob Skinner, she discovered that they would be eating in private and not in the senior officers' dining room as she had thought.

  A table had been set up in the deputy chief constable's office, and a bottle of sparkling water was cooling in an ice bucket.

  Skinner was on the phone when Jack McGurk showed her in: he had his back to her and was speaking quietly so she could hear nothing of what was being said, but when he ended the call and turned to her she could see a concerned expression on his face. 'Problem?' she asked.

  'I hope not. There's someone we've been trying to contact all morning, without success.'

  'One of our people?'

  'No, a friend. It relates to something we have on the go just now.'

  By telling her next to nothing he had told her a lot: somewhere within their territory, or sphere of influence, an operation involving another organisation was under way, one of sufficient sensitivity for him to be unwilling or unable to divulge its details. He knew that she would realise this, but he knew also that she would put the moment out of her mind as soon as she left his room.

  'Sit yourself down,' he invited, ushering her to one of the two chairs at the neatly set table. 'Would you like a sherry before we eat?'

  She declined. 'No, thank you, sir. I drove myself down from the office.'

  He grinned. 'I didn't mean a whole bottle, but as you wish.' He took the silver covers from the two plates that lay already on the table, revealing a starter of avocado and prawns, then opened the mineral water and filled two glasses. 'I hope I've remembered your tastes from when you worked on this floor,' he said.

  'This is a good start,' she told him, as they picked up their cutlery and began to eat.

  'Are you enjoying being back in uniform?' he asked her.

  'As much as any of us does,' she replied, candidly. 'But I really am enjoying the job that goes with it.'

  'Even when you're out in the rain doing crowd control at a Hearts home game?'

  'Even then. Divisional command's made me think in a different way than before, and see the wider picture again.'

  'Plus, you get to deal with people who aren't criminals; that's how Willie Haggerty put it to me when I asked him the same question.'

  'He's right. I feel that I'm part of respectable society, rather than just the underbelly. Didn't you feel the same when you reached command rank?'

  Skinner grinned. 'Maybe, but I like being part of the underbelly. Sure it's a multi-faceted job, but I'm the sort of cop who joined up to put away the bad guys, and I always will be.'

  'Speaking of which, do you know how Stevie's getting on with his investigation? I haven't spoken to him since breakfast this morning.'

  'I had a report from him half an hour ago. He's got a firm line of inquiry, and a man in his sights.'

  'A suspect.'

  'Let's just say it's someone who'll have to have a good story when we speak to him.' He laid down his fork. 'Can I turn it around? How are you getting on with Stevie? That's a purely personal question, by the way, nothing to do with the job.'

  'I know, and I'm touched that you ask it. The answer is that we're fine. To be honest, boss, I am truly domestically happy for just about the first time in my life, and it feels great. I enjoy waking up in the morning, I enjoy going to sleep at night, and I enjoy all the bits in between.'

  'That's great,' he said, sincerely. 'A lot of people who know you both will be pleased to hear that.'

  'As far as the job's concerned,' she continued, 'I don't have a problem working in the same place as him. If you were wondering, that is.'

  'I wasn't, but again, it's good to know. Still…'

  There was a knock on the door. 'Okay!' he called out, and Maisie, the dining-room waitress entered, pushing a trolley.

  'Beef olives for two,' she announced. 'Chips and carrots.'

  'As requested,' said the DCC, watching as she served them.

  'You were going to say,' Maggie ventured, as she left. 'There was a "Still…" hanging in the air.'

  'True. I was going to add… that shouldn't close your mind to other situations. Hell, I'll get to the point. Dan Pringle's going; understandably, after the tragedy, he wants to devote all his time to Elma. So I'm looking for a new head of CID. I've made no decisions yet, indeed I've been too busy to give it much thought, but I want to know this. When I consider the candidates for the job, do you want your name to be on the list? I know you're new in divisional command, but you're an experienced and very talented detective officer. If you tell me you're interested, I'll consider you with the others.'

  She stared at him, across the table. 'You still have the power to surprise me, boss. I thought you had invited me here to tell me very politely that you were going to move either Stevie or me to a different station.'

  She gulped. 'I don't know how to tell you this, and I'm very grateful that you would think of me for one moment as Dan's successor, but I have to decline. There's the practical, personal point that Stevie's career is clearly CID, for a while at least. I would feel awkward living with him and commanding him, but also, although you're right, I am new in my present job and I could go somewhere else without creating too big a gap, I feel that I've made a commitment to the post, and I want to see it through to its conclusion.' She stopped for a moment, then continued, nervously, 'There is one other thing: I am not sure that you would want a head of CID who's hardly in the office before she goes off on maternity leave.'

  Skinner stared at her across the table, before exploding in a laugh. 'That guy Steele,' he bellowed. 'I should put him on a disciplinary for interfering with executive planning. Oh, Mags, congratulations, that's terrific. Bugger the job, it's secondary. I'm as happy for you, my friend, as you are for yourself.' He rose, walked to the small fridge beside his desk and took out a half-bottle of champagne. 'Sod the iced water. This has to be toasted.'

  Seventy-two

  The van was like any other old Ford Transit, big and chunky, a commercial work-horse. It had seen better days, and its white-paint job was not the one with which it had left the factory. A keen-eyed observer who looked closely enough would have made out the words 'Stuart James Heating Engineer' beneath the new skin, and perhaps another layer below.

  It was parked in the yard of a building-supplies company in a small estate just off Newcraighall Road, and it had been there all morning. The warehouse manager had no idea who owned it, and as Monday was always a slack day, he had not been too concerned about the space it took up.

  However, as the hours ticked by, and more trade customers appeared, its presence began to annoy him. 'Does anybody have any idea whose that bloody Transit is?' he called out to the stock controller as he passed.

  'I thought it was young John's,' the man replied.

  'Naw. John's was pale blue, and anyway he got rid of it three months ago.'

  'In that case, I've no idea. Is it bothering you?'

  'It's takin' up space.'

  'In that case call the police and have it towed.'

  The manager allowed the van's owner another half-hour's grace, until finally his patience was exhausted. He took his friend's advice and called the Craigmillar police station, the closest at hand. He made a formal complaint that a vehicle appeared to have been abandoned on his premises.

  The constables who arrived were rookies; he could tell that at a glance. The pink-cheeked boy could not have been any more than twenty-two or twenty-three and the girl, an Asian, looked even younger. He began to feel his age.

  'Are you sure it doesn't belong to one of your employees?' the woman officer asked him.

  'We don't have that many, miss. If it did, I'd have found him by now. The thing was here when I got on this morning, it's taking up space in my park that I need for customers, and I want it moved.'

  'We should try and trace the owner first, and make sure it hasn't been reported as stolen.'

  'Do whatever you have to
do. Just make it go away.'

  She walked over to her colleague. The manager saw him speak into his radio and heard him read the registration number. 'The sergeant says we should see if the keys are in it,' he called to her. 'If they are we've to drive it back to the station.'

  'I'll have a look,' she said.

  As she headed for the van, the manager turned and went back to his business. He was completely unprepared for her scream. When it came, he almost jumped out of his Hush Puppies. He ran out of the warehouse.

  'There's someone in there,' he heard the girl cry out to her colleague.

  'It'll be a dosser,' he called, taking pity on their youth. He walked to the back of the Transit, thinking that he should have done it a few hours earlier, took hold of the handles, twisted it and wrenched the door open.

  She had been right: there was a man in there. He had been wrong: it was no dosser. He could tell that from his bulging eyes, his purple face, and from the red tie, knotted tight around his throat.

  Seventy-three

  Mario McGuire was early for his appointment in the deputy chief constable's office. He arrived just after two twenty, but Skinner was free and ready for him. 'How are you feeling?' he asked, as the superintendent entered, and they shook hands.

  'Fine, thanks, boss. I've still got a bit of a headache, but nothing that a couple of codeine doesn't put away.'

  'When did they let you out?'

  'My consultant came in at nine thirty this morning. He started to say something about another night, but I told him he'd have to tie me down or drug me for that to happen, so he let me out, on condition that I take at least three days' sick leave.'

  The DCC laughed. 'So what the hell are you doing here?'

  'This doesn't count as work. Dr Moores told me to go home and relax. I've been home and now I'm relaxing. I'm looking forward to this.'

  'I shouldn't really admit this, but so am I. While we're waiting…' He glanced at his watch as he led McGuire over to the informal seating. 'Jay will be late, I'll bet. I told him two thirty, but he'll keep me hanging about for ten minutes or so, just to make the point that he's an important man. So let's use the time. I had Maggie in for lunch earlier; I wanted to sound her out about becoming head of CID. I didn't offer her the job, you understand; I only asked her if she wanted to be a candidate.'

  'Did she turn you down?'

  'She did, as a matter of fact. You're not surprised?'

  'No. She likes her new job, and she likes her new home life. Plus, she likes being well away from me. If she became head of CID I'd have to report to her.'

  'She didn't offer that as a reason, I have to tell you.'

  'Maybe not, but it would be in her mind, for sure.'

  'Would it have been a problem for you?'

  'Not at all, but it might have been awkward round the table for the other divisional commanders, knowing our personal history.'

  Skinner scratched his chin. 'I suppose so,' he admitted. 'But it's not going to happen, so that's that. It leaves me with one less candidate, though.'

  'Is this where you tell me I'm not on the list, boss? Because, honestly, I don't expect to be.'

  'You're either kidding me, Mario, or you're underrating yourself. Of course you're on the list, you and two others. But this is where I tell you there's a condition attached.'

  McGuire frowned, then winced as if the gesture had been painful. 'What's that?'

  'I want you out of your family business, completely. I can live with your involvement at the moment, just, but if you were in line for a step up, I'd have trouble persuading the chief that it would be appropriate, and make no mistake, he will have to approve the final choice.'

  'Boss, I'm only there because my grandfather's will and my mother's retirement put me there.'

  'I know that, and I appreciate what you've done by having a lawyer stand between you and hands-on involvement… even if I was slightly embarrassed when you appointed my daughter.'

  McGuire's eyebrows rose sharply; he winced again. 'I didn't appoint Alex directly; I appointed her firm because they're the best, and they nominated her.'

  'Understood; that's why I let it happen. But listen, Mario, I don't care what your grandfather's will says. This force can't have a head of CID who is a director of a large commercial company; if we did there are people on the joint advisory board who'd be all over us like a rash. The Viareggio businesses would be subjected to more scrutiny than any other in town.'

  The big superintendent laughed, if a little gingerly. 'Your kid really is discreet, you know.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'She's been working on getting me out of it for the last three months. It's complicated and all the family members have to sign off on it, but basically what's going to happen is that we'll convert from our present status and become a public limited company, with those of us who are beneficiaries at the moment becoming shareholders. Our first act will be to have a general meeting where Paula will be appointed chair, with Stan Coia, her brother-in-law, as the other executive director on the board. My mother's agreed to be a non-executive director, as long as it doesn't involve her in too many meetings. Alex will become company secretary.'

  'She's discreet indeed, Mario. She's never mentioned a word to me, or even dropped a hint.'

  'The main thing is I'll become an ordinary shareholder: that's as far out as I can get.'

  'That will be okay. Christ, I own shares myself in half a dozen companies, and in God knows how many more through some bond investments that I have.' Skinner nodded. 'That's good, Mario; you've taken a load off my mind.'

  'Will there be formal interviews for the job, boss?'

  'What would we ask you that we don't know already?'

  A phone on his desk sounded, once. Skinner looked at his watch again, and smiled. 'What did I tell you? Ten minutes late.' He picked up the handset. 'Jack? Yes, bring him up, please.' He went to the door and waited, until his assistant appeared at the top of the stairs, leading a tall grey-suited figure. He stepped forward and shook his hand, vigorously. 'Greg,' he exclaimed, 'how good of you to find the time to see me. Come in, and tell me all about your new job.' He looked at McGurk. 'No interruptions, please.'

  Jay followed him into the wood-panelled office, and stared in surprise when he saw McGuire. 'What the hell is this, Bob?' he demanded, as the door closed on them. 'What's that man doing here?'

  'He may be putting his health at risk, Greg; his consultant would shit fireballs if he knew he was here. But he insisted on joining us. Have a seat… no, not on the comfy stuff, sit there.' He pointed to the straight-backed chair facing his desk, then walked round and settled into his own leather swivel. 'Tell me about the job, Greg; tell me how you got it.'

  'I sense an interrogation here,' Jay protested. 'I haven't come for that.'

  'No,' said Skinner calmly, 'you haven't, have you? I apologise, that was unnecessary… I know how you got it.'

  His eyes locked on to Jay, and held him in a steady gaze that brooked no interruption. 'There is a man called Albert Trumble; he is a senior member of the Labour Party and has been for donkey's years. He's one of their king-makers, old Labour in a new Labour suit, although he hasn't held office since Fife Regional Council was disbanded. If you don't have Albert's support, you'll find it difficult to advance through the ranks. If you do, you'll find it easy. Twelve years ago, he met a young man from Dundee at a gathering of regional councillors. This lad had just been elected, but he impressed Albert. A few years later, a vacancy arose for a seat in the House of Commons, in a constituency where he had a lot of influence. He put the word about and, after a local rival had been disposed of, his prot?g? was selected as the Labour candidate. Naturally, since it was in Fife, he won. When devolution came, the young man chose the Scottish Parliament ahead of Westminster. He became a member of the cabinet, on Albert's recommendation to the founding First Minister, who was an old council buddy of his. When the top job itself became vacant a year or so back, well, Tommy Murtagh was more o
r less anointed, wasn't he? Thirty-five years old, and at the head of the Cabinet table, a great achievement by him and a monument to Albert Trumble's influence.'

  He paused. 'That's not news to you, though, Greg, is it? Some of it you could even have read in the papers. But there's something about Albert that's never been reported. He's a fairly rare beast, a Labour Party grandee who is also an active and senior Freemason. As a matter of fact, Greg, you and he have both been masters of the same lodge, over in Fife. You've known each other for twenty years.'

  Skinner broke off, glanced at McGuire and laughed. 'Here, this is just like This Is Your Life, isn't it? I'll bet you're half expecting Albert to come out of my bathroom and give Greg a hug.'

  The visitor made to rise. 'I'm not staying here to have the piss taken out of me.'

  'Sit down!' The DCC's sudden shout slammed him back into his seat, as surely as if he had reached out a hand and shoved him. 'That's better,' he said, calm again in an instant. 'Now where was I? Oh, yes. Not so long ago, Tommy Murtagh told Albert he was looking to replace Jock Govan as security adviser with someone… a little more hands on, let's say. He didn't give it a second thought: he said that you were the man. True?'

  Jay glared at him.

  'You don't need to answer for I know it is, from an impeccable source. One thing that maybe you didn't know about your friend and patron is that he isn't just a member of your lodge. He belongs to another, in Edinburgh, a very select body with a very limited membership. I'm going to tell you a secret, knowing that you as a good Freemason will not divulge it to anyone, and that Mario, who values his career, won't either. The present master of that most exclusive chapter is none other than Sir James Proud. He asked Albert if he'd put you in post and he told him that he had.'

  Skinner swivelled round in his chair. 'That was very silly of Albert, you know. Maybe he thought that Jimmy wouldn't pass it on; if he did, he failed to realise that his first loyalty is to the police service, and that if its integrity is under threat he will do anything to protect it. I don't think I need to tell you, Greg, how embarrassing it would be for the First Minister if the connection that led to your appointment became known, since his party's last manifesto in Scotland promised to root out, quote, "the last remaining influences of Freemasonry on the Scottish police service". Tommy's really going to be pissed off at you.'