Pray for the Dying

by Quintin Jardine

  Her reassurance was wasted on him. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, ‘so these guys outside, they report to him?’

  She shrugged. ‘I suppose they do. But can you see them being brave enough to go to him and say, “By the way, sir, your wife’s shagging Joey Morocco”? Somehow I don’t. But even if they did, frankly I would not give the tiniest monkey’s. I wouldn’t lose my party job over this, for I’m divorcing Chief Constable Skinner just as fast as I can, or he’s divorcing me, if he gets in first.’ She read his concern. ‘Don’t worry, Joey. You won’t be caught in the middle. The split between Bob and me, it’s not about sex, it’s about ambitions that could not be further apart. You and me? We’re just a bit of fun, right?’

  He hesitated, then nodded.

  ‘That’s how it was when you were starting out on that soap on BBC Scotland, fun. Now you’re in big-budget movies, moved upmarket, and I’m free and soon to be single again, but it’s still just fun, convenient uncomplicated nookie, no more than that. You’re a sexy guy and I’m a crackin’ ride, as my coarser male constituents would say, so let’s just enjoy it without either of us worrying about the other. Deal?’

  His second nod was more convincing. ‘Deal.’

  ‘Good, now what do you do for Sunday lunch these days?’

  ‘Usually I go out for it. Today, maybe not; I’ll see what’s in the fridge.’

  ‘Do that, and I’ll get showered and dressed. No rush, though. I’d like to lie low here for the rest of the day, if I can.’

  ‘Of course. We might even manage breakfast tomorrow?’

  ‘Sounds like a plan. Thanks. You’re a sweetheart. It really is good to have somewhere to hide out just now. Actually, I’m a chancer,’ she admitted. ‘I brought enough clothes with me for two nights.’ She shuddered. ‘God, was I glad to get out of that dress, with the bloodstains. I felt like Jackie Kennedy.’

  He winced at the comparison as she went into his bathroom. She had left her phone there the night before, after brushing her teeth. She switched it on, then checked her voicemail.

  There were over a dozen calls. One was from her constituency secretary, one from Alf Old, the Scottish Labour Party’s chief executive, another from her deputy leader . . . Probably cursing that the bastard missed me, she thought . . . several from other parliamentary colleagues, not all of her party, and three from journalists who were trusted with her number. She had expected nothing from her husband.

  As soon as she was showered and dressed she called the secretary, an officious older woman with a tendency to fuss. ‘Aileen, where are you?’ she demanded, as soon as she answered. ‘I’ve tried your flat, I’ve tried your house in Gullane. I got no reply from either.’

  ‘Never you mind where I am,’ she retorted sharply. ‘It would have been nice of you to ask how I was, but I’m okay and I’m safe. Anybody calls inquiring about me, you can tell them that. I may call into the office tomorrow, or I may not. I’ll let you know.’

  No reply from Gullane? she mused as she ended the call, but had no time to dwell on the information as her phone rang immediately. She checked the screen and saw that it was the party CEO, trying again. ‘Alf,’ she said as she answered.

  ‘Aileen,’ he exclaimed, ‘thank God I’ve got through. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. I’m safe, and I’m with a friend. I’m sorry I didn’t call you last night, but things were crazy. The security people got me off the scene, by force, more or less. Even now I have protection officers parked outside, like it or not. The First Minister insisted.’

  ‘Good for him. Now . . .’

  ‘I know what you’re going to say. Silence breeds rumours.’

  ‘Exactly. I’ve had several calls asking where you are, and whether you might have been wounded.’

  ‘Then issue a statement. Have they confirmed yet that it’s Toni Field who’s dead?’

  ‘Yes. Strathclyde police announced it a wee while ago.’

  ‘In that case we should offer condolences . . . I’ll leave it to you to choose the adjectives, but praise her all the way to heaven’s gate . . . then add that I’m unharmed, and that I’ve simply been taking some private time to come to terms with what’s happened. I suppose you’d better say something nice about Clive Graham as well, but not too nice, mind you, nothing that he can quote in his next election manifesto.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Old remarked. ‘I can tell you’re okay.’

  ‘I’ll be fine as long as I keep myself busy,’ she told him. ‘I’m sorry if I seem a bit brutal, but even without what happened last night there’s a lot going on in my life.’

  ‘Do you want to take some more time out? Everyone would understand.’

  ‘They might,’ she agreed, ‘but in different ways. There are plenty within the party who’d think I was showing weakness. I don’t have to tell you, Alf, as soon as a woman politician does that the jackals fall on her. I’ve handled stress before; I’m good at it.’ She paused. ‘I’ll be back in business tomorrow; I have to be. The First Minister will come out of this looking like fucking Braveheart, so we have to keep pace. We need to come out with something positive. You know that Clive and I were planning a joint announcement on unifying the Scottish police forces?’

  ‘Yes, you told me.’

  ‘Well, I want to jump the gun. Have our people develop the proposition that what happened in the concert hall illustrates the need for it, that it was a result of intelligence delayed by artificial barriers within our police service that need to be broken down. Then set up a press conference for midday tomorrow. We don’t have to say what it’s about. They’ll be all over me anyway about last night. But I want to be ready to roll with that policy announcement.’

  ‘Will do,’ Old said, ‘but Aileen, what about your personal security? I know the police don’t believe there’s any continuing threat to you, because I spoke to the DI in charge this morning, but they can’t rule it out completely.’

  ‘I told you,’ she snapped, ‘I’ve got bodyguards. But so what? If people want to believe there is someone out to get me, let them. Remember Thatcher at Brighton? The same day that bomb went off she was on her feet, on global telly, making her conference speech and saying “Bring it on”. That’s the precedent, Alf. I either follow it or I run away and hide. Now get to work, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  As Old went off to follow orders, Aileen thought about returning some of the other calls but decided against it. Instead she trotted downstairs. ‘Joey?’ she called as she went.

  ‘I’m in the kitchen. Telly’s on: you should see this.’

  She had had no time to learn the layout of the house when she had arrived late the night before, but she traced his voice to its location. The room looked out on to a large rear garden surrounded by a high wall, topped with spikes. ‘No place for the photographers to hide here,’ she remarked.

  ‘No. I had the fencing added on when I bought the place. It does the job.’

  ‘So what’s on the box that I should see?’

  He turned from the work surface where he was putting a salad together and nodded towards a wall-mounted set. It was on, and a BT commercial was running. ‘Sky News,’ he replied. ‘They’ve been trailing a Glasgow press conference and somebody’s name was mentioned. In fact . . .’

  As he spoke, the programme banner ran, then the programme went straight to what appeared to be a live location: a table, and two men, one of them in uniform.

  ‘Is that who I think it is?’ Joey asked. ‘I spoke to him last night; didn’t have a clue who he was. No wonder he got frosty when I asked about you.’

  She smiled, but without humour or affection. ‘That’s him. I told you earlier what this is about. Observe and be amazed, for it’s one of the biggest U-turns you will ever see in your life. Here, I’ll do the lunch.’

  As she took over the salad preparation, Joey Morocco watched the bulletin as Dominic Hanlon introduced himself to a roomful of journalists and camera operators. There was a nervous tremor in the counci
llor’s voice, a sure tell that the event was well beyond his comfort zone. He began by paying a fulsome tribute to the dead Antonia Field, and then explained the difficult circumstances in which the Strathclyde force had found itself.

  ‘However,’ he concluded, ‘I am pleased to announce that with the approval of his Police Authority in Edinburgh, Chief Constable Robert Morgan Skinner has agreed to take temporary command of the force for a period of three months, to allow the orderly appointment of a successor to the late Chief Constable Field. Mr Skinner, would you like to say a few words?’ He looked at his companion, happy to hand over.

  ‘In the circumstances,’ Skinner replied, ‘it’s probably best that we go straight to questions.’

  A forest of hands went up, and a clamour of voices arose, but he nodded to a familiar face in the front row, John Fox, the BBC Scotland Home Affairs editor.

  ‘Bob,’ the reporter began, ‘you weren’t a candidate for this job last time it was vacant. Are you prepared to say why not?’

  The chief constable shrugged. ‘I didn’t want it.’

  ‘Why do you want it now?’

  ‘I don’t, John. Believe me, I would much rather still be arguing with Toni Field in ACPOS over the principles of policing, as she and I did, long and loud. But Toni’s been taken from us, at a time when Strathclyde could least afford to lose its leader, given the absence of a deputy.

  ‘When I was asked to take over . . . temporarily; I will keep hammering that word home . . . by Councillor Hanlon’s authority, on the basis that its members believe me to be qualified, as a police officer I felt that I couldn’t refuse. It wouldn’t have been right.’

  Fox was about to put a supplementary, but another journalist cut in. ‘Couldn’t ACC Allan have taken over?’

  ‘Given his seniority, if he was well, yes, but he isn’t. He’s on sick leave.’

  ‘What about ACC Thomas, or ACC Gorman?’

  ‘Fine officers as they are, neither of them meets the criteria for permanent appointment,’ he replied, ‘and so the authority took the view that wouldn’t have been appropriate.’

  ‘Did you consult your wife before accepting the appointment, Mr Skinner?’ The questioning voice was female, its accent cultured and very definitely English. Aileen was in the act of chopping Chinese leaves; she stopped and if she had looked down instead of round at the screen she would have seen that she came within a centimetre of slicing a finger open.

  She saw Bob’s gaze turn slowly towards the source, who was seated at the side of the room. ‘And why should I do that, Miss . . .’

  ‘Ms Marguerite Hatton, Daily News political correspondent. She is the Scottish Labour leader, as I understand it. Surely you discuss important matters with her.’

  ‘You’re either very smart or very stupid or just plain ignorant, lady,’ Aileen murmured. ‘You’ve just lit a fuse.’

  A very short one, as was proved a second later. ‘What the hell has her position got to do with this?’ her estranged husband barked. ‘I’m a senior police officer, as senior as you can get in this country. Are you asking, seriously, whether I seek political approval before I take a career decision, or even an operational decision?’

  ‘Oh, really!’ the journalist scoffed. ‘That’s a dinosaur answer. I meant did you consult her as your wife, not as a politician.’

  On the screen Skinner stared at her, then laughed. ‘You are indeed from the deep south, Ms Hatton, so I’ll forgive your lack of local knowledge. I suggest that you ask some of your Scottish colleagues, those who really know Aileen de Marco. They’ll tell you that there isn’t a waking moment when she isn’t a politician. And I can tell you she even talks politics in her sleep!’

  ‘Jesus!’ Aileen shouted. ‘Joey, switch that fucking thing off!’

  ‘Relax,’ he said, ‘it’s not true.’

  The woman from the Daily News was undeterred. ‘In that case,’ she persisted, ‘how will she feel about you taking the job?’

  ‘Why should I have any special knowledge of that?’ He looked around the room. ‘No more questions about my wife, people.’

  On camera, John Fox raised a hand. ‘Just one more, please, Bob? How is she after her ordeal last night?’

  ‘Last time I saw her she was fine: fine and very angry.’

  ‘Where was that, Mr Skinner?’ Marguerite Hatton shouted.

  ‘You’ve had your five minutes,’ he growled. ‘Any more acceptable questions?’

  The woman beside Fox, Stephanie Marshall of STV, raised a hand. ‘You weren’t a candidate for the Strathclyde post last time, Chief Constable, but will you put your name forward when it’s re-advertised?’

  Watching, Aileen saw him lean forward as if to answer, then hesitate.

  ‘If you’d asked me that last night,’ he began, ‘just after Dominic asked me to take on this role, I would have told you no, definitely not. But something was said to me this morning that’s made me change my attitude just a wee bit.

  ‘So the honest answer is, I don’t know. Let me see how the next couple of weeks go, and then I’ll decide. Now, ladies and gentlemen, I must go. We have a major investigation under way as you all realise, and I must call on the officer who’s running it.’

  Aileen reached out and grasped the work surface, squeezing it hard.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Joey chuckled.

  ‘I’m checking for earth tremors. You might not know it but what he just said is the equivalent of a very large mountain starting to move. I can’t believe it. I told him last night he’d never leave Pitt Street once he got in there, but I didn’t think for one second that he’d actually listen to me. It’s a first.’

  He reached out and patted her on the shoulder. ‘No, dearie, it’s you that wasn’t listening to him. His words,’ he pointed out, ‘were “this morning”, not “last night”. So whoever made him think again, it wasn’t you.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she whispered. ‘Which makes me wonder where the hell he was this morning.’

  ‘While I’m wondering about something else,’ Joey said. ‘Why did that News cow ask where he’d seen you last night?’

  Nine

  ‘I’m sorry about that News woman, sir,’ Malcolm Nopper said. ‘I’ve never seen her before. I can’t keep her out of future press conferences, but I’ll do my best to control her.’

  Skinner looked at the chief press officer he had inherited from Toni Field, and laughed. The media had been escorted out of the conference room in the force headquarters building and the two men were alone. Nopper eyed his new boss nervously, unsure how to read his reaction.

  ‘How the hell are you going to do that?’ the chief constable asked. ‘Sellotape over her gob? So you didn’t know her? I didn’t know her either, and it would have been the same if she’d turned up in Edinburgh, on my own patch. She’s a seagull; we all get them.’

  ‘A seagull, sir?’

  ‘Sure, you know, they fly in, make a noise, shit on you, then fly away again. As for controlling her, you don’t have to. If she turns up at one of my media briefings in future . . . not that I plan to have many . . . I’ll simply ignore her. You can do the same at any you chair.’

  ‘I tend not to do that, Chief,’ Nopper said. ‘When an investigation’s in process, I let the senior investigating officer take the lead.’

  ‘Not any more. Lottie Mann will have to go before the media later on. From something that Max Allan told me a while back, I guess she hasn’t had any formal media training. Am I right?’

  ‘None that I can recall,’ the civilian agreed.

  ‘I know she’ll be fine, but I’m not sure she does, so she must have a minder. I’ll be there but if I go on the platform it’ll undermine her. As you said, she’s the SIO. So you’ll be there, you’ll introduce her and you’ll pick the questioners. Ms Hatton will not be one of them. Your regulars won’t mind that. In my experience they don’t like seagulls either.’

  ‘As you wish, Chief.’

  ‘Mmm. Where will you hold it
? Do you have a favourite venue?’

  ‘No. Normally it would be where it’s most convenient for the officer in charge.’

  ‘In that case we do it here in Pitt Street, in this room. I spoke to DI Mann on the way through here. She’ll be finished at the concert hall by two. She and I agreed that given the nature of this investigation it’s best that it be centrally based, rather than in a police office that’s open to the general public. Nobody else will be using this room this afternoon, will they?’

  ‘Not as far as I know, but suppose somebody was, you want it, you get it.’

  ‘Okay, set it up for four. That’ll give Lottie time to brief me, and it will give me time to get used to my new surroundings.’

  As he spoke, a figure appeared in the double doorway.

  ‘Lowell,’ Skinner called. ‘You found us. DCI Payne is going to be my executive officer during my stay here,’ he explained to the press officer. ‘When you want to get to me, you do it through him. That’ll be the case for everyone below command rank, but be assured, I will be accessible; his job won’t be to keep people out, but to help them in.’

  He moved towards the exit. ‘Your first task, Lowell. Show me to my office. I knew where it was in Jock Govan’s time, but I have no clue now.’

  As one of her first signs of her new-broom approach, Antonia Field had rejected the office suite used by her predecessors and had commandeered half a floor in the newer part of the headquarters complex. ‘Have you decided where you’re going to live, sir?’ Payne asked as he led the way up a flight of stairs towards the third floor.

  Skinner stopped. ‘Lowell,’ he said, ‘I don’t expect to be “sirred” all the time by senior officers, least of all by you. You want to call me something official, call me “Chief”. When there’s nobody else around and you ask me something you’d ask me over the dinner table, call me Bob, like always.’

  ‘Fair enough. Although,’ he added, ‘it was really a professional question, since I’ll have to know where to raise you in an emergency.’