Pray for the Dying

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘I’m sure.’ Bob frowned. ‘Has she brought you up to date with what happened on Saturday, in the Glasgow concert hall?’

  ‘Yes, she has. From what she told me, it rather complicates the Aileen situation. She had a narrow escape and went running to Morocco, not you.’

  ‘She didn’t. Have a narrow escape, that is. She wasn’t the target.’

  ‘You can say that for certain? I thought there was still some doubt about who they were after. A couple of our Spanish titles are running the proposition that the First Minister himself was the target, and they missed.’

  ‘Then you should kick someone’s arse. Clive Graham might not mind the publicity, but the truth is that the one thing we did know for sure was that the target was female, and we said so at the time. Now we know definitely that it was Toni Field. My team in Glasgow haven’t announced it yet, but they will this morning. Press conference at ten o’clock, the same time as my lawyer will issue our statement, Aileen’s and mine, about our decision, last week, to pull the plug on our marriage.’

  ‘Now there’s a coincidence. Sorry,’ the Spanish Scot murmured, ‘that was my cynicism showing through.’

  ‘Hey, Xavi,’ Skinner laughed, ‘I’ve learned many things from you. One of them is how to minimise a story, as well as how to maximise it. Tell June . . . sorry, suggest to her, that she forget about us and concentrate on Glasgow this morning. There were developments yesterday, significant developments, and they’re going to blow political marriages off the front page.’

  ‘Any hints?’

  ‘Just one. I don’t want anyone approached before the press conference, but your crime reporter might be well employed doing all the research he can on a man named Basil “Bazza” Brown.’

  ‘Thanks for that. Will you be at the media briefing?’

  ‘No, I have someone else to see before then. I’ll need to go, in fact; my driver’s due to pick me up in under fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Fine.’ Aislado paused, then added, ‘You and Strathclyde, Bob. I know how you’ve always felt about it, so how the hell did that happen?’

  ‘A chapter of accidents, mate. Aileen says that now I’m there it’ll be my Hotel California. You know, I can check in any time I like but I can never leave. I’m not so sure about that, though. I have many things to sort out in my head over the next few weeks.’

  ‘Well, if you’d like somewhere to sort them out undisturbed, you’re welcome to visit us. I know you have your own place in L’Escala, but we have a guest house here now, and it’s yours for as long as you need it, if you don’t want anyone to know where you are.’

  ‘Cheers, appreciated. I may take you up on that.’

  ‘Okay. Bob, one last thing. If we do go looking for this man Brown after ten o’clock, where are we likely to find him?’

  ‘In the fucking mortuary, mate.’

  Twenty-Two

  ‘I’m too old for this shit, Lottie,’ Dan Provan moaned.

  ‘Agreed,’ DI Mann retorted. ‘But you’re here and you’re all I’ve fucking got as a second in charge, so get on with it, eh? Oh and by the way, you’re not too old to collect the overtime.’

  ‘There is that,’ the sallow sergeant conceded. He smiled. ‘Keeps us both out the house as well. How’s your Scottie gettin’ on?’

  ‘He’s fine. Moans a bit but he’s doing great in the battle against the bevvy; that makes me happy. He took the wee guy to the big shows in Strathclyde Park yesterday. A year ago, even, I’d never have trusted him to do that.’

  ‘Theme park,’ Provan corrected her. ‘The shows are what you and me went to when we were kids.’

  ‘Maybe you did. My dad never took me anywhere. All his spare money went on that bloody football team. “Follow, Follow”,’ she sang, off-key. ‘I remember my mum making me hide from him many a Saturday night . . . well, maybe not that many, for they didn’t lose all that often, but when they did and he got in with a couple of bottles of Melroso in him, nobody was safe.’

  ‘No’ even you?’ He looked her up and down, trying to tease her. In all the time they had worked together she had never before mentioned her childhood.

  ‘Not when I was eight or nine. If my mum gave me and my big brother money for the multiplex on a Saturday night, we knew there was going to be trouble.’

  Provan frowned. ‘Did he . . .’

  ‘Batter my mum? Oh yes. Don’t get me wrong, he was a quiet man all the rest of the time.’ She shook her head. ‘Listen to me, defending him.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Stomach cancer happened to him, when I was twelve. Then I grew up, joined the police, got married, and found myself in the same situation as my mother had. She warned me, ye know, but I never listened.’

  ‘Scott was like him? Is that what you’re saying?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Just as well you could handle him,’ the sergeant said, ‘like you proved at that daft boxing night.’

  ‘Not all the time. There were re-matches, Danny, without the gloves and the head guard. I didn’t always win. That was around the time when he was fuckin’ up his police career through the drink. When that finally happened I gave him an ultimatum. I gave him two of them, to be honest. The first was that if he ever raised a hand to me again, I would leave him. The second was that if he ever raised a hand to Jakey, I’d kill him. He believed both of them; he’s been off it, more or less, ever since. He still goes AWOL every now and then, but he comes back sober, and that’s the main thing.’

  ‘Then good for him. He’s gettin’ on fine at work too, is he? In that cash and carry place o’ his?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a supervisor now. The head of security’s due to retire in a couple of years, and Scottie’s in with a chance of getting the job.’

  ‘Mibbes he could find somethin’ for me if he does,’ Provan muttered. ‘Like Ah said . . .’

  She sighed. ‘I know, I know, I know. You’re too old for this shit: but you’re here, and we’re both standing in it, so just you keep on shovellin’, Danny. I’ve got another press briefing at ten o’clock. By then I’d like an answer from that car rental company.’

  The sergeant nodded; a small shower of dandruff settled on the shoulders of his crumpled, shiny jacket. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘They should have been back tae us by now. Time tae rattle their cage.’ He checked the number on the key-ring fob, then snatched his phone from its cradle and punched it in.

  ‘Drivall Car Hire,’ a young female voice chirped. It made him feel older than ever.

  ‘DS Provan, Strathclyde CID,’ he announced. ‘Ah spoke to somebody in your office last night. The lad said his name was Ajmal; Ah wanted some information about one of your cars that we found in Glasgow. He was going to get back to me, but I’m still waitin’. I need tae speak to him, now.’

  ‘I’m sorry, caller,’ the irrepressible youth replied, sounding anything but regretful. ‘Ajmal’s off duty today.’

  ‘Then go and get him,’ Provan barked, ‘or dig up your manager! This is a major inquiry Ah’m on.’

  The girl sniffed. ‘There’s no need for that tone of voice, sir. If you hold on I’ll see if Mr Terry’s available; he’s our manager.’

  ‘You do that, hen.’ He sat and waited, but not for too long.

  ‘Sergeant err . . .’ a querulous male voice began. ‘I’m sorry, Chantelle didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Provan,’ the Glaswegian growled. ‘Detective Sergeant Provan.’

  ‘Thank you, sorry about that; I’m John Terry, the general manager. This will be about our vehicle LX12 PMP, is that right?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘We have been acting on this, I assure you,’ Terry declared. ‘My colleague Ajmal left me a note when he went off duty. The vehicle hirer has died and you’re trying to find out who he was through us, is that the case?’

  ‘I suppose it might be possible, sir,’ Provan said, ‘that a guy hired a vehicle, shot himself three times in the chest, shut himself in the boot and disposed o
’ the gun, but we don’t really believe that.’

  The manager gulped. ‘Pardon? I didn’t quite catch all of that.’

  ‘Okay, mate. Let me spell it out for ye’, in words of one syllabub.’

  ‘My God,’ Terry exclaimed, before he was finished. ‘Mr Provan, I think we’ve had a little language difficulty here. Ajmal’s English is not the best, and your accent is, let’s say, quite regional.’

  No, let’s fuckin’ no’ say! With difficulty, the detective managed to keep his thought to himself, as the manager continued. ‘Ajmal left me a note with the registration number of the vehicle and the information that a man had been found dead in the vehicle and that the Glasgow police wanted the name of the hirer. What you’ve just told me is news to me and shocking news at that.’

  ‘Well, now that we understand each other,’ Provan said, weighing each word to avoid further ‘language difficulties’, ‘maybe yis can get me the information Ah need.’

  ‘Oh, I have that already, Sergeant. The office where the vehicle was hired . . . it’s in Finsbury Park . . . was closed last night. I spoke to the person in charge five minutes ago. The vehicle was rented a week ago yesterday, for return by five p.m. yesterday evening. The hirer’s name was Byron Millbank, address number eight St Baldred’s Road, London. I happen to know where that is; it’s very close to what was Highbury Stadium, the old Arsenal football ground, before they moved to the Emirates.’

  ‘Did he have a UK driving licence?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I assume . . .’

  ‘We don’t deal in assumptions, Mr Terry. Will they have a record in your other office?’

  ‘Oh yes. And a photocopy. Not everyone does that but we always do; take a photocopy of the plastic licence and the paper counterpart.’

  ‘In that case,’ Provan told him, ‘I need you tae get back on to your other office and get those photocopies faxed up to me. Haud on.’ He found a number that he had scrawled on a pad on his desk for another inquiry, a week before, and read it out to Terry.

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t have fax machines in our regional offices any more,’ he said. ‘Old technology these days.’

  ‘Well, find one, please. Go to the Arsenal if ye have tae; they’re bound tae have one.’

  ‘Oh, we won’t have to do that. We can scan the copies and send them.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Scan them, Mr Provan. Turn them into JPEGs.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Photographic images. Then we can send them to you as email attachments.’ Terry giggled. ‘Or don’t you have email in Scotland?’

  Nancy! Provan, an old-school homophobe, kept another thought to himself. ‘Oh aye, sir, we have. It runs on gas, right enough, but we get by.’ He read his force e-address, then spelled it out, letter by letter. ‘Soon as ye can, please; Ah need it within the next half hour.’

  ‘You’ll have it in ten minutes.’ Terry paused. ‘Can I send somebody along from our Glasgow Airport depot to collect our car?’

  ‘Eventually,’ the DS told him. ‘Ah’m afraid your car’s a crime scene, sir. Ah’m no’ sure how long we’ll need to hold it for. When we’re done with it, we’ll bring it back to you. We’ll even clean aff the bloodstains fur ye.’

  He hung up and turned to Mann. ‘A name for ye, Lottie. The car was hired by somebody called Byron Millbank.’

  ‘What do we know about him?’ she asked.

  ‘Eff all at the moment, but we should have a wee picture soon, off his driving licence. Meantime, his name’s enough tae go searchin’ for his birth certificate.’

  ‘Maybe,’ the DI cautioned. ‘That’s assuming it’s his real name. Let me see the image as soon as you get it, and blow it up as large as you can. I want to let the big boss see it.’

  Twenty-Three

  ‘When it arrives, have them forward it to my email,’ Skinner told Lowell Payne, raising his voice slightly as his car overtook three lorries that were travelling in convoy along the busy motorway that links Scotland’s capital with its largest city. ‘I’d like to see it as soon as I get to the office, although I’m not sure when that will be. I’m not looking forward to my next visit, although it’s one I have to make.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Chief. I was planning to attend the press briefing. Should I do that?’

  ‘Mmm.’ He considered the question for a few seconds, as he held his phone to his ear. His Strathclyde driver was new to him; Bluetooth was not an option. ‘Maybe not. The media will be aware by now of your role as my exec, and I’ve been dodging the buggers since last night. But tell DI Mann she should make it clear that we now know for sure that Field was the target. She doesn’t need to say how, but she should rule out any other possibility one hundred per cent. Do we video these events ourselves?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Payne admitted. ‘I’ve never been involved in one as formal as this.’

  ‘Then find out. If they don’t, make sure it happens. I’ve always done it in Edinburgh. I like my own record of events.’

  ‘Understood. I’ll tell Malcolm Nopper.’

  ‘Thanks. Something else I’d like you to do. The force area is massive, as we all know; I don’t plan or expect to set foot in every police station on a three-month appointment, but nonetheless I imagine I’m going to be travelling quite a bit. I want to be in complete touch at all times, so I’d like you to fix me up with a tablet computer.’

  ‘An iPad?’

  ‘That or equivalent, as long as it gets me internet access everywhere I go and has a big enough screen for me to read. With one of those I’ll be able to read emails at once, wherever I am.’

  ‘You’ll have one before the day’s out.’

  ‘Thanks.’ As he spoke, his driver signalled then eased to the left, leaving the motorway. Skinner knew where they were, well enough; Lanarkshire had been his territory until he was into his twenties, even if it had changed since his departure.

  ‘Why the hell do they call this Motherwell Food Park?’ he mused aloud.

  ‘No idea, sir,’ his driver replied, believing that an answer had been required. ‘Why would they not?’

  ‘Because it’s in bloody Bellshill, Constable; it’s miles away from Motherwell.’

  ‘Is that right, sir?’

  ‘Trust me on it; I was born in Motherwell, and my grandparents, my father’s folks, they lived in Bellshill. Where are you from, Constable Cole? What’s your first name, by the way?’

  ‘David, sir; Davie. I’m from Partick; that’s in Glasgow, sir.’

  Skinner laughed. ‘I know that well enough. I did some sinning there or thereabouts in my youth. Used to hang out in a pub called the Rubaiyat, in Byres Road.’

  ‘That’s not quite Partick, sir, but I know where you are. It’s still there.’

  ‘But not as it was; it was gutted, or “refurbished” to use the polite term for architectural vandalism, back in the eighties. It had a lounge bar . . . where you could take your girlfriend; never to the public bar, mind, men only there . . . called “The Bowl of Night”. Very few of the punters had a clue where the name came from, but it was famous nonetheless. There was never any trouble there, either.’

  Careful, Bob, he told himself. Steer well clear of memory lane, or you could get to like this bloody place all over again.

  ‘Were you Chief Constable Field’s driver, Davie?’ he asked.

  In the rear-view mirror, he saw the young man’s eyes tense. ‘Yes, sir. I wasn’t on duty on Saturday, though. She told me she was being collected by the First Minister’s car. I think she was quite chuffed about that.’

  ‘So you’ve been to her home before?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, often. We’re not far from it now.’

  They were moving down a steep incline that led to a complex motorway interchange. To his left, he saw a series of fantastic twisted shapes, the highest of them a wheel. ‘What the hell’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Theme park, sir,’ his driver informed him. ‘They call it M and D’s.’

  �
�My younger son would love it,’ he chuckled. ‘He’s the family action man. The older one would turn his nose right up; he’s our computer whizz kid.’

  ‘That whole area’s called Strathclyde Park, sir,’ Constable Davie went on.

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ Skinner murmured. ‘It used to be wilderness. In fact, the Motherwell burgh rubbish tip was there, right next to a football ground that used to be covered in broken glass and all sorts of crap. It was all taken away when the park was created and they diverted the River Clyde to make the loch. I was a kid when they did it, but I remember it happening.’

  Nostalgia, nostalgia, nostalgia. Stop it, Skinner! And yet, he reminded himself, none of those he thought of as his second family, Mark, James Andrew and Seonaid, had ever set foot in the town that had raised him.

  He shook the thoughts from his head as Davie drove through the interchange and off by an exit marked ‘Bothwell’. Almost immediately he took a left, then made a few more turns, the last taking them into a leafy avenue called Maule Road. ‘This is it, sir,’ he said, drawing to a halt outside a big red sandstone villa, built, Skinner estimated, in the early twentieth century.

  ‘Pretty substantial,’ he remarked. ‘When did Chief Constable Field move in here?’ he asked his driver. ‘Given that she was only in post for five months.’

  ‘Three months ago, sir. For the first few weeks she and her sister lived in an executive flat on the Glasgow Riverside.’

  ‘Right.’ He stepped out of the car, then leaned over, beside the driver’s window; it slid open. ‘I can’t say for sure how long I’ll be,’ he murmured. ‘If I’m any longer than half an hour, I want you to toot the horn. I’ll pretend it’s a signal that I’ve had an urgent message.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll never ask you to lie for me, Davie, but it’s always good to have an escape plan.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’ Constable Cole frowned, as if wanting to say more, but hesitant.

  The chief read the signal. ‘Out with it,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, sir. It’s presumptuous of me, but I wonder if you’d express my sympathies to Marina and her mother.’