Pray for the Dying

by Quintin Jardine

  His smile was long gone when the phone sounded; he flicked the switch that put it on speaker. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sir,’ a woman replied, ‘it’s PC May in reception. I’m very sorry to bother you, and I wouldn’t normally, but there’s a man here, an odd-looking wee chap, and he’s asking to see you. He won’t give me his name but he says to tell you that he’s been sent by Mr McGuire in Edinburgh. What should I do?’

  ‘He’s okay,’ Skinner told her. ‘He’s a tradesman I need to solve a practical problem. Take him to the lift, then come up with him to this floor, straight away. I’ll meet you there and take charge of him.’

  He hung up and walked from his office. He was waiting by the elevator door when it opened less than two minutes later. A small wiry man with a pinched face and a jailhouse complexion stepped out.

  The chief looked towards his escort. ‘Thanks, Constable. I’ll call you to come and collect him when we’re done. By the way,’ he added. ‘I’m expecting another visitor quite soon. Let me know directly he arrives.’

  She was nodding as the lift door closed, leaving Skinner alone with his visitor. ‘Well, Johan,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s good to see you, under different circumstances from the usual.’

  Johan Ramsey was dressed in baggy jeans and brown jerkin, over a Rangers football top that his host judged, from its design, to be at least three seasons old. He was one of those people whose only expression was furtive. ‘Is this legit?’ he asked.

  Skinner laughed. ‘Johan, I’m the chief fucking constable; of course it’s legit. A wee bit unorthodox, that’s all. Come on.’

  He led the way to his office, and into his private room, where he pulled aside the door that concealed the safe. ‘That’s the problem,’ he said. ‘My predecessor took the combination to her grave, and I can’t open it. Six digits, I’m told.’

  Ramsey took a pair of spectacles with one leg from a pocket in his jerkin, and perched them on the narrow bridge of his nose. He appraised the task for a few seconds, then nodded, and declared, ‘A piece of piss,’ with a degree of pride. ‘If you’ll just step into the other room, sir, Ah’ll have it open in a couple of minutes.’

  The chief’s jaw dropped, then he laughed. ‘Jo, if you think I’m leaving you alone in here, you’re daft.’

  The little man pouted. ‘Professional secrets, Mr Skinner,’ he protested.

  ‘My arse! Jo, you’re a professional fucking thief! I don’t know what’s in the bloody thing. Tell you what, I’ll stand behind you, so I can’t see your hands.’ He took five twenty-pound notes from his wallet and waved them before the safe-cracker’s eyes. ‘And there’s these,’ he added.

  ‘What about ma train fare?’

  Skinner snorted, but produced another twenty. ‘There you are: and a couple of pints when you get home. Now get on with it.’

  ‘Aye, okay.’

  He turned and hunched over the safe. The chief saw him reach inside his jacket again then insert a device that could have been a hearing aid in his ear. Everything else was hidden to him; all he could see were small movements of Ramsey’s shoulders.

  ‘A couple of minutes’ he had said, and it took no longer, until there was a click, and the safe swung open.

  ‘Piece of piss, Ah told ye. Three four eight five’s the combination. Four digits, no’ six.’

  Skinner smiled as he handed over the notes. ‘Do you know what “recidivist” means, Johan?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir,’ Ramsey replied as he pocketed them.

  ‘No, I didn’t think so. Do me one favour, even though it’ll be a big one for you. Try not to get nicked again on my patch, whether it’s here or in Edinburgh. This can’t get you any favours, and I really don’t want to have to lock you up again. Come on, let’s get you back home. Remember, you were never here.’

  His desk phone rang again as they stepped back into his office. He picked it up.

  ‘PC May again, sir. Your next visitor’s arrived.’

  ‘Good timing,’ he said. ‘Bring him up, and you can take this one back.’

  Fifty

  ‘When will they be in court?’ Viola Murphy asked, as soon as Dan Provan had finished reading the formal charges, and the two accused had been taken away to complete the bail formalities.

  ‘Ah can’t say,’ he replied, ‘but we’ll let you know. Will you be defending them both?’

  ‘Probably, unless either one of them changes their mind and decides to plead not guilty; in that event, there could be a conflict. Does Skinner mean it? Will he press for custodial sentences?’

  ‘From what Ah hear you got on the wrong side of him. Did you think he’s the kind that bluffs?’

  ‘No,’ the lawyer conceded.

  ‘It’s no’ just him. ACC Gorman’s of the same mind.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Listen, Viola, we all are. It’s tough for me, personally, you must know that, but we cannae let this go by wi’ a slap on the wrist, especially for McGlashan. If she goes down, he has tae and all. That would be the case suppose he wasn’t an ex-cop and married to somebody who still is. The fact that he is just underlines it. The fiscal will demand jail. The best you can hope for is a soft-hearted sheriff that gives them less than six months.’

  ‘I’ll ask for a suspended sentence.’

  ‘Ye better no’. He might hang them.’ He winced. ‘Bad joke, Ah know, but you know the bench. Sometimes, the more that lawyers chance their arm, the harder they go. Would ye like some advice?’

  ‘I’ll listen to it,’ she said. ‘Whether I’ll act on it . . .’

  ‘Okay. If I was in the dock, I’d want the youngest, freshest kid in your firm tae do the plea in mitigation. Ah’d even be hopin’ that they made an arse of it, and the judge took pity on them. Because that’s the only way those two will get anything like sympathy from any sheriff in this city.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she murmured. ‘You may well be right. I suppose you should be; you’ve been around long enough to have seen it all. I’ll have a word with my partners, and see what they think. Thanks, Sergeant.’

  The door had barely closed behind her when it opened again. Provan looked up, to see Scott Mann framed there.

  ‘Dan,’ he began. ‘Sarge.’

  The older man bristled. ‘Don’t you fuckin’ call me Sarge.’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of DC Paterson who stood beside him, gathering notes and papers and putting them in order. ‘That’s reserved for colleagues, like Banjo here; for police officers, and that you’re no’. And don’t “Dan” me either. Mr Provan, it can be, but frankly Ah’d prefer nothing at all. Ah’d rather no’ see you again.’

  ‘Will ye put a word in for me?’ Mann begged.

  ‘What? Wi’ the high heid yins? You must be joking.’

  ‘No, I meant wi’ Lottie.’

  The DS started round the table towards him, only to be restrained by Paterson’s strong hand, grabbing him by the elbow. He stopped, gathering himself.

  ‘There is even less chance of that,’ he said when he was ready. ‘From now on, I will do all I can to protect Lottie from you. Now you fuck off out of here, boy, get off wi’ your tart. And be glad you’re leavin’ in one piece. In the old days ye wouldn’t have.’

  Fifty-One

  ‘Who was that little guy?’ Clyde Houseman asked, as he settled into the chair that Skinner offered him. ‘He wasn’t the sort you expect to see on the command floor of the second largest police force in Britain.’

  ‘Just a technician,’ the chief replied. ‘I had a wee problem, but he sorted it out for me.’

  ‘Computer?’

  He shrugged. ‘You know IT consultants, they live in a different world from the rest of us. Some of them turn up and they’re dressed like you, others, they’re like him. I know which ones I trust more. I’m not a big fan of dressing to impress.’

  The younger man winced and his eyes seemed to flicker for a moment. ‘I do . . .’

  Skinner laughed. ‘Don’t take it personally. I wasn’t getting at you. Y
ou’re ex-military, an ex-officer; you’ve had years of training in taking a pride in your appearance. Plus, you’re not a computer consultant; you’re a spook. Whatever, you look a hell of a lot better than you did as a gang-banger in Edinburgh half a lifetime ago.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘Me, now? I’ve never changed. I joined the police force because I felt a vocational calling, and I followed it even though I knew that my old man had always hoped I would take over the family law firm eventually. I think he died hoping that. I never let myself be swayed, though. I applied to join the Edinburgh force, they saw my shiny new degree and they accepted me. And you know what? The first time I put on the uniform, I realised that I hated it. The thing was ugly and uncomfortable and when I looked in the mirror I didn’t recognise the bloke inside it.

  ‘It didn’t kill my pride in the job, but it did make me want to get into CID as fast as I could. Look at me now; I’m a chief constable, but my uniform is hanging in my wardrobe next door. I’m only wearing a suit because I feel a wee bit obliged to do that, at least until I get settled in here.

  ‘The real me might dress a wee bit sharper than the guy you passed at the lift, but it would still be pretty casual. So what you see here, to an extent it’s a phoney. Old George Michael got it right; sometimes clothes do not make the man.

  ‘But yours, though, they do. They mark you out, they define you. The military defined you. It made you; you became it. Before that you were no more than eighty kilos of clay waiting to be given proper form.

  ‘I could see that when I came across you in that shithole of a scheme in Edinburgh. That’s why I gave you my card that day: I thought you might see the light and get in touch. You didn’t, but you still went in the right direction. If you had . . . you’d still be the man you are, but you’d just look a bit different, that’s all.’

  Houseman laughed. ‘Scruffy at weekends, you mean? How do you know I’m not?’

  ‘I know, because I’ve met plenty of soldiers in my time and quite a few were officers who rose through the ranks, like you. I’ll bet you don’t have a pair of jeans in your wardrobe. Am I right?’

  ‘You are, as a matter of fact. Is that a bad thing?’

  ‘In a soldier, no. In a lawyer, no. In an actuary, for sure no. When I hang out in Spain I see these fat blokes on the beach in gaudy shirts and ridiculous shorts, with gold Rolexes on their wrists and all of them looking miserable because their wives have dragged them there and they’re starting to panic because they don’t know who anyone else is and, worse, nobody knows what they are. My golf club’s full of people who’ve never worn denim in their fucking lives, and that’s okay, because if they did they’d be pretending to be something they’re not.’

  ‘Exactly. So what are you saying?’

  ‘I’m trying to tell you,’ Skinner said, ‘that conformity is fine for normal people. But you, Clyde, you’re not a normal person, you’re a spook. You’re a good-looking bloke, of mixed race, so you have an inbuilt tendency to be memorable. The way you dress, the way you present yourself, makes you unforgettable, and in your line of work, my friend, that is the very last thing you want to be. If they didn’t teach you that when you joined up at Millbank, then they failed you.’

  Houseman’s eyebrows formed a single line. ‘Point taken, sir. Any suggestions?’

  ‘Nothing radical; the obvious mostly. Vary your dress, and when you go casual, don’t wear stuff with big logos or pop stars on the front. Shop in Marks and Spencer rather than Austin Reed. Let your hair grow a bit shaggy. Don’t shave every day. Wear sunglasses when it’s appropriate, the kind that people will remember rather than the person behind them. Choose what you drive carefully.’

  He smiled. ‘That day you and I met, back in the last century, I was driving my BMW. That was an accident; normally I’d have been in my battered old Land Rover. If I had, you and your gang wouldn’t have given it a second glance, and I wouldn’t have had to warn you off.’

  ‘Then whatever caused that accident, I’m grateful for it. You gave me the impetus to get out of there. Otherwise I might not have. I might have stayed a stereotype and wound up in jail.’

  ‘Nah, I think you’d have made it. You were a smart kid. You’d have worked it out for yourself, eventually.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He pulled himself a little more upright. ‘However, I’m sure you didn’t call me here to give me fashion advice.’

  ‘No,’ Skinner agreed, ‘that’s true. I felt I should give you an update on the investigation, since you were in at the death, so to speak.’

  ‘Thanks, sir. I appreciate that. How’s it going?’

  ‘It’s not,’ the chief sighed. ‘It’s stalled. All our lines of inquiry have dried up. There is no link between Beram Cohen and the person or organisation who sponsored the hit. We know how it was done, and even if it points in a certain direction, the witnesses are all dead. That’s probably my fault,’ he added. ‘You had no choice but to take down Smit, but if I was a better shot I’d have been able to stop Botha without killing him.’

  ‘There will be no further inquiries about our part in that?’ Houseman asked.

  ‘None. Everything is closed.’

  Skinner rose to his feet, and his visitor followed suit. He moved towards the door, then stopped. ‘I’m aware,’ he said, ‘that in Toni Field’s time MI5 policy was to keep our counter-terrorism unit at a distance. It’s okay, I’m not asking you to comment. Toni may not even have been aware of it, but I know it was the case. I just want you to know that while I’m here, I won’t tolerate that. You can keep secrets from anyone else, but if they affect my operational area, not from me. Understood?’

  Houseman nodded. ‘Understood, sir.’

  They walked together to the lift. The chief constable watched the doors close then went back the way he had come, but walked past his own room, stopping instead at the one he had commandeered for Lowell Payne. He knocked on the door then opened it halfway and looked in.

  ‘Come on along,’ he said.

  Marina Deschamps put down her magazine, stood and followed him. ‘This is all very surprising,’ she murmured, with a smile. ‘Even a little mysterious. By the way, did you solve the mystery of the safe?’

  He nodded. ‘This very afternoon. I’ve still to check its contents, but if there’s anything personal in there I’ll let you have it. As for the rest, you’re right, but now I can show you what this visit’s all about.’

  He sat behind his desk and touched the space bar on his computer keyboard to waken it from sleep.

  ‘This room has a couple of little bonuses,’ he began. ‘Having worked next door, you’re probably aware that there’s a security system. There’s a wee camera in the corner of the ceiling and when the system is set, anyone who comes in here is automatically filmed, without ever knowing it.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Some evenings I would be last out of here, and so I had to be shown how to set it.’

  ‘Yes, I imagine so. But did Toni tell you that it’s more than an alarm?’

  ‘No, she never did. It is? In what way?’

  ‘It can also be used to record meetings. Clearly, if that happens, all the participants should be made aware of it, but if they weren’t they’d never know.’ He used his mouse to open a program then select a file. He beckoned to her. ‘Come here and take a look at this.’

  As she walked round behind him he clicked an icon, to start a video. There was no sound, but the image that she could see was clear and in colour. The chief constable with his back to the camera and facing him a sharply dressed, immaculately groomed man, whose skin tone was almost identical to her own.

  ‘Ever seen him before?’ Skinner asked, hearing an intake of breath from over his shoulder.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘That’s Don Sturgeon. What’s he doing here?’

  Fifty-Two

  ‘What d’you think of the beer?’ Neil McIlhenney asked.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Lowell Payne conceded. ‘What’s it c
alled?’

  ‘Chiswick Bitter. I don’t drink much, not any more, but when I do it’s the one I go for.’

  ‘That’s because it doesn’t take the top of your head off,’ one of their companions remarked, ‘unlike that ESB stuff. Bloody ferocious that is. I’ve seen tourists staggering out of here after a couple of pints of that stuff. Not like you Jocks, though. You’d drink aviation fuel and never feel it.’

  ‘I used to,’ the DCS chuckled. ‘Me and my mate. In those days we used to say that English beer was half the strength of a Scotsman’s piss, but since I came down here I’ve developed an occasional taste for it. Travelling to work on the tube has its compensations.’

  The other Londoner glanced at him. ‘Where do you live?’

  McIlhenney raised an eyebrow. ‘Was that a professional inquiry? I’ve heard about you guys; you’re never off duty.’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Richmond, actually.’

  The man had his glass to his lips, he spluttered. ‘You what? On a copper’s pay? Maybe it should have been a professional question.’

  ‘My wife’s owned the place for years. When we lived in Edinburgh it was rented out. We used her flat in St John’s Wood if we ever came down.’

  ‘You’re shitting us.’

  ‘Oh no he’s not,’ Payne laughed. ‘Ask him who his wife is.’

  As he spoke, the phone in the pocket of his shirt vibrated against his chest. He knew who the caller would be without looking at it. He excused himself as he took it out, and stepped out into the street.

  ‘Where are you now?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘I’m in a pub called the Red Lion, in Whitehall, with Neil McIlhenney and two guys he says are part of the Prime Minister’s protection team. This might be a good night to have a go at him.’

  ‘Given what happened on Saturday,’ the chief pointed out, ‘that’s not very funny. Have you got a hotel?’