‘For a while I thought I’d never get over them. I’d go home, and some nights I’d drink myself to sleep, then be up next day as if everything was hunky-dory, only it wasn’t. I began to develop a vision of getting in one night, turning on the gas and forgetting to light it.
‘That would have happened too, sooner or later, but for Stevie. He was kind to me; he made me start to care about myself again. He was always a friend, before he was anything else. When he became more than that, it wasn’t him that made the running, it was me, but when we did get together, completely, my life just lit up in a way it never had before. Even though he’s dead, that’ll never change,’ she glanced down, at her lap, ‘thanks to this wee one in here.’
Bob Skinner gazed at her and, inside, felt himself begin to buckle. ‘Maggie,’ he said, ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to sleep, but you do need to rest. Mario and Paula are going to stay with you tonight.’
‘That’s okay, really. I’ll manage.’
‘Sure, but you don’t have to,’ Paula told her. ‘A team of Clydesdales wouldn’t drag me out of here.’
‘That’s settled,’ Skinner went on. ‘I’ll be back in the morning, and I’ll make arrangements with my opposite number in Northumbria for Stevie to be brought up here. When you speak to his family again, let them know that. The chief plans to visit them tomorrow, and you too.’
‘That’s good of him. Stevie’s dad will be pleased. You know he was a police officer?’
‘Superintendent Steele, Fife Constabulary? Of course I knew; I met him, years ago. See you in the morning, love.’ He nodded his farewell to the two men and to Paula and was leaving when Maggie pushed herself to her feet and walked with him, through the unlit hall to the front door.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ she told him quietly. ‘Everything will be all right . . . or as all right as it can be.’
He was glad that it was dark, and that she could not see his eyes.
He left the big, handsome house, and slid into his car, oddly grateful for its familiarity, and comforted by it. Finally, he switched on the engine, and drove out of Gordon Terrace, towards the centre of the city, and its Saturday-night bustle. He headed through Newington, across the bridges, past the Balmoral and the King James, then along the length of York Place and Queen Street, until finally he found the rear entrance to Bute House, the official residence of the First Minister.
As always, the door was guarded by armed officers. They saluted and let him in without a word; he could tell by their grim faces that word of the tragedy had spread through the ranks. For a moment he thought of calling Alex, who had known Stevie well, but decided against it. If Griff Montell broke the news, that was okay by him.
He climbed the back stairway, up to the private quarters; on the way he heard voices from the dining room, but carried on, in no way tempted to make a late entrance. Instead he went into the small kitchen and took a beer from the fridge, part of a private stock that he had put there.
He had almost finished his third, in the dark, staring through the window at the gloaming in the north, when the door opened behind him and Aileen de Marco slipped into the sitting room. ‘How was it?’ she asked him quietly.
‘Awful, my love, awful,’ he replied. ‘It always is.’
Sixty-four
‘You were right,’ Maggie told him, as she handed him a mug of coffee, in the big kitchen. ‘I didn’t get any sleep. I did all I could to rest, but I spent most of the night padding about down here, with that line from Shakespeare running through my head, that voice crying, “Sleep no more! Macbeth doth murder sleep.” It’s weird, you know; I know that from now on every time I think of that man, that bastard, that Ballester, I’ll think of William fucking Shakespeare. And I’ve always hated that bloody play.’
She had given him the coffee automatically, without asking whether he wanted it or not, from a filter machine. Skinner accepted it, though, and took a swig; it tasted as if it had been standing on the warming plate for hours. She caught his expression. ‘Is that crap?’ she asked. ‘I made it for Paula and Mario. I’ll do a fresh lot.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ he lied. ‘When did they leave?’
She glanced up at the kitchen clock; it showed ten minutes to eleven. ‘About an hour ago. I made them go home. They must have had precious little sleep either. He looked like a zombie and I heard Paula crying well into the night. She went out with Stevie, remember, when we were all younger and I was married to Mario? Life’s just so fucking random, isn’t it?’ She paused. ‘Listen to me, Bob, swearing like a trooper. I must cut it out before Stevie’s parents get here. His mum’s very churchy and his dad can be a bit straight-backed too.’
‘When are they due?’
‘Mr Steele said they’d be here for lunch. He was going to bring it, but I told him not to: I’ve been cooking for hours, to pass the time. They’re going to stay tonight.’
‘Good,’ said Skinner. ‘When they arrive, you’ll be able to tell them that I’ve spoken to Les Cairns. Stevie’s body will be released tomorrow morning. You can countermand this if you like, but there’s an undertaker we use on occasions like this; I’ve instructed them to go and collect him, early as they can, and to take him to their premises in Fountainbridge. When you’re ready, their funeral director will come to you, and you can begin arrangements.’
‘I’ll go to them,’ she declared. ‘I want to see him.’
‘In that case, I’ll have a car collect you whenever you’re ready: it’ll wait for you and bring you home.’
She smiled. ‘Bob, I’ve left the force.’
‘You’re a police officer’s widow, and you’ll have all the help we can give you. But, Maggie,’ he said earnestly, ‘I urge you to put that on hold. Everything is changed now. You may very well think differently in a while.’
‘I’ve still got cancer, Bob. I can’t put that on hold.’
He winced at her use of the word, for the first time, as he reached out and took her hand. ‘Love, you’re going to get through this, you and your daughter. I can work out why you’re refusing treatment, but you must strike a balance.
Ensure her safe delivery, but listen to medical advice on that.’
‘She’s too small, Bob.’
‘But she’s growing. When they’re sure she’ll be safe, let them induce labour, and then start to look after yourself. Promise me you’ll do what’s best for both of you. That kid’s going to need you more than ever.’
‘I’ve been reading up on it,’ she told him. ‘The odds are not good.’
‘Fuck the odds. The Maggie factor’s at work here, and more. Do you know what I did this morning? I went to church with Aileen. She’s Catholic; we went to mass at the cathedral at Picardy Place. I prayed for you, and so did she. Lass, you have no idea how many people are praying for you today, each in their own way.’
‘I didn’t realise that you were religious, Bob.’
‘I don’t shout about them, but I have my firm beliefs. They’ve been there since the time I was widowed. You talk to Neil McIlhenney, and he’ll tell you much the same. You belong to the same club as us now. Nobody ever wants to join it, but eventually, one half of lifelong couples do; there is no happy ever after. For you and Stevie, and Olive and Neil, and Myra and me, that time came far too soon, but I tell you this, you’ll find your own truths through it.’
She stood before him, laid the palms of her hands on his chest, feeling the hard muscle under his white T-shirt, and smiled up at him. ‘Thanks, Bob,’ she said, ‘for caring so much. Far be it from me to reject your prayers. I will do everything I can to beat this thing, I promise you. When I’ve done that, I’ll consider the future.
‘By the way,’ she added, ‘you’re not alone in knowing about this any more. I told Mario and Paula this morning; there was no reason not to, not any more. They both said the same as you. At this rate I’ll have every priest in Edinburgh saying Hail Marys for me.’
She looked up at the clock once more. ‘When’s you
r press briefing? I wasn’t really listening last night.’
‘Midday.’ He glanced down at the T-shirt and jeans, fresh from his overnight bag. ‘Don’t think I’ll be dressed like this, though. I’ll be in full dress uniform, and so will the chief.’
Maggie chuckled. ‘Hardly anyone will know you.’
‘They’d better. It’s an occasion for formality, a time to show every respect for the service for which men and women give their lives.’ He realised that, once again, he was on the verge of losing control of his emotions, and forced a smile on to his face. ‘I’d better head off, though. It’ll take me half an hour at least to shake all the mothballs out of the thing.’
‘Afterwards,’ she asked, as she walked him to the door once again, ‘what have you planned for the rest of the day?’
‘Afterwards, my dear, I’m going to do what I always do at times like these. I’m going to join Aileen out at Gullane and yield to a desperate need to be with my kids.’
Sixty-five
The chief constable, flanked by the stone-faced, uniformed figures of Bob Skinner and Mario McGuire, made the formal announcement to a respectfully hushed gathering. The journalists knew from the English force that an officer had gone down in an incident in Northumberland the day before, but no word of his identity had leaked, and so when Sir James Proud told them that Detective Inspector Steven Stuart Steele had been killed in the line of duty, there were several gasps of undisguised horror from Edinburgh men and women who had known him well.
He paused, then added that Detective Inspector Steele had gone to the scene with Northumbrian colleagues to arrest a man named Daniel Ballester, also known as Dominic Padstow, wanted for questioning in connection with several recent homicides in the Edinburgh area, and that he had been found dead there.
He closed by extending condolences to DI Steele’s widow, Chief Superintendent Margaret Rose, and to the other members of his family, then sat back to allow his colleagues to take questions.
They came thick and fast, and were answered clearly, and as fully as legally possible, by Skinner and McGuire. Stevie Steele was thirty-four years old when he died, the victim, it appeared, of a trap set by Daniel Ballester before he committed suicide.
Yes, Ballester had left a note, on his laptop computer, confessing unequivocally to the four murders, and to rigging the grenade that had killed Steele. This had been given added authority by the discovery that morning of a weapon, a silenced pistol, and a quantity of soft-nosed bullets, hidden in a shed in the garden of Hathaway House. Other items had been found, including Stacey Gavin’s sketch pad, three paintings by Zrinka Boras, and a brassiere that they believed had belonged to Amy Noone.
‘What sort of grenade was it?’ a man from the Daily Telegraph asked.
‘We’re told by munitions experts,’ Skinner replied, ‘that it was probably an Austrian-made fragmentation grenade, used by NATO and other military customers around the world, absolutely lethal at close range.’
‘How was it triggered?’
‘It was fixed to the ceiling. The pin was pulled by a wire attached to the inside door handle and led to the weapon through two eyelets. From the accounts of officers at the scene, it exploded within two or three seconds of Stevie stepping into the kitchen. He died immediately.’
‘How easy would it have been for Ballester to get hold of one of these things?’
‘Probably as easy as it was for him to get hold of a precision Sig Sauer handgun, and ammunition that’s illegal in most countries. Regrettably, there have been so many armed conflicts in recent years that items like these are now falling into the wrong hands all too easily. Ballester was a journalist, with a record of going undercover. Who knows what contacts he had? Maybe, when we have a chance to go through his computer files, they’ll lead us to his supplier, but then again . . .’
‘Are you saying that we need tighter firearms control?’ the Guardian’s Scotland reporter asked.
‘Firearms control is already very tight,’ the DCC replied. ‘Unfortunately there’s a snag. Fine, we made handguns illegal ten years ago, but criminals do not obey the law. All the legislation in the world isn’t going to change that.’ He glanced at the journalist. ‘I’m sorry, Peter; I’m pontificating. My answer is a simple no.’
‘Do you and the First Minister disagree about that?’
‘The First Minister and I disagree about a number of matters; happily we agree about many more. And, ladies and gentlemen, that’s the last time I will ever discuss her on this or any other platform, apart from telling you that she’s as gutted by this as the rest of us. Now, is there one last question?’
Grace Pretty raised her hand. ‘What about the million-pound reward that Mr Boras offered last week?’
‘I’m glad you asked that, Grace,’ McGuire replied. ‘The three of us have been discussing that, and we’re all agreed that it would be an excellent idea for Mr Boras to donate that money to the Police Dependants’ Trust. We hope he shares that view.’ There had been no such discussion, but the chief constable and his deputy nodded in confirmation.
‘A nice closer, Mario,’ Skinner murmured, as the three police officers made their way out of the briefing room. ‘Stevie would have loved it. Let’s see how the man wriggles out of that.’
Sixty-six
James Andrew Skinner had become used to his new lifestyle, and had adapted well to it. There were three other children from one-parent families in his primary-school class. Two of them never saw their fathers, and he knew that the third hated the weekends that he was forced to spend with his and his new girlfriend, who insisted on being called ‘Auntie’.
Jazz, for all that he had just turned six, knew that he had the best of both worlds. He loved both of his parents equally, and when they had told him at the beginning of the year that they didn’t love each other any more and intended to divorce, he had been sad, but sad for them more than for himself.
If he had been able to express it in such a sophisticated way, he would have said that the proposal they had put to him and to Mark, his adoptive brother, was ideal. They were able to stay with their dad in Gullane and go to school there, and three times a year go off with Trish, the nanny, on an adventure to America, to join their mum.
He liked America, where they had big cars and good weather. He had been there before, when he was younger, visiting his grandparents with his mum, before they had gone to Heaven. Jazz wasn’t really sure about Heaven, but he went along with the concept, without asking awkward questions, to please his mum.
He understood that his dad was busy, being very important in the police, and that sometimes he had to be away during the week, and once or twice for longer. But most weekends he was home, and Jazz liked that, even when his new friend was there too. She was nice and, even though she was grown-up, he was allowed to call her ‘Aileen’, because that was her name.
Aileen had been different, though, when she had arrived that morning, on her own. Dad had explained that they were going to a very ‘flash’ . . . that was one of his special words, the kind he winked when he said . . . dinner, and would be away overnight, but he had expected them to arrive together, because Dad had promised him he would take him out on the golf course, on one of the big people’s courses, when everybody else was having lunch and it got quieter. Aileen had explained that something had happened and that Dad needed to ‘deal with it’. He didn’t really understand the phrase, but he held himself back from asking what she meant, because she seemed sad, and because, well, she wasn’t his mum.
Dad hadn’t arrived until nearly two o’clock; and when he had, he had been sad too. He had told James Andrew that he was sorry, but the courses were getting busy again and that maybe they would just watch English football on telly instead, while Aileen did all the work that her office people had told her had to be done for Monday morning. Mark didn’t bother: he didn’t like golf, he didn’t like football, he only liked his computer.
Dad had switched on the telly and then he had gon
e out again, to his office. Jazz had followed him, and because he’d left the door open he had seen that he was making a phone call. He heard him say, ‘Sarah,’ and realised that he was talking to his mum. He wondered why, because she had phoned them all the day before. Then he heard him say something about somebody called Stevie, and he heard him say, ‘Yes, I know you liked him.’ He hadn’t done it at school yet, but he understood what a past tense was, and what, sometimes, it meant.
James Andrew watched his dad very carefully, while they were both supposed to be watching Manchester United thump some team in blue shirts. He saw that he was always frowning, and that wasn’t like him, especially not at weekends. And sometimes, even when Wayne Rooney had the ball, his eyes were closed. Jazz knew when his dad was thinking, and usually he waited to be told about whatever it was. But this time he was . . . He didn’t know what he was: ‘anxious’ had not yet found its way into his vocabulary, but he knew what it felt like, and that wasn’t good.
Bob Skinner felt a small, strong hand close round two of his fingers, and squeeze them. ‘What’s the matter, Dad?’ his son asked.
He blinked, pulling himself back into the room, taken aback by the question, and alarmed by the look in James Andrew’s eyes. ‘I’m not sure,’ he replied slowly, making himself grin, ‘but I think they’re still missing Roy Keane.’
‘I didn’t mean the football. You’re not watching it anyway. Was it bad, the thing that Aileen said had happened?’
Bob was intensely proud of his son, and in particular of his inherent compassion. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Somebody’s died.’
‘Gone to Heaven?’
‘For sure.’
‘Is it Stevie?’ Jazz hesitated and then made an admission. ‘I listened to you on the phone to Mum.’
‘Yes, it’s Stevie; a policeman, a detective like me.’
‘Have I met him?’
Bob thought for a moment. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘you have, but you probably don’t remember. Once, when your mum was working and before Seonaid was born, I took you with me on a stake-out. God, your mum gave me pelters when she found out.’
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