Mawhinney’s eyes were bright and sharp too, in spite of the fact that the time change had allowed him only three hours’ sleep. He had eaten the night before with McGuire and Paula at a small restaurant close to the castle; he was still unsure whether it had been called the Secret Garden or the Witchery, but whatever, it had been very fine.
‘It gives me great pleasure to visit your city, sir,’ the American replied. ‘I’ve been asked by my commissioner to thank you formally for your force’s generous gift to our dependants’ fund. It’s greatly appreciated.’
‘Before we go any further,’ said Alan Royston, the force’s media manager, to the three reporters he had ushered into the conference room, and the camera people, as they worked, ‘a piece of housekeeping that I have to take care of. Press entry to all the events on the papal visit next week will be on a pass-only basis. If any one of you expects to attend any event but hasn’t given me a formal application, please do so before you leave here today, with photographs. I’ve got forms you can complete. Now, we have time for a few questions.’
‘Where are you staying while you are in Edinburgh, Inspector? ’ asked one of the photographers, a bearded, bespectacled freelance who was a newcomer to the press group.
‘In a fine hotel down by the docks,’ said Mawhinney.
‘The Malmaison? They’re really looking after you.’
John Hunter, the veteran reporter, threw his colleague an irritated glance. He was the senior man on the police beat and the rest usually deferred to him automatically. ‘Your rank, Inspector Mawhinney,’ he began. ‘How does it equate to our own inspectors?’
‘There are probably fewer of me than there are of them; that’s the best way I can put it. Our forces are structured in a completely different way, so it’s difficult to assess rank equivalents. In a way it’s pointless too: we’re all cops doing a job.’
‘What do you hope to learn while you’re here?’
‘As much as I can. For example, I’m looking forward to seeing at first hand how your force handles the policing of the papal visit next week.’
‘You’ll be there?’
‘I expect to be in the very midst of it. When my programme was put together, the chief constable was kind enough to suggest that I join Chief Superintendent Mackie’s team, as a close observer. It’s a great honour, and I appreciate it.’
‘Are there any other specific areas you’ll be looking at during your time in Edinburgh?’
Mawhinney nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve been asked to study the way that your uniform and detective bureaux work together.’
‘I’ve been studying that for twenty years,’ said Bob Skinner from the side. ‘I still find myself with more questions than answers.’
‘Is Maggie Rose’s promotion to uniformed chief super meant to improve that?’ asked Hunter, switching his attention to the DCC.
‘That wasn’t the reason for it, and it’s not what we’re here to discuss, but I’m sure it’ll be of benefit. Maggie’s a fine officer, and I’ve got no doubt that her CID experience will help her take a broad view of her divisional responsibilities.’
‘Is she the first woman to command a division?’ The DCC looked across at his new questioner, Sally Gordon, the Evening News reporter. He knew that the photo-call was being hijacked, and that she was after a headline; he decided to throw her one.
‘She is, but she won’t be the last. If her appointment and that of Mary Chambers send out any signal, it’s that this is an equal opportunity force. The days when the promotion ladder for female officers had snakes alongside it are well and truly over. The policy of this force, as established by Sir James, is quite clear: we appoint the best person for the job in question, regardless.’
‘Does that mean that you’re going to follow the example of the NYPD and recruit more people from ethnic minorities?’
‘I don’t believe in tokenism, Sally; we’re going to recruit the best, and that’s it. No arbitrary restriction ever works in the public interest. When I was a very young man,’ he told her, ‘there was a legend about a village in the west of Scotland, where there was no crime.’
John Hunter smiled; he had heard the story before, over several beers. The old journalist had known Bob Skinner for a long time; their relationship was entirely professional, but it was close and based on respect. He had seen a change in the DCC over the last few months. He had never asked but his impression had been that for the first time in his career, and maybe even in his life, the absolute inner certainty that made him exceptional had been shaken. Skinner was approaching the final step in his journey through the ranks of the police force; every reporter in town knew that, and all but one of them assumed that it would take him into Jimmy Proud’s office. The exception was John Hunter. He sensed Skinner’s reluctance to step across the corridor, and to put on a uniform for the rest of his professional life. When the SDEA job had come up, he had expected the Big Man to move into it, but he had not; it was then that the change Hunter perceived had begun. Yet as he listened to him expound to Sally Gordon, he sensed a new, if suppressed, excitement in him, as if a new door, one that nobody else knew about, had somehow opened up.
‘No crime at all?’ asked the woman from the News, taking the bait.
‘No reported crime,’ said Skinner. ‘If the police didn’t see it, it never happened. The thing was that virtually the whole population of that village was Catholic, and all the coppers were masons to a man . . . and I mean to a man. Those were the bad old days, when a gifted woman like Maggie Rose would have had to leave the force for committing the career-ending offence of getting married. So in that village, the housebreakings, the petty thefts, the assaults went unreported, and were sorted out within the community.’
‘Vigilantes?’
‘No, just people. The legend continues though; finally the age of enlightenment dawned and the first Catholic officers were recruited. One of them was stationed in that village as its local bobby and, hey presto, people started to talk to him. It remains probably the only time in history that a chief constable has won universal praise for presiding over a quantum leap in recorded crime.’ The laughter of the crowd made him pause for a few seconds. ‘So to come back to your question, Sally,’ he continued, when he could, ‘we’re not following anyone’s lead in our recruitment policy, not even the NYPD, we’re doing what we believe to be right. We’re recruiting from the whole community because we serve the whole community, and because every senior police officer in Scotland is determined that an instance like that village . . . which could have been called Northern Ireland but wasn’t . . . never arises again.’
‘Does that mean that you think freemasons shouldn’t be police off icers?’
Skinner laughed out loud, and looked over at Hunter. ‘I asked for that one, John, did I not?’
‘Aye, you did,’ the old man agreed. ‘Now answer it.’
‘Okay. If a mason wants to join this force, he won’t be excluded, any more than will a Buddhist, a Rotarian, a train-spotter, or a collector of rare and exotic orchids. If a police officer wants to join the masons, that’s fine by me, and I won’t expect the fact to be reported. It’s a hobby, an interest, and maybe even for some it’s a way of life. But my rule’s the same for it as for any other leisure pursuit. Don’t bring it to work and, especially, don’t get together with a bunch of like-minded people and try to use the police to impose your personal values on society. I’ll be your enemy if you do, and my enemies tend not to last long.’
He turned to Mawhinney. ‘Do you think that’s a fair basis for running a police force, Inspector?’
‘No sir,’ said the New Yorker. ‘I believe it’s the only basis for running a police force.’
‘A man after my own heart.’ The DCC looked back at the media. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse us, lady and gentlemen, we have to explain to our guest how we put all that into practice.’
28
‘What made you decide to pull the plug early, Manny?’ asked McGuire, raising his v
oice above the noise in the crowded Torphichen Place briefing room.
For the first time in more years than anyone could remember, the retiring chief superintendent was in shirtsleeves in the office; half an hour earlier, he had been presented with a set of golf clubs, the result of a quick collection organised throughout the division, and he had made his farewell speech. At its conclusion he had surprised his colleagues by unfastening the silver buttons on his jacket, and taking it off for what he declared would be the last time.
‘Your wife was running me ragged,’ English replied, clutching a can of Tennents lager. ‘That was a joke,’ he added quickly, and wisely, for it had passed by Mario completely. ‘I’ve never had a problem with Margaret. I’m a bit surprised that she’s moving into my job, but she’ll do very well there. She’s a very capable officer, but I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.’ The man was trying to shed his pomposity with his uniform, but it promised to be a tough task.
‘No, the truth is,’ he continued, ‘that it was my own wife who gave me a hard time. She’s been pressing me to give up for a while, ever since it was made clear to me that my face didn’t fit in the command corridor.’
McGuire considered telling him that it was his inflexibility that had held him back, but decided instead to stir the pot a little. ‘Who made that clear to you?’ he asked mischievously.
English killed his can, reached out to the table and took another. ‘Since I’m on my way through that door, I’ll tell you. The deputy chief constable did. He runs this fucking force now, and old Proud Jimmy lets him. You’re all right; you’re in his circle, you, and Margaret, and Brian Mackie, and that big pal of yours, Skinner’s hatchet-man McIlhenney. But those of us who are not favoured, we’re just filling in time.’
‘Come on, Manny. We’ve all got an important job to do, even though only one of us, every ten years or so, is going to make chief constable. You know that.’
‘I’ll tell you what I know, son.’ If there was one thing that usually triggered McGuire, it was being called ‘son’ by people like English, but he let it pass. He knew that the man had been summoned to the chief’s office for a formal farewell and, even over the lager fumes, he could tell from his breath that whisky had been on the agenda. ‘I know that I had seniority over every other superintendent in this force. I was in the rank before Skinner, or Dan Pringle, or Greg Jay or any of them. I know that there was no more meticulous officer than me on the strength, and that nobody ran a tighter division. Yet when Jim Elder decided to chuck it, and I applied for the vacancy, I was called in by the deputy and told point-blank that he could not have anyone hold command rank who didn’t have the potential to be chief constable. And then he went ahead and appointed that roughneck from Glasgow, that man over there, that Willie Haggerty. And what a time I’ve had with him. Do you know, he actually questioned my judgement on occasion?’
The ex-commander’s indignation was almost comic to watch, but McGuire kept his face straight. ‘I’m sure that Margaret will get on better with him than I did; she’ll be under the great man’s protection, for a start. But you tell her to watch her back all the same.’ He snorted. ‘I notice the DCC hasn’t deigned to join me this evening.’ That fact had occurred to McGuire already. He knew that Skinner would not be intentionally ungracious, and wondered what had taken him elsewhere. ‘I suppose I could call that the final snub.’
‘Personally, I wouldn’t,’ said the younger man, ‘but if you choose to, that’s down to you. Do you know your problem, Manny?’ he asked.
‘What’s that?’
‘You didn’t join the same police force as the rest of us. You joined one of your own. I wish you and your wife all the best in retirement. Enjoy the rest of your evening.’
He wandered across to where Maggie was standing, with Mary Chambers, Stevie Steele and Colin Mawhinney, who was holding a Budweiser, and biting uncertainly into the first Scots mutton pie of his life. ‘What was that about?’ she asked him quietly, turning her back on the other three. ‘Were you winding him up?’
‘I didn’t have to; he’s fully wound as it is. He thinks he should have got Haggerty’s job. He says the Big Man shafted him.’
‘Manny thinks he should have got the DCC’s job,’ Maggie retorted. ‘But he’s right about the second bit. The boss did shaft him, and thank God for it, too.’
‘He says you should keep an eye on Haggerty.’
‘If I keep a proper eye on what’s happening in this division, I won’t need to bother looking out for the ACC. If I don’t, I’ll hear about it.’
Mario grinned. ‘And so will every bugger under your command, I’ll bet. Don’t fret, lass, you’ll be a star. Your future’s mapped out.’
‘So’s yours, from what I hear. Looking forward to Leith?’
‘Too right. I think there might be a few people not looking forward to it, though.’
‘I’m sure, knowing your style. If it helps, a couple of my guys were in a pub down there the other day; it’s called the Wee Black Dug.’
‘Malky Gladsmuir’s place? I know it, not that I drink there. It’s a fucking hotbed, but Malky keeps a lid on it. I plan to have a chat with him, soon.’ He nodded towards Mawhinney, who was making the last of the pie disappear. ‘What did you think of our friend Colin?’
‘Fine. He’s a very sharp guy; chief constable material if he was one of ours. Why do you ask? Are you trying to pair us off ?’
‘Don’t joke about that. He lost his wife in the Twin Towers. And anyway, I wouldn’t want to upset Stevie.’
‘You’ll upset me if you keep on like that,’ Maggie said quietly. She looked up at him; for all that they were on course for divorce, Mario was the only person in the world who knew everything there was to know about her. Sometimes that thought frightened her, but she knew also that, whatever happened to them in the future, he would always be the man she could trust beyond anyone else.
‘Sorry,’ he murmured. ‘For the record, I like the boy Steele; if he doesn’t get on with Mary, I’ll have him in a minute. Stevie and women, though, that’s another matter, and it’s got nothing to do with him and Paula, either.’
‘Are you giving me a warning, McGuire?’
‘I know better than to do that. But for all sorts of reasons you have to be careful, that’s all I’m saying. Don’t let anyone compromise you in the job, and don’t let anyone hurt you. Mind you, if anyone does, they’re in more trouble than they could imagine.’
‘If you’re planning on being my emotional security guard, why don’t you just move back in?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘No.’
‘Just as well.’ He paused. ‘I won’t be looking over your shoulder, love. But if you need me, I’m there . . . That’s all I’m saying.’
She smiled, amused by his awkwardness. ‘Thanks. And however odd this may sound, the same goes for me too.’
29
The weather had been grey and wet all the way up the M90, but when they had turned at Perth, heading for Auchterarder, the skies had begun to lighten in the west, as if they were guiding them to their destination.
It had been dry when they had arrived, and mild enough for them to change into golf gear and play the best part of a round on the King’s Course. Bob had given Sarah her customary shot per hole, two at the par fives and longer par fours, and had regretted it by the seventh tee, when he stood three down, a deficit that he had been unable to make up by the time the light and the growing cold had forced them to call a halt after the fourteenth, the closest green to the hotel, apart from the eighteenth itself.
As they sat in the bar, having a drink before dinner, he was still muttering about his game. ‘All over the bloody place, I was,’ he grumbled into his gin and tonic, ‘and I putted like a gorilla as well. Honest to Christ, if you play a course like that, you should do it the honour of being in some reasonable form.’
Sarah was still basking in the afterglow of her rare success. ‘If you practised more you’d play
better,’ she pointed out. ‘When was the last time you played Gullane?’
‘The October medal; shot a seventy-five . . . net.’ He added the qualification.
‘What’s your handicap now?’
‘Seven point three.’
‘It’s not that long ago you were playing off four. You’re the detective, you work out why it’s gone up.’
‘You’re the pathologist,’ he countered. ‘You tell me how my pacemaker’s affected my swing shape.’
She laughed. ‘Of all the excuses I’ve heard for a bad round of golf, that has to be among the lamest. Your pacemaker doesn’t make you knock a four-foot putt six feet past the hole. Lack of concentration does that; plus lack of time on the course, of course.’
‘Is that your roundabout way of saying I’m not spending enough time at home?’ he asked.
‘You’re not at home when you’re on the golf course,’ she pointed out.
‘Answer the question.’
‘Maybe. The clubhouse is three hundred yards away from our house, and a round takes under four hours.’
‘If it takes over three and a half, it’s frowned upon.’
‘I was allowing you a couple of pints in the bar afterwards. Anyway, once that’s done you are home, and of course if I’m playing with you . . .’
‘So if I take a morning off every week during the winter, as I could, and we hack round number two course, that would iron out the kinks in our marriage. Is that what you’re going to suggest?’
‘It wouldn’t do us any harm. I wouldn’t even mind losing once you got your game back.’
‘Okay, suppose I’ve booked a morning off and a tee time, and big McGuire or someone phones while we’re having breakfast and asks you to go and cut up a stiff, what are you going to do?’
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