Pray for the Dying (65 page)

Fifty-Two

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

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

‘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?’

‘Yes, the Met fixed me up with one near Victoria Station.’

‘Good. I want you to meet me tomorrow morning. Victoria will do fine. I’ll be coming up from Gatwick, same flight as you caught today.’

‘I’ll see you there. Where are we going?’

‘I have a meeting, and given where it is and what’s on the agenda, I’m not going in there unaccompanied.’

‘Sounds heavy. Where?’

‘Security Service, Millbank. I’m just off the phone with my friend Amanda Dennis, the deputy director. She’s expecting us.’

Payne gasped. ‘Jesus Christ, boss. Why are we going there? What’s happened?’

‘Nothing that I can slam on the table, point at and say “He did it”, but enough for me to fly some kites and see how they react. I can see a chain of events and facts that lead to a certain hypothesis, but I can’t see anything that resembles a motive. Still, what we’ve got is enough for some cage-rattling. I’m good at that.’

‘I think I know that.’

‘Then you can sit back and learn.’

‘At my age I don’t want to.’

‘You’re a year older than me, Lowell,’ Skinner chuckled, ‘that’s all. One thing I want you to do in preparation for the meeting. When you call Jean, as I’m sure you will, tell her where you’re going. I’ll be doing the same with Sarah. I know, I said that Amanda’s a friend, and she is, but in that place, friendship only goes so far.’

Fifty-Three

‘
A
re you going to work in Glasgow for good, Dad?’ Skinner’s elder son asked, ranging over three octaves in that single sentence.

Mark McGrath, the boy Skinner and Sarah had adopted as an orphan, was at the outset of adolescence, and the breaking of his voice was not passing over easily or quickly. James Andrew, his younger brother, laughed at his lack of control, until he was silenced by a frown from his mother.

‘I dunno, mate,’ Bob confessed. ‘Last week I’d never have imagined being there. On Sunday, when I agreed to take over, the answer would still have been no. But with every day that passes, I’m just a little less certain. But remember, even if I did apply for the job, so would other people. There’s no saying I’d be chosen.’

Both of his sons looked at him as if he had told them Motherwell would win the Champions League.

‘No kidding,’ he insisted. ‘There are many very good cops out there, and most of them are younger than me. I won’t see fifty again, lads.’

‘You’ll get it, Dad.’ James Andrew spoke with certainty, his father’s certainty, Sarah realised, as she heard him. ‘Will we have to move to Glasgow?’

‘Never!’ The reply was instant, and vehement.

‘Come on, guys,’ Sarah interrupted. ‘It’s past nine, time you headed upstairs. And don’t disturb your sister if she’s asleep.’

‘She won’t be,’ Mark squeaked. ‘She’ll be practising her reading.’

‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration surely,’ Bob chuckled. ‘She might be looking at the pictures.’

‘No, Dad. She’s learning words as well; I’ve been teaching her. There’s a computer program and I’ve been using it.’

Skinner watched them as they left, and was still gazing at the door long after it was closed. Sarah settled down beside him on the sofa, tugging his arm to claim his attention. ‘Hey,’ she murmured, ‘come back from wherever you are. Whassup, anyway?’

‘Ach, I was just thinking what a crap dad I’ve been. I should be teaching my daughter to read, not subcontracting the job to Mark. Last week I was all motivated, pumped up to do that and more. We had a great morning on the beach on Saturday, the kids and I, then I had a phone call, the shit hit the fan and I had to go rushing off, didn’t I, and get it splattered all over me. Now I’m thinking seriously about taking on the biggest job in Scotland, when I’ve already got a job that’s far more important than that.’

She turned his face to her, and kissed him. ‘Bob,’ she said, ‘I love you, and it’s good to see you taking your kids so seriously. But you always have done. You’ve been great with the boys all along, and you’ve never neglected Seonaid. It’s taken you a while to realise that she isn’t a baby any more, that’s all. Me living in America didn’t help, since that meant you missed a big chunk of her infancy, but I’m back now, and we can help her grow together.’ She put a hand on his chest. ‘That does not mean I expect you to become a house husband, because you couldn’t. There’s too much happening, too much at stake just now, and if you don’t get involved in it, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.

‘You can’t walk away anyway, it’s not in your nature. This thing tomorrow, this high-stakes meeting at MI5 that you’re so worked up about, even if you’re not saying so, you don’t have to go there, do you? But you want to, you feel you have to. Isn’t that right?’

‘I set it up,’ he admitted. ‘Yes, it is a bit of a fishing trip, and there are other ways I could have played it. For example, I could just write a report, a straight factual account of the things that we know, and suggest certain possibilities. Then I could give that report to the Lord Advocate, who’s my ultimate boss as a criminal investigator in Scotland, with a copy to the First Minister.’

‘Why don’t you?’

‘Because they’d burn it. If I told them what I know to be fact and what I see as a possibility, they’d be scared stiff. If they acted on it, it could provoke a major conflict between them and the Westminster government. All in all, it’s best that I keep it from them, and that I go and have a full and frank discussion with Amanda.’

‘Bob,’ Sarah ventured, ‘are you suggesting that MI5 had something to do with Toni Field’s murder?’

‘No, I’m not, because the evidence doesn’t take me there. Even if I thought they were capable of doing that, I can’t see why they would. But I do know that they created the conditions for it to happen, and that they’ve been doing what they can to cover up. There’s a piece of that I still don’t understand, but I never will because they’ve been too good at it.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Here’s what I think you should do. See this thing through to its conclusion, and let it go, however unsatisfactory the conclusion may be. Then apply for the Strathclyde job. You’ll get it; even the boys know that. And once you’re there, be everything you can be. Build your support staff so that you can delegate and not have to change every light bulb. Work the hours a normal man does, and be the father that a normal man is expected to be.’

He grinned. ‘And the husband?’

‘Nah,’ she laughed in return. ‘You were always lousy at that; we’re fine as we are.’

‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll go with that.’

‘Would you like a drink? I put some Corona in the fridge for you. I take it it’s still your favourite beer.’

‘Absolutely, but I’ll give it a miss tonight. Early start tomorrow. Hey,’ he added, ‘you realise that from now on I’ll be able to tell whether you’ve got another bloke just by checking the fridge?’

‘Yes, but how will you know I don’t have another fridge somewhere, one with a combination lock just in case you do find it?’

Her joke triggered a memory. ‘Bugger,’ he exclaimed. ‘I finally got into my own safe this afternoon, in the office. I haven’t had a chance to check the papers that were in it. They’re in my briefcase; mind if I go through them now?’

‘No,’ she replied, jumping to her feet, ‘you do that, and I’ll check that Madam Seonaid isn’t halfway through
War and Peace
by torchlight under the duvet.’

As she left the room, he reached for his attaché case and opened it. He had brought the remnants of his in-tray with him, to be worked on during his flight to London, but the contents of Toni Field’s safe were in a separate folder. He took it out and set the rest aside.

His dead predecessor’s papers were contained in a series of large envelopes. He picked up the first; the word ‘Receipts’ was scrawled on the outside. He shook out the contents and saw a pile of payment slips, two from restaurants, three from petrol stations, five for train tickets, two for books on criminology bought from Amazon, another from a hotel in Guildford,
double room, breakfast for two
, he noted, recalling a policing conference in the Surrey town two months earlier that he had declined to attend.
Maybe she took Marina
, he thought.

Or possibly not. Might Toni have been capable of taking the so-called Don Sturgeon along for the ride, and slipping him on to her expenses?

He stuffed the slips back into the envelope and picked up the next. His eyebrows rose when he saw his own name written on the front. He was about to open it when he found a second envelope attached, stuck to it by the gum on its unsealed flap. He prised them apart and read another name, ‘P. Friedman’. He looked inside, but it was empty, and so he laid it aside and slid out the contents of his own.

He found himself looking at two photographs of himself. From the background he saw that they had been taken surreptitiously at ACPOS, probably by Toni, with a mobile phone while his attention had been elsewhere. They were clipped on to a series of handwritten notes.

As he read them he saw that they were summaries of every meeting they had ever attended together, and one that had been just the two of them, when he had paid a courtesy call on her in Pitt Street in the week she had taken up office. That note was the most interesting.

Robert M. Skinner (Wonder what M stands for?)

The top dog in Scotland he thinks, come to let me know no doubt that he could have had my job for the asking
 . . . 
if he only knew. Tough on him; this is the season of the bitch. Sensitive about his politician wife. Eyes went all cold when I asked about her. Wonder if he knows what I do, about her screwing the actor guy every time he’s in Glasgow. Or if he’d like me to show him the evidence. If he knew about the other one! But that definitely stays my secret, till the time is right.

Skinner’s eyes widened as he read.

The man has testosterone coming out of his pores, which makes it all the more ironic that his wife plays away, as did the one before, from what I hear. As a cop, old school. He will not be an ally over unification. Question is, will he be an opponent for the job? Think he will, whatever he says; he’s a pragmatist, used to power, and not being questioned. Also, will he stand for Scotland’s top police officer being a woman, and a black one at that? Sexist? Racist? His sort usually are, if old Bullshit is anything to go by. Must work out a way to take him out of the game. Main weakness is his wife; use what I know and work on getting more on her. Other weakness his daughter, but she’s protected by the dangerous Mr Martin so too much trouble. Summary: an enemy, but can be handled.

‘No wonder this fucking woman got herself killed,’ he murmured to himself. ‘I might have been tempted to do it myself.’

He replaced the notes and the photographs, then turned to the next envelope. It was inscribed ‘Bullshit’. It contained nothing but photographs, of Toni Field and a man. In one they were both in police uniform, but in the others they were highly informal. It was all too apparent that at least one of the participants had been completely unaware that they were being taken, most of all in one in which he was clad only in his socks.

Skinner stared. He gaped. And then he laughed. ‘Bullshit,’ he said. ‘B. S. for short. B. S. for Brian Storey, Sir Brian bloody Storey, deputy assistant commissioner then, going by his uniform, but now Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. And weren’t he and Lady Storey guests in the royal box at Ascot a few weeks ago?’

His smile vanished. Was Brian Storey a man to be blackmailed and take it quietly? Maybe, maybe not.

He moved on to the next envelope. It was labelled ‘Brum’, another collection of candid camera shots of the star of the show with a West Midlands ACC, in line with Marina’s account. Skinner knew the guy by sight but could not remember his name, a sign that the days when he might have been of use to Toni lay in the past.

The same was true of the men featured in the next two. The broadcast journalist had been a name a couple of years before but had passed into obscurity when he had signed up with Sky News. As for Chairman Mao, the only thing for which he was remarkable was the size of his penis, since Toni had been able, easily, to swallow it whole.

The fifth envelope in the sequence was ‘Howling Mad’. There was something vaguely recognisable about the man, but if he was a QC as Marina had said, he would normally be seen publicly in wig and gown, as good a disguise as the chief constable had ever encountered. In addition, he was the only one of the five who was not seen completely naked, or in full face, only profile. However, there were a series of images possibly taken from a video, in which the pair were seen under a duvet, in what looked to be, even in the stills, vigorous congress.

‘Howling Mad,’ Skinner repeated. ‘Who the hell are you, and why is that name vaguely familiar?’

His question went unanswered as he refilled the envelope and turned to the last. It was anonymous; there was no description of its contents on the outside. He upended it and more photographs fell out. They showed Toni Field as he had never seen her, out of uniform, without make-up, without her hair carefully arranged. In each image she was holding or watching over a child, at various ages, from infancy to early toddler.

He felt a pang of sadness. Little Lucille, who’d never see her mother again. One photograph was larger than the rest. It showed Toni, sitting up in a hospital bed, holding her child and flanked by Sofia and a man, Mauritian. He had given his daughter his high forehead and straight, slightly delicate nose.
And how much of his character?
Skinner wondered.

He was replacing the photographs and making a mental note to hand them over to Marina, after burning four of the others . . . the ‘Bullshit’ file was one to keep . . . when he realised that something had not fallen out when they did. He reached inside with two fingers and drew out a document.

He whistled as he saw it, knowing at once what it was even if its style was unfamiliar to him. A birth certificate, serial number ending seven two six five, recording the safe arrival of Mauritian citizen Lucille Sofia Deschamps, mother’s name, Antonia Maureen Deschamps, nationality Mauritian, father’s name Murdoch Lawton, nationality British.

In the days when Trivial Pursuit was the only game in town, Bob Skinner had been the man to avoid, or the man to have on your team. There was never a fact, a name or a link so inconsequential that he would not retain it.

‘Murdoch,’ he exclaimed. ‘
The A Team
, original TV series not the iffy movie, crazy team member, “Howling Mad” Murdock, spelled the American way but near enough and that’s how Toni would have pronounced it anyway, played by Dwight Schultz. Hence the nickname, but who the hell is he?’

Sarah’s iPad was lying on the coffee table. He picked it up, clicked on the Wikipedia app, and keyed in the name of the father of little Lucille Deschamps.

When Sarah came back into the room he was staring at the tablet’s small screen, his face frozen, his expression so wild that it scared her.

‘Bob,’ she called out, ‘are you all right?’

He shook himself back to life. ‘Never better, love,’ he replied, and his eyes were exultant. ‘Can you print from this thing?’ he asked.