Authors: Quintin Jardine
Ì know,' McGuire interrupted. 'I've got a bullet-hole in me to prove it!'
`You and—' Skinner began, cutting himself off short when he remembered that neither Mackie nor McGuire knew the story of his own wounding. They had been told at the time that his leg injury had been sustained in a domestic accident . . . a story neither man had believed for one second.
Às I was about to say,' he went on, glowering at McGuire, ìnternational intrigue is one thing, but it shouldn't blind us to other possibilities, or deflect us from doing our job in the normal way, identifying all the options and investigating them all.
Special Branch can leave Arrow, the Americans and me to make the running in investigating the external candidates. I've got another job for you guys.
'I want you to run an entirely separate investigation into the late Colin Davey MP. I want you to find out everything there is to know about him. Who were his friends, who were his school- chums, was he popular or unpopular, did he drink, did he smoke, did he go with tarts? I want a complete background report on the man, not on the Minister. Most of all I want to know whether there is anyone in his private life who might have thought that the world would be a better place without him.'
`Don't you buy the General Yahic theory, sir?' asked Brian Mackie. 'Or the idea of an Iraqi agent in Whitehall?'
Òh no, Brian, I wouldn't rule them out. Yahic sounds like a prime suspect, and as for the Iraqis, they're complete effing nutters.'
McGuire smiled at the modification in the DCC's customary squad-room language, and Skinner caught his meaning.
`Sarah's warned me about swearing in front of the baby,' he muttered diffidently, 'but I can't change a career habit overnight.'
He went on: 'As I said earlier, investigating Yahic and Agent Robin is down to the Intelligence people. It'll be taken seriously, for sure. Apart from our own interest, the Americans will not allow Massey's death to go unpunished, whether or not he was a target. They'll want someone's head on a pole, and they'll give us all the help we need. My problem may be holding them back.
`But digging up the dirt on a member of our own Government is another matter entirely. I won't be sharing information with Joe Doherty on that side of things. If there is a home grown candidate, we have to investigate him discreetly and keep the knowledge away from the Yanks. I want a trial at the end of this investigation, not someone dead in a ditch with a bullet in his ear.'
Mackie's eyebrows seemed to rise halfway up his domed head. That's not Mr Doherty's style, sir, surely?'
Not personally, but Joe will be reporting back on this one and some of his zealot colleagues don't play by the same moral code as the rest of us! So, you two. Get yourselves off down to London.' He handed Mackie a sheet of paper bearing two handwritten telephone numbers, and a sealed envelope.
`Those are the home and mobile numbers of Cyril Kercheval, your contact in MI5, and a letter of introduction and authorisation from me. Cyril is an Assistant Director with unspecified responsibilities. He may or may not choose to admit it to you, but these include keeping tabs on senior politicians and the like. He may give you direct help or he may send you to see other people, for example his contacts in Special Branch. You probably know some of them already, Brian.'
Òkay, sir,' said the tall, slim DCI. 'Do we fly down this afternoon?'
`That depends,' said Skinner. 'Set up your meeting with Cyril, then book your travel accordingly. Stay down there as long as necessary, but report to me on a daily basis.
`Good luck, and remember — be discreet. Anything you turn up, keep it to yourself. Since all this public accountability crap came in, MI5 leaks like a sieve!'
TWENTY-NINE
‘Hello there, wee Mark. And how are you today? A bit drier than you were when we first met, I notice!'
Skinner picked up the child in both hands and held him high above his head. Mark shrieked with laughter, the sound echoing strangely around the silent Victorian house.
`Mr Skinner's brought you a present,' said Alison Higgins, holding out a brown paper bag as the DCC put the boy down in front of her.
`Thank you very much!' he said, grabbing the bag from his godmother and tearing it open eagerly. Wow!' he said as he uncovered the contents — a child-size uniform cap, crested and with the legend Police Cadet embroidered on its blue band. He put it on and the brim fell over his eyes.
`He's a remarkable wee chap,' said Higgins quietly to the , DCC. 'When he went to school they gave him an IQ test designed for his age group. He's away up there in the Mensa class, and he has a memory that's virtually photographic.' Ìndeed?' said Skinner. He knelt beside the five-year-old, tipping the cap back from his forehead. 'Our Sergeants and Constables give these to boys and girls when they go to speak in schools; he said. 'We don't have any that are quite your size. Still, that should last you for a few years; then, when you're big, you might decide that you want to wear a real one.' Ì think he might, at that,' said Leona McGrath, rising from her armchair as Skinner stood up. 'I can't begin to thank you for what you did yesterday.'
The DCC shrugged, embarrassed. 'I just happened to be there first.'
She shook her head. 'Andrew Hardy told me all about it. One of the soldiers had described it to him. He said that you simply smashed your way into that cabin. And the water was so deep. Mark isn't a natural swimmer like most youngsters; he just sinks like a stone. He couldn't have clung on above the surface for much longer, and if he had fallen in—' She stopped herself, just as her voice began to rise. 'If he had survived the crash, only to.....
‘But he didn't, Leona,' said Alison Higgins. 'Just keep that good thought in your head, and don't let yourself indulge in might-have-beens.'
The widow McGrath straightened her back. She had a remarkable bearing, Skinner thought, and great dignity. She was a small woman, not much over five feet tall, but she seemed to exude vigour. She nodded her grey-flecked brown curls. 'Yes, Ali. You're quite right, as usual. I won't do that. I have to look forward, for him, and for Roly.'
`That's the spirit, girl.' The voice came from the doorway. Skinner turned and saw, framed there, a tall man. He looked to be around forty, and was dressed in a formal dark suit and white shirt, with a black tie. Dressed for the occasion, the policeman thought.
Leona McGrath turned at the sound of his voice. 'Marsh. How good of you to look in again.'
`Don't be silly. It's the least one could do.' As he stepped into the room, she went to greet him, hands outstretched, rose on her toes as he bent his head forward, and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
‘You probably haven't met,' she said, turning, drawing him with her. 'Alison Higgins, Deputy Chief Constable Skinner: this is Marshall Elliot, Roland's constituency agent.'
Skinner shook the proffered hand. 'No, we haven't met,' said Elliot, 'but I know who you are — Edinburgh's most celebrated policeman. In my job, I meet your Special Branch people from time to time, when we have a VIP visitor. Your name is mentioned frequently.
`Miss Higgins,' he said, with a courtly nod that was almost a bow. 'I've heard a great deal about you also, from Leona. You're a Police Officer too, aren't you?'
`That's right — Detective Superintendent. We have met, though. Very briefly, a few years ago at one of Roly's constituency evenings. But you were terribly busy. I wouldn't expect you to remember.'
`Nonetheless, I stand rebuked. Ungallant of me to forget a lady's face. Unprofessional too, if you're a constituent! Against all my training.' He turned towards Leona McGrath. 'Look, my dear, I'm not interrupting, am I?'
She shook her head. 'Of course not. I wanted to talk to you anyway, about the funeral.'
He sighed, involuntarily. Àhh. In fact, that's why I'm here. To offer my services in making the arrangements. We can expect quite a turn-out, you know.' He hesitated. 'I can say this in the Company of the police, I'm sure. I had a call from Downing Street. The Prime Minister wishes to attend. And I've been told to expect a representative of the Monarch.'
Leona McGrath's eyebrows rose. 'All the more reason for me to accept your offer, Marsh.
I was going to ask you anyway. It's quite beyond Roland's dad, and I.. I. . . Well, I want to give Mark all my time for the next few days.'
`Yes,' said Alison Higgins. 'That's really good of you, Mr Elliot. If there's any help I can give, privately or professionally just let me know.'
'We-ell,' said Elliot. 'There is something professional that we might talk about later.'
Skinner put a hand on the man's shoulder. 'Perhaps you and I could deal with it now, Mr Elliot.'
`Fine. Let's step in here.' He moved through the double doors which led from the McGrath sitting room out into a long conservatory; not a modern PVC and glass pagoda, but a solid structure which, the DCC thought, might have been built with the house a century and more before. The extensive garden was immaculately kept, with touches of colour even in late October.
`There are some lovely old houses down here in Trinity,' said Elliot. 'I used to gibe at Roly, that he didn't actually live in the constituency, but it's easy to see why he didn't want to move from here . . . Mind you, it might have been forced on him soon.'
`What d'you mean?'
The man lowered his voice. 'Well, though one shouldn't breathe such heresy, there was a real chance that Roly would have lost the seat at the next election. Not that people thought that he was a bad MP, you understand. Above average, most would have said. The Association liked him, even the whingers . . . and we have the usual ration of them . . . but the majority was under three thousand, and would have been under serious attack from Labour and the Scot Nats at the General Election.'
Skinner glanced at him. 'What about the by-election?'
`My dear chap, one doesn't discuss the by-election until after the funeral.' He smiled. 'In public, that is. Privately, if Central Office decides on a quick poll, which they will, and we choose the right chap, which I'm sure we will, then the wave of sympathy over Roly's death will sweep us back in. Increased majority, I should think.
Elliot sounded contemplative for a moment, but his tone changed abruptly, almost guiltily.
'Anyway, to business. What I wanted to ask was, have you recovered Roly's body?'
Skinner looked grim as he nodded. 'Yes, we're satisfied that we have it.' He almost added,
'Or as much as we're going to find.' He stopped himself just in time, but Elliot had been thinking along the same lines.
`How about identification?'
`We'll use dental records for confirmation. We won't need to ask Mrs McGrath to look at the remains. Don't you worry about any of that. Well give you a body in a closed coffin.
Just you make sure that it stays closed!'
Ùnderstood. When do you expect to release it? That's the professional matter I wanted to raise,' he added.
`Monday, at the latest. When were you thinking of having the funeral?'
`Next Friday,' said Elliot. 'Provided that doesn't clash with Davey's service. Have you found . . . him, yet?'
`Pass,' said Skinner.
Àhh, I see. Nothing identifiable. So what will they do about a funeral, do you think?'
`Stuffed if I know. We can give them a boxful of something. The trouble is, at the moment it would be a sheep.'
Ùgh.' The agent screwed up his face. 'Have you established the cause of the accident yet?'
Skinner took him by the elbow. 'Let's go back inside. That's something I still have to break to Leona. It might be helpful if you were there when I tell her. She'll need friends around her.'
THIRTY
The Press Briefing Room was as full as Skinner had ever seen it, even in the times of major crises which had marked his career. Six television cameras, including the Force Video Unit, pointed at him, from behind ranks of reporters.
Ì have a very short statement to make, ladies and gentlemen, after which I do not intend to take any questions.
Ìt has now been established that yesterday morning's disaster on the Lammermuirs was caused by an explosion in the cabin of the plane. We are satisfied that a device was smuggled on board the aircraft, although we do not know whether it was intended that it should detonate in flight.
`This Force has now begun a murder investigation. I am in direct control of enquiries, assisted by Chief Superintendent Andrew Martin. He has been appointed Head of CID, in succession to Roy Old who, as you will know, died in yesterday's tragedy. Mr Martin and I will call on other Forces for cooperation and assistance as necessary.
Ì have nothing more to say today, but further briefings will be held as appropriate.'
He stood up amid a clamour of shouted questions, and a forest of waving tape recorders, and walked from the room.
As he passed the back row of journalists, Noel Salmon, an untidy, black-stubbled man who worked for Skinner's least favourite tabloid, chuckled to his neighbour, `D'you reckon Andy Martin planted the bomb so he could get Roy Old's job?'
As a collective moan escaped the lips of all those journalists who were near enough to hear the remark, the DCC froze in mid-stride. He reached down, grabbed the podgy reporter by his leather belt, hauled him from his seat and propelled him bodily from the room. Sammy Pye, on duty by the double doors, held them open for him, unquestioningly, then had the innate good sense not to follow.
The corridor wound to the right towards a stairway, fifteen feet from the doors. Skinner turned into it out of sight, and threw the man against the opposite wall, face first, and very hard.
Salmon squealed: 'That's assault!'
`No, it's not, it's carelessness. I just dropped you, that's all. I wouldn't dirty my knuckles on a little shit like you, son. But if I ever hear of you saying something as crass as that again, then for the rest of your life you will never know a day when you don't regret it. Now you get on your way, and don't ever present yourself in this office again, or in any other run by this Force.'
Salmon lived up to his name. His face was a deep pink colour. 'You can't take on the Press, Skinner! I'll get you!'