‘Don’t do that,’ Sarah advised. ‘The danger’s over and now we’re a good news story. I’ve had calls myself. By the way, Neil said he couldn’t get through on your mobile.’
‘That’s because it’s upstairs. I didn’t bother taking it. Didn’t you notice? Oh thanks, darling, just what I needed,’ he added, as Seonaid, his middle daughter, twenty-three years younger than her half-sister Alexis, handed him an energy drink. He glanced at her mother. ‘Can I talk about lunch now?’
‘There’s a big pasta salad in the fridge,’ Seonaid told him. ‘Alex made it, after she took Dawn and me for a walk down to the beach.’
Bob grinned. ‘I suppose that makes up for her Facebook indiscretion. I’m off to shower.’ He headed for the stairs, removing the sodden top as he walked, awkwardly switching his drink from hand to hand. He peeled off the rest of his clothing in the bedroom, dumping it in a basket before heading for the shower in the en-suite, whistling a Runrig tune that had been in his head all morning.
It was still nagging away at him as he dressed. His post-run fatigue had faded, but a heaviness unlike anything he could remember remained in his legs. He went to his bedside and unplugged his phone from its charger. The screen lit up showing that he had seven missed calls. He checked the list; the first was from Ignacio, the second from an unidentified mobile number, the third from Mia McCullough, the next from McIlhenney, followed by Maggie Steele, then Mario McGuire, and finally June Crampsey, the editor of the Saltire, Intermedia’s flagship Scottish newspaper. She was one of only four people outside the household who had known of his Covid diagnosis, the others being Alex, Xavi Aislado and Sarah’s deputy in the pathology department.
Four of the callers had left voicemail. He listened to the messages; Ignacio managed to sound both relieved and angry at the same time, his accent even more Spanish than usual. ‘You keep this secret from me, Padre. Am I not entitled to worry about my father and his wife? I tell my sister this too: Alex had no business keeping it from me.’
He sent a text in reply. ‘Sorry, Nacho. I should have told you, but I didn’t feel ill, so I didn’t see the need.’
The other messages were from Mia, Maggie, and Mario, all saying much the same thing, ‘Happy to hear you and Sarah are okay.’ He resolved to call them all, but gave priority to the editor. Crampsey reported to him and with her it was always business first. She had emailed him several times during the isolation, mostly updating him on the newspaper and on the online edition that had been launched the summer before.
‘What’s up?’ Skinner asked as she picked up his call, mimicking her abrupt style.
‘You are,’ she replied. ‘I’ve had calls from most of the rivals, asking about Alex’s Facebook post. They wanted to know if you really have recovered. I think a couple were hoping you hadn’t.’
‘I could almost tell you who they were,’ he grunted.
‘You have, haven’t you? Recovered, that is.’
‘I thought I had until Jazz showed me different. Covid leaves its mark on everybody, I reckon, symptoms or not.’
‘And Sarah?
‘She’s good. Yes, she’s had both doses of the Pfizer vaccine, but nothing’s a hundred per cent effective, so it was a worrying few days for me.’
‘Can I publish the fact that you had it?’
‘If the rest are going to,’ he agreed, ‘of course you can . . . as long as you don’t downplay the seriousness of it. I didn’t recognise any of the common symptoms in myself, but there is anxiety involved. Who wouldn’t be scared by the prospect of ending their days dry-drowning in an intensive care ward full of strangers, cut off from their loved ones? I don’t mind admitting that I was, until our negative tests came through this morning.’
‘I don’t suppose I can use all that as a quote?’ Crampsey ventured.
‘Why shouldn’t you?’
‘Because it’s not like you. You always downplay things.’
‘Not this. That would be irresponsible.’ He frowned. ‘Have we reported Sheila’s death?’
‘Sheila?’
‘Xavi didn’t tell you?’ he exclaimed. ‘She died two days ago. We should report it, with an obituary; she was an Edinburgh woman, and she was an important part of the Saltire family. We shouldn’t do it without Xavi’s consent, though. Leave it with me. I’ll talk to him this afternoon. As for Sarah and me, please report that as I described it. The virus affects you in all sorts of ways; all the vaccine sceptics need to know. Agreed?’
‘Of course. Would you say all that in a feature?’
‘If I can write it myself.’
‘Deal.’
‘It’ll be with you by four.’
Next, Skinner turned his attention to Neil McIlhenney, summoning his mobile number from his contact list. ‘Chief Constable,’ he said as his call was answered. The thought of his friend at the top of the mountain still gave him a surge of satisfaction. It was an outcome no one would have predicted twenty years earlier, but the man had possessed a storehouse of unsuspected potential that had been uncovered, piece by piece. ‘How’s the family?’
‘Great, and very happy to be back up north. I would not fancy London right now.’
‘Scotland’s no barrel of laughs, mate,’ he pointed out. ‘I guess you’re busy with lockdown breakers.’
‘Across the country,’ McIlhenney admitted. ‘Brian Mackie’s coordinating our responses to infractions, making sure that we’re being even-handed, that Dingwall, Dundee and Drumchapel are being treated in exactly the same way. So,’ he continued, ‘you and Sarah had a brush with the bug. Handy for you, being isolated with a doctor.’
‘Aye,’ Bob chuckled. ‘If it had come to it, she could have done my autopsy without ever leaving the flat. As it turned out that wasn’t necessary; I had a few uncomfortable days but not bad. I have some recovering to do, though. How’s Lauren? Has she had any long-term effects?’
The chief constable’s daughter had contracted the virus a few months earlier when it had swept through her student accommodation. ‘Not that she’s told me, although she did say that it took her a few weeks to shake off the residual tiredness. I suppose you’ve got a vested interest in asking that.’
‘I suppose I have, but that wasn’t why I did. Is she back in Glasgow?’
‘Yes.’ Skinner thought he heard a chuckle. ‘I tell you, Bob, I’ll be astonished if there isn’t a population surge this year, among late teens and early twenties. I don’t mind telling you, I had a word with her before she went back.’
‘I don’t agree with that guess,’ he countered. ‘I suspect that most of the young females are on the pill. I’m sure you’re right about the birth rate overall, but my forecast is that it’ll be more noticeable among the older age groups, unexpected additions to existing families and so on.’
‘You got any evidence to back that up?’
‘Personally, no,’ Skinner laughed, ‘but it’s the way I’d bet. There will be all sorts of spin-off from this. Social media’s going crazy, globally and locally. You can use it to start a revolution, or you can use it to tell your brother to get out of the bathroom, like my middle daughter did the other day.’
‘Seonaid?’ McIlhenney exclaimed.
‘Yup; I gave in and got her a phone for her last birthday. We have a family WhatsApp group, believe it or not, and she’s a major player. Mark set it up; Mark sets everything up. He’s doing coding classes online, teaching I mean; he has his own website, and it makes him money. The boy is something of a genius. I doubt that there’s anything he can’t do on a computer.’
‘That could be worrying, could it not?’
‘Tell me about it, Neil. I had a talk with him a while back about setting limits for himself, about where not to go exploring. Fortunately, he’s more interested in maintaining our security than in breaching other people’s. The nuclear deterrent is safe.’
‘Our kids are getting away from us, Bob,’ McIlhenney sighed.
‘Not that far. Alex left home about fifteen years ago, but we’re still close.’
‘How is she? Is she still with our friend Doctor Jackson?’
‘She never was with him, not in that way. He saw her through a crisis, got her back in emotional shape. They’re close, yes, but it’s a friendship, no more, of that I’m sure.’
‘She got a mention in the papers the other day, after her latest successful prosecution. What made her become an Advocate Depute? Last I heard she was committed to being a defence counsel.’
‘Two words. Griff Montell. When he was murdered, and the truth came out about him, the last of her idealism disappeared and she accepted the Lord Advocate’s offer. Mind you, we were all naïve when it came to Montell. He fooled us all, big time, me most of all. Now,’ Skinner said, abruptly. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘What makes you ask that?’
‘You didn’t leave a message, and you called the landline as well as my mobile. You’re after something.’
The chief constable sighed. ‘God, you’re cynical. You’re also right, damn you. I want my people vaccinated, Bob. I’ve just seen the sickness figures. Police officers are front line and need to be given priority. I don’t care what fucking Westminster says, Holyrood can take a different line.’
‘Why tell me?’ Skinner asked. ‘What can I do about it?’
‘Two things. The first is to get the Saltire to back it. The second, I know that you’re pally with Clive Graham, the First Minister. Put some backbone into him, and bring him on board.’
‘What if I don’t agree with you about police priority?’
McIlhenney gasped. ‘You’re kidding me.’
‘Yes, I am,’ he chuckled, ‘but you’re not alone in pushing the priority case. June Crampsey was lobbied by the teaching unions a couple of days ago. She didn’t give them an editorial commitment, but she did give them front-page treatment. She’ll do the same for you, I’m sure.’
‘Aren’t you her boss?’
‘I’m chair of the Intermedia UK subsidiary company and a main board director, but that doesn’t make me June’s boss. I may suggest, but I don’t instruct. Call her, and she’ll listen to you, but are you sure that’s the way to play it?’
‘What would you do?’
‘I’d put on my best uniform, and I’d get the media department to call a press briefing, where I’d sound off to everybody about the need to vaccinate police officers now that the elderly are pretty much done. Then I’d tell the First Minister to grow a pair and do the right thing for Scotland rather than following Westminster’s lead. You do that and I will talk to Clive behind the scenes. I’m not saying he’ll bite, but obviously he has no love for the Prime Minister.’
‘Okay,’ McIlhenney agreed. ‘I’ll play it that way. Hopefully, Graham will have an attack of common sense. I’ll do it on Monday.’
‘No, tomorrow. Nothing happens on a Sunday. You’ll get better coverage.’
‘If you say so.’
‘My recommendation,’ Skinner said. ‘Your choice.’ He paused for a second. ‘Apart from your sick-leave figures, what else is the virus affecting?’
‘On the positive side,’ the chief constable replied, ‘petty crime is down significantly. Bad times for housebreakers, with everybody at home. Then there’s sport; football being behind closed doors, therefore not needing to be policed, that frees up a hell of a lot of uniform time. The pubs being shut, we’re seeing the same effect, especially in the city centres. Then there’s traffic; fewer cars on the road equates to fewer RTAs. I’ve got somebody doing the sums to see what the savings are. On the negative side,’ he continued, ‘there’s more domestic violence . . . although maybe not as much as you’d think. Then there are the suicide figures. When the stats are published there’ll be a spike in those, for sure. I don’t know what we can do about that.’
‘I do. We need to encourage more self-help groups.’
‘We? You mean the police?’
Skinner laughed. ‘No, I don’t. That was the media mogul speaking. We need groups of volunteers in every community, identifying the vulnerable and the lonely, and bringing them inside the sheltering bubble. Social media can help too: yes, it may be a menace, but it’s also positive when it’s used properly. Its purpose is, or should be, to bring people together, not drive them apart.’
‘I’m glad that you’re moving on, Bob,’ McIlhenney remarked quietly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘That you’re starting to cut the cords that tied you to the police service. You must have noticed that you haven’t heard from Mario in a while. Not about police business, at any rate.’
‘Maybe,’ he admitted. ‘I assumed that meant things were quiet, as they are.’
‘Yeah but . . . Look, Bob, I know you’ve been mentoring young officers, the likes of Sauce Haddock, and I know how hands-on you’ve been in a few major investigations. But the thing is, Maggie was always more committed to your continuing role than Mario. Everything you’ve done, well, it’s appreciated, but the view now, Mario’s and mine, is that we’d prefer to keep you at arm’s length from now on. Not least because if you have insider knowledge of stuff that’s going on, there could be a conflict of interest with your media role.’
‘I’ve always been aware of that,’ Skinner countered, ‘and I’ve made sure that no conflicts have ever arisen. My media role’s potentially beneficial too. Christ, man, this call began with you asking me for a favour through the Saltire.’
‘I know,’ McIlhenney agreed, ‘and I’d like to keep that relationship.’
‘But you want me to hand in my Special Constable warrant card?’
‘No, but I’d like you to frame it and hang it over the fireplace, so to speak.’
‘Okay, I will . . . figuratively. But,’ he warned, ‘if Sauce, or Lottie Mann, or Jack McGurk, or anybody else from my old team ever want to call me for advice, in confidence, I won’t be hanging up on them.’
‘I don’t expect you to, and I won’t prevent them from doing that either . . . not least because I’m sure I’ll be calling you myself from time to time. Okay?’
‘Aye, okay. You can fuck off now.’ He chuckled. ‘You’ve got to set up your press event, and I’ve got a feature to write for June.’
As he ended the call, Skinner reflected on McIlhenney’s awkwardness. He could have made it easier for him by telling him at the outset that he had decided for himself that the cords that bound him to his former career would have to be loosened, and if necessary, cut. Almost a year before, in the wake of Maggie Steele’s unexpected burn-out and resignation, he had been invited to lunch in the Honours by Steven Lennon. He respected the recently appointed Lord Advocate, but the man was famously intense; for that reason he had doubted that the invitation was purely social, but the agenda had remained hidden until the coffee stage.
‘Bob,’ his host had begun. ‘Some of us have been considering the situation with the police force. After the blip caused by the unfortunate first appointment, the general view was that Chief Constable Steele had done a good job in securing public acceptance of the new system. She even seemed to have brought you on-side, one of the most vocal opponents of a national police service.’
‘I live in the real world,’ he had retorted. ‘That means, when politicians fuck it up, I have to accept it and live with it along with everyone else.’
‘Fair enough, but you are doing that, and it’s appreciated. It’s known to insiders that you’ve been helping the police leadership informally, looking after detectives with potential. You were very much hands-on in the Montell investigation.’
‘I knew the guy, or thought I did. I was cleaning up my own mess.’
‘And clean it up you did. Look, Bob, let me cut to the chase. We are about to advertise the vacancy create
d by Mrs Steele’s departure, and I want to point out to you that applications will not be restricted to serving officers.’
Skinner’s stare had shown real astonishment. ‘You’re asking me if I want my old job back?’
‘I suppose I am. You’re not wedded to your media work, after all.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Steve. I am. Yes, I was brought on to the board by a friend. We both took a chance that I’d be any good at it, but as it’s transpired, I am. The business is expanding in the UK, a subsidiary board has been created and I’m its chair. I couldn’t walk away now, even if I wanted to . . . which I don’t. Besides, you can’t afford me.’
‘The salary is nearly a quarter of a million, Bob.’
‘Exactly. I’d be taking a fifty per cent pay cut; nearer eighty per cent if you work it out on a daily basis. Sorry, Steve, you’re not on. The fact is, I know I could apply, you didn’t have to tell me. Yes, I have considered it but no, it is not something I want to do. So, thanks for lunch, but no thanks. Now, you’re new in your job. I’ve worked with half a dozen like you, so is there any advice I can give you?’
He had left the restaurant more focused on his new life than ever and more determined to back off from the old one. McIlhenney’s appointment had pleased him; indeed, he had provided a reference, something he had declined to do for two other candidates. His decision to distance himself had been made easier by the onset of the pandemic, but he had noticed a lessening of the regular phone calls from the Command Corridor, as he still thought of it, a hangover from the Edinburgh days. The only surprise about McIlhenney’s formal intimation was that it had taken so long.
Skinner moved downstairs, heading for his office but looking into the kitchen as he passed. His eyebrows rose as he saw James Andrew at the work surface, plugging in a blender. ‘What the . . . ?’ he exclaimed.
‘Starting dinner, Dad,’ Jazz said. ‘Carrot and coriander soup. You don’t think Alex has been cooking everything for us, do you? She’s been in court most days, virtually, in your office.’
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