‘Are you telling me that Mark’s been cooking?’ he asked, sceptically.
‘Hell no! He’s been food shopping . . . with a list, before you ask . . . but I’m too fond of my sisters to let him in here.’
‘Er . . . he’s too young to buy beer, and you’ve been leaving Corona for me at the door.’
‘Don’t worry, you’ve got plenty,’ his son promised. ‘Alex did a Tesco run for that, and for her own supplies.’
‘So what’s the main course?’
‘Chicken cacciatore with orzo.’
‘You what!’ Bob gasped.
‘Mark sourced the recipe. He’s good for that.’
‘I guess. A word of advice, Jazz. Curb your enthusiasm or you may have a job for life.’
‘Fine, but I don’t come cheap.’
He left his son to concentrate on his blender, stepping across the hall and into his office. As he switched on his computer, he saw that several software updates were due but scheduled them to be done overnight. His first priority was his business email, which had heavy traffic seven days a week. The working language of Intermedia was Castilian Spanish, in which he had made himself fluent. In the office in Girona, Catalan was spoken; he had a working knowledge of that also but did not regard himself as literate. He had cleared five messages when his ringtone sounded. Checking the screen, he saw the unknown number that had registered earlier. Frowning, he clicked ‘Accept’.
‘Bob.’
Skinner recognised the voice instantly, and felt himself tense.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ he snapped.
Three
‘The thing I miss most about CID is being able to wear my own clothes,’ Inspector Noele McClair said.
‘You don’t like the uniform, ma’am?’ Constable Tiggy Benjamin asked.
‘Honestly, I hate it; comfort counts for nothing alongside functionality and political correctness. The buzz phrase is “non-gender specific”, Tigs. Within this vehicle, I think that’s bollocks, even though that’s a gender specific description. In the immortal words of Tammy Wynette, “Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman.” In the police service it’s not bloody allowed! Our first chief constable signed off on it, one of his many mistakes. When Maggie Steele became chief, quite a few of us women hoped she might review it, but she never did, and now she’s gone.’
‘Maybe the new chief will reconsider it.’
‘He’s had six months to do that, but don’t hold your breath. Diversity is a sine qua non as far as racial and social backgrounds are concerned; nobody’s going to argue about that. But a non-gender-specific uniform as a matter of policy; to me it flies in the face of diversity. If ever a tail wagged a bloody dog, that’s it.’
‘Speaking of which,’ PC Benjamin murmured, as she turned the vehicle into the road that led to Gullane beach car park, ‘what about that lot, ma’am? Is that within the regulations?’
McClair followed her gaze; four adults, five children and three dogs were heading across the bents towards the pathway that led down to the beach. Even from a distance she could see that none of the children appeared to be older than ten, and that none of the adults were masked. ‘Park up, and check them,’ she said. ‘I’ll stay here; one of those kids is in my Harry’s class at the primary, although I don’t know the parents other than by sight. If it needs action, I’d rather not be involved.’
Benjamin drove down the access road and parked on the grass, close to an array of bins. She donned her regulation bowler hat as she stepped out. Self-conscious, McClair slumped down in her seat as the constable approached the group. One of the four adults glanced at the police vehicle, but only briefly before turning his attention back to Benjamin. He appeared to be the spokesman; he held up a hand as if to stop her in mid-sentence. He was animated, but as far as she could judge, controlled. The constable nodded as he finished, a few more words were exchanged, amiably, as far as the inspector could see, before the party split into two and moved on, in different directions, the one including Harry’s classmate towards the nearest beach path, the other heading for the picnic area and possibly beyond.
‘Sorted,’ the young officer declared as she stepped back behind the wheel. ‘They’re next-door neighbours, but they claimed they just happened to leave for their exercise at the same time and to be heading in the same direction. They promised me the adults maintained social distancing all the time.’
‘And you believed all that?’ McClair asked.
‘No, ma’am, not a word,’ Benjamin replied. ‘The guy who did the talking gave me the impression it was more than my job’s worth to argue with him. I would have,’ she said, ‘but there was no way of disproving anything, so I just nodded and wished them a nice day. Was that your son’s pal’s dad?’
‘The very one. He’s a civil servant, I believe.’ She sighed. ‘I have to say this is not why I joined the police force. Covid’s a bastard and there have to be restrictions but we’re talking about civil liberty. Instead of maintaining it, we’re enforcing constraints. You handled that fine, Tiggy. I doubt that I would have been as tolerant of a would-be Sir Humphrey.’
‘Who?’
She laughed. ‘Before your time. Come to think of it, it’s almost before mine. Come on then; we’ve shown the flag here, let’s get along to Yellowcraigs and see what mischief’s afoot there.’ She glanced around the sparsely occupied car park. ‘I guarantee you it’ll be busier than here.’
Before Benjamin could turn on the engine, McClair’s radio commanded her attention. ‘Ma’am,’ a male voice intoned. Immediately she recognised Hugh Jackson, the grizzled sergeant who was part of her team. ‘We’ve had a request passed on from comms for a car to attend in Gullane. You being in the vicinity, can you take it in?’
‘Attend what?’ she asked.
‘It’s not clear. The only detail I’ve got is that it’s a female who’s having difficulty accessing a property. The address is Twelve Redway Court. It’s in the new houses, according to Maps. The caller’s a Mrs Granton.’
‘Okay Shuggie, leave it with us. We’re two minutes away.’ She glanced at her driver as the radio went dead. ‘Let’s get moving. Just go to the Main Street and turn left and I’ll find it on my phone. Redway Court,’ she repeated. ‘New Gullane indeed.’ The expansion of the village in the recent past had been controversial, opposed by a significant number of long-term residents anxious about the impact of more family housing on the primary school and other local infrastructure. McClair, who lived on a steading development on the edge of the village, had been concerned herself, but the bonus of a massive and long-awaited extension to the school had won her over.
As Benjamin drove away from the beach, the inspector pointed to their right towards the substantial houses that overlooked the bents. Most were built of stone, and were over a hundred years old, but one was rendered in modern materials. ‘Bob Skinner lives up there,’ she murmured. ‘Sir Robert.’
‘Who’s Bob Skinner?’ the constable asked.
McClair smiled. ‘Sic transit gloria mundi,’ she murmured.
‘Who’s Gloria?’
‘I don’t really know but she was sick in a van on Monday.’
‘Why was it reported to us?’
‘Never mind, Tiggy,’ the inspector sighed. ‘Head down Sandy Loan; it’s the quickest way.’
Four
‘I’m still on your shit list, then,’ Sir Andrew Martin said.
‘I don’t have one, Andy,’ Sir Robert Skinner replied, less tersely than before. ‘I never had. If I have an issue with someone, either I confront it and sort it, or I decide it’s not worth bothering with and forget about it.’
‘I guess I’m in the second category.’
‘No, you’re not,’ he sighed, softening. ‘Granted, when you and my daughter started a relationship behind my back, that was an issue between us. When you restarted it, not so muc
h. She was older and second time around she was in control. Truth is, Andy, when I look back on you and Alex, I feel a shade guilty.’
‘You?’ Martin exclaimed. ‘Guilty?’
‘Yes, for not telling you the truth, either time.’
‘That being?’
‘That you bored her, Andy,’ Skinner told him. ‘That’s the truth of it. Oh, back then you were the great ladies’ man, before Alex, and before your wife. But before them, you never had a long-term relationship, and you had no idea how to run one. After the first couple of dates with a woman, you didn’t know what to do, other than the obvious, and it takes a bit more than that. I could see that, I could see it while it was happening, but I never said anything.’
‘I never read you as a relationship counsellor.’
‘I don’t pretend to be one, but over the years I’ve acquired a degree of self-awareness. I could see you making exactly the same mistakes as I did with Alex’s mother, but I never said anything. I took Myra for granted; I was more focused on the job than on her. She craved attention and when she didn’t get it from me, she went looking elsewhere. So did her daughter, with you, first time around.’
‘You were happy when Alex and I split, though.’
For the first time since he had taken the call, Skinner felt himself smile. ‘Of course I was fucking happy. It would have been an expensive wedding.’
‘If it’s not Alex, what is your issue with me?’ Martin persisted. ‘And don’t tell me you don’t have one.’
‘I don’t. I did, but it fell into category two, not worth bothering my arse about. I was more than annoyed by the bollocks you made of it when you finally got into the chief constable’s chair. It was as if you asked yourself at every turn, “What would Skinner have done here?”, then did exactly the opposite. When you got behind that desk you must have deleted my number, for I never heard a word from you. You were still involved with Alex at the time, yet you never called me.’
‘Did you call Jimmy Proud when you took over from him?’
‘Of course I fucking did!’ Skinner exclaimed. ‘At least twice a week. In the beginning I hadn’t a clue what I was doing with much of the non-CID stuff that makes up the bulk of a chief constable’s workload. But I learned, and it was Jimmy that helped me. You never thought to ask.’ He paused. ‘That, of course, is petty and egotistic on my part, but it’s how I felt. Legacy’s an over-used word, but most of us like to think we’ve left something behind us when we move on. The feeling I got was that in your eyes my legacy wasn’t worth having.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Martin said quietly. ‘You’re probably right. I admit I was determined to do it my way, not least because I knew that some people saw me as Bob Skinner’s bag man, even after I headed the Crime Agency. I wanted to prove them wrong, didn’t I? When I got into difficulties, I should have reached out to you, but I didn’t. Instead I jumped into a lifeboat, rowed all the way to America, and left Maggie to pick up the bits. How is she, by the way?’
‘She was burned out in the end,’ Skinner told him. ‘She did pick up your pieces and got the force running properly, but it took its toll on her. Cancer survivor, widowed, single parent, it was inevitable. She got out at the right time, though, and she’s got it together again. I see her often and she’s happier than she’s been since Stevie died on duty. Pre-lockdown she visited us quite often. She took her Stephanie and our girls to the beach. She has a couple of non-executive directorships to keep the wolf at bay, and she hopes to find herself a part-time job, lecturing, like you did in the US.’
He sighed. ‘It’s my turn to apologise, Andy. I shouldn’t have taken the hump at you keeping your distance. Neil’s just told me, very gently, that he intends to do the same.’
‘Has he now?’ Martin murmured. ‘I confess I’m still amazed by McIlhenney going all the way to the chief’s office. I still think of him as a big lumbering plod, always in McGuire’s shadow.’
‘Then maybe that’s another reason why the job wasn’t for you, Andy. You can have the best admin skills in the world, but if your people management isn’t up to scratch, you’ll never succeed. I understand what you’re saying about Neil, but you need to reject first impressions and look beneath the surface of everyone, and everything. Mario’s a great detective, and always was. Neil’s made himself a great all-round police officer. If anyone can make something of the misbegotten national force, he’s the man.’ Skinner paused. ‘Now,’ he boomed, ‘as I asked you earlier, what the fuck do you want? If it’s just to congratulate me on getting over Covid, you could have messaged me.’
‘You’ve had Covid?’
‘Just finished isolation, both Sarah and me. I was exposed visiting Spain on business. The fact you didn’t know about it tells me that you don’t follow Alex on Facebook. She told the world this morning.’
‘I don’t follow anyone on Facebook. I don’t have a presence there. You don’t, do you?’
‘No, but I don’t need one. I can keep an eye on everything through the Intermedia presence.’
‘Of course,’ Martin said, ‘you’re a newspaper magnate. I was forgetting.’
‘I’m an employee,’ Skinner corrected him. ‘Xavi Aislado owns the show, and he runs it. That said, he has other things on his mind now. He just lost his wife. God knows how that will affect him. Come on, though,’ he continued, ‘back to the question. What’s up?’
‘I think I’m being stalked.’
‘Stalked? You?’
‘I can’t explain it, but that’s how it feels. Things have been happening to me, and around me. I first noticed it when I put an envelope of shredded mail in my recycling box, and saw that it had been disturbed.’
‘What do you mean? How could you possibly tell that?’
‘I’m neat, Bob, to the point of being OCD. I don’t just put stuff away, I do it very carefully, and I consider what should go where. Once I’ve done it, I don’t forget.’
‘I’ll grant you that, Andy,’ Skinner admitted. ‘That photographic memory of yours. I used to lean on it from time to time. Go on.’
‘There’s that, then there’s the stuff that’s been arriving through the post, things addressed to me that I never ordered. Shoes for a wee girl. A kid’s book, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. A Black Sabbath CD, for Christ’s sake; I hate them. I tried to return them all but I couldn’t because they don’t show on my account. Then I had a mailshot from an undertaker the other day, not an email, a brochure through the letter box. I called the number and asked them what the hell they were playing at; they said it had been sent in response to a website enquiry. See what I mean, Bob?’
‘That last one could be a simple system screw-up.’
‘Could be but it’s not.’
Skinner frowned. ‘Which Black Sabbath CD?’
‘Can’t remember. Hold on. It’s in the living room.’ There was a short silence, then Martin came back online. ‘It’s called Paranoid. Second studio album, it says.’
‘Had to be that,’ he grunted, ‘if your fear’s justified. Okay, I’ll buy into your stalker. How can I help?’
‘I’m not afraid, Bob, I’m fucking angry. I need advice, I suppose; just to talk it through with me. Tell me what you’d do in my place.’
‘I’d probably rage for a couple of days, then I’d do the sensible thing and call the police. Where are you living now, Andy?’ he asked. ‘You’re on a UK mobile number, but that doesn’t even tell me what country you’re in. Are you still in America?’
‘No,’ Martin replied. ‘I gave that job up last summer, and moved back to Scotland to be near Karen and the kids. They’re in Hamilton; I’ve got a place in Motherwell.’
‘Sounds cosy. Are you getting back together, you and Karen?’
‘No; not yet, at any rate, but we’re getting on. I haven’t got anyone else in my life.’
‘Has she?’
‘I don’t ask; she doesn’t say.’
‘Like me with Sarah when we were getting close again,’ he said. ‘Is it on the cards? You and she?’
‘We’ve never discussed it head on. I’ve told her that I miss being a family man. She tells me I always will be, but she knows what I mean.’
‘And let me guess, you’ve got a toothbrush at hers.’
‘Yes,’ Martin admitted. ‘But only because I stay over sometimes to look after the kids, if Karen’s working late.’
‘Is she still in uniform? I’ve lost touch with her career.’
‘No, she’s a detective chief inspector; promoted last year. She works in Lowell Payne’s operation now, counter-terrorism, intelligence and the like. Okay, she’s a spook of sorts but it’s remote surveillance, mostly. For a lot of the time that the kids have been off school, she’s been able to work from home.’
‘So tell her about your problem,’ Skinner suggested. ‘Surely that’s the thing to do?’
‘I don’t want to do that. If I did she might be nervous about letting me near the kids.’
‘If the situation was reversed, wouldn’t you feel that way?’ Skinner asked.
‘I suppose I would,’ Martin admitted, ‘but there’s no risk to them, so I’d prefer it if Karen didn’t know.’
‘Your choice, but I’d be telling her. Regardless of that, the first thing you should do is beef up your own surveillance. If somebody’s going through your bins, it tells me you don’t have cameras.’
‘I’m ahead of you on that one. I called in the guy who installed my alarm system; I’m having him fit six of them all around the house. I’ll get alerts every time someone comes on to the property.’
‘Have you pissed off anybody lately?’
‘Not since I’ve been back, not that I know of. My profile’s low, Bob. I’m not like you.’
Skinner felt his hackles stir. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You’ve never backed away from the limelight. You’ve always been media friendly. You can’t deny it.’
Deadlock Page 3