Deadlock

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘I suppose not,’ he admitted. ‘Once I reached senior rank, I always believed in speaking for myself rather than through spokesmen. It left less room for misunderstanding.’

  ‘Nothing’s changed, from what I’ve seen. You still have a high profile.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about me for a guy who was out of the country for a while.’

  ‘I kept an eye on you.’

  ‘And on Alex?’

  ‘Yes, I admit that too. I took an interest in her career; it’s still there.’

  ‘Andy.’ Skinner’s tone carried a warning.

  Martin read it and reassured him. ‘Only from a distance.’

  ‘Keep it that way. You focus on Karen. She’s a lovely girl and if you want my advice, if she’ll take you back, don’t waste a second. It’s worked for Sarah and me. We’ve never been as happy: I’ve never been as happy. As for Alex, don’t worry about her. The Montell business hit her very hard, but she got over that with the help of family and friends; well, friend really, Dominic. She’s back on form and God help the guilty. Which brings us back to your stalker. Do you have the faintest idea who it might be? Have you gone back over your CID years? Has anybody been released that might be carrying a grudge? Have you made any enemies since you’ve been back?’

  ‘None. I’ve hardly met anyone since I’ve been home. As for the old days, you and I never left anyone feeling better for having met us, but there’s nobody who comes to mind with the subtlety to enact what’s been happening.’

  ‘I’ll do some thinking too,’ Skinner promised. ‘If any names come to mind, I’ll reach out and see what I can find out about them. Mind you, most of them are either dead or have no wish to cross either of us again. Keep in touch . . . and Andy,’ he added, ‘it’s good to have the old you back.’

  Five

  The Maps feature on McClair’s phone led the officers directly to Redway Court, a cul-de-sac on the small estate that had been developed on the site of the former Scottish Fire Service Training School. As PC Benjamin drew up in a parking bay beside an apartment building, a middle-aged woman, dressed in a waxed jacket, jeans and boots, strode briskly towards them. The inspector recognised her as a familiar face around the village but struggled to recall her name.

  The problem was solved at once. ‘Thanks for coming so quickly,’ she said, as they emerged from the vehicle. ‘I’m Prue Granton; I’m a carer. I look after a gentleman in Number Twelve, Mr Stevens. I look in on him every day, but this morning I can’t get a response. I’ve got a key and usually I let myself in, but this morning the door’s on the chain, so I can’t open it beyond a few inches. I’ve called to him but I’m getting no response. He’s very deaf, so the chances are he’s fallen asleep in his chair and just hasn’t heard me, although that’s not like him.’

  ‘How old is Mr Stevens?’ McClair asked.

  ‘He’s eighty-six. He has arthritis, and vascular dementia was diagnosed nine months ago. Poor old chap: his wife died last September, but he doesn’t really understand she’s gone. He really shouldn’t be living alone, but his daughter’s against having him admitted to a care home. Between you and me, I think her concerns are more about cost than Covid.’

  ‘I don’t blame her,’ Benjamin said. ‘My granny died in one of those last year. A man was discharged from the Royal with Covid, and it just went through the place. Poor wee soul.’ Her lips pursed, and for a second, the inspector thought that she would cry.

  ‘Do you want to force entry?’ she asked.

  ‘I think so,’ Granton replied. ‘I could have, the chain’s only held in place by a couple of screws but I didn’t want to put my shoulder to it until you arrived.’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ McClair told her. ‘We’ve got a bolt cutter in the car. Go get it, Tiggy,’ she ordered.

  ‘That’s handy,’ the carer said. She peered at her. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘Possibly. Noele McClair. I live at West Fenton; my son Harry’s at Gullane Primary.’

  ‘I knew it. My granddaughter Kim’s there too. There’s a Harry in her class, but his name’s Coats. That’s right,’ she frowned, ‘his dad was . . .’

  McClair finished the sentence. ‘Murdered. That’s right. He was my ex.’

  ‘Oh God, sorry,’ Granton murmured. ‘See my big mouth.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  The awkwardness passed as the PC arrived with the cutter. The carer led the officers towards the four-storey building. They were about to step on to the pathway to the entrance door when a young male cyclist sped in front of them, all but running over the constable’s toes. ‘Hoi!’ she called after the jacket-clad youth. ‘Careful, you little—’

  ‘’Tiggy,’ McClair warned, ‘you be careful.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ Benjamin said, ‘but really; little shits like that shouldn’t be allowed on bikes.’

  ‘Little shits like that should be doing home schooling under lockdown, but we don’t have time to go chasing after him to tell him. If I knew who he was I’d be calling on his parents, but unfortunately I do not.’

  They carried on into the apartment block and into a lift that took them up to the top floor. The door to Number Twelve faced them as they stepped out. Granton turned the handle and opened it, stretching the restraining chain and making room for Benjamin to use the bolt cutter from the police car. It took little or no pressure to slice through a link, giving them access.

  ‘Mr Stevens, it’s Prue,’ the carer called out. ‘Are you awake yet? I couldn’t get in and I was worried about you, so I’ve got the police with me.’ She stepped towards a door on the left, but McClair stopped her with a gentle touch on her sleeve.

  ‘Me first,’ the inspector murmured, switching on her body camera. ‘Is that his bedroom?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She moved forward. The door was slightly ajar; as soon as she opened it further she could see that the room was undisturbed. ‘Do you make his bed?’

  ‘Every morning.’

  ‘Then it hasn’t been slept in. Living room?’

  ‘Straight ahead.’

  The door had two vertical glass panels; they were opaque, but McClair could see that a ceiling light was on. Even as she stepped into the room, she knew what she would find. A white head lolled against the back of an old-fashioned armchair, and a walking stick with four small balancing legs lay on the floor beside it. The curtains were drawn, even though it was mid-morning.

  Mr Stevens’ skin had a pale yellow hue. His mouth sagged open and his cheeks seemed to have collapsed inwards. His eyes were not completely closed; they were slits of blue in his head. McClair sniffed and took in the faint odour of urine. She took off her right glove and touched his forehead, feeling its coldness.

  There was no need to state the obvious. ‘What was his evening routine?’ she asked.

  ‘Another carer was supposed to check on him at nine,’ Granton replied.

  ‘Do you know who that is?’

  ‘Not for sure. He’s got a care package in place, three visits a day. I’m his getter-upper six days a week, tomorrow, Sunday, being my day off. Somebody else looks in on him at one, to give him his lunch and have his evening meal ready so he just has to put it in the microwave. Then there’s the evening carer, to give him his medication and help him get ready for bed if he needs it . . . needed it, poor old man. We work for a company, and there’s a rota for the other two visits, so last night could have been one of two or three people.’

  ‘You said he had arthritis, but he could put himself to bed. How handicapped was he?’

  ‘He could get his outer clothes off. He slept in his vest and pants,’ the carer explained. ‘Sometimes he’d let himself be helped, sometimes not. It was his choice; it probably depended on how tired he was, or what was on the telly.’

  ‘If last night’s visit hadn’t happened, would you have been told
about it?’

  ‘I would if the company knew. The other carer might have called in sick, but if that had happened, I’m sure the company would have sent another, or even called me. If she just didn’t turn up, we’d only know if Mr Stevens told us.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘More than likely,’ Granton said. ‘We only have one man on the staff.’ She smiled, sadly, and pointed to a round table on the right of the chair, on which a crystal tumbler stood. ‘At least the poor old chap had his whisky for the journey.’

  ‘Where’s the bottle?’ Benjamin asked her.

  ‘Good question; it must be back in the sideboard, where he kept it. That tells me the carer must have been in. His hands were affected by the arthritis, and there were some things it was difficult for him to do. Screwing the top off a whisky bottle was one of them.’ The carer smiled, with a look of sadness. ‘That’s why he always drank a good malt, with a cork.’

  ‘And yet he managed to set the chain on the front door,’ McClair pointed out.

  ‘Good point,’ she conceded. ‘That’s the first time I’ve ever found it like that. I suppose he must have been able to do it and undo it. He’d have been up before I got here, maybe more than once through the night. An eighty-six-year-old man usually needs to. What do you do now?’ she asked. ‘Do you even need to be here? Mind you, I need to be going myself. I’ve got another client to see.’

  ‘He died alone, so you’d have needed to call us anyway. I’ll arrange for a medical examiner to attend, and then for the removal of the body to the mortuary at the Royal Infirmary. You’ll need to advise your employer, and Mr Stevens’ next of kin will have to be involved. If you can give me contact details, we can let them know.’

  ‘Good luck with finding a doctor to attend,’ Granton murmured. ‘It’s like they’re under siege just now.’

  The inspector smiled. ‘I’ve got someone in mind who might be all too keen to attend.’ She took out her phone and scrolled through her contacts until she reached ‘G’, then hit on a saved number.

  ‘Sarah,’ her companions heard her exclaim as her call was answered, ‘it’s Noele. How are you?’ They saw her eyebrows rise as she listened and heard her gasp. ‘Bloody hell! You’re okay though? Look I won’t bother you in that case.’ She paused again. ‘Well, if you’re sure. I’ve got a situation here, a sudden death in Gullane, and I need medical attendance. There are no suspicious circumstances, but it needs a pathologist rather than a GP. It’s not exactly your weight, I appreciate, but if you could . . . That’s great. The address, Twelve Redway Court, on the old Fire School site. You’ll see our car outside.’

  She ended the call and pocketed her phone. ‘Taken care of,’ she announced. ‘Mrs Granton, you make your call now and get me the next-of-kin details, please. Then I think you can go. The cavalry’s on its way.’

  Six

  ‘I appreciate the thought, Pops,’ Alex Skinner said, ‘but you needn’t have bothered. Andy Martin’s whereabouts are of no interest to me. He could move in next door, far less to Motherwell, and he still wouldn’t get over my threshold. Not that we parted on bad terms second time around, but it was for good nevertheless.’

  ‘How would you feel about him going back to his wife?’ her father asked.

  Her sudden smile seemed to light up his phone screen. ‘Smug, to be honest,’ she retorted. ‘If Paddy Power had been laying odds on it, I’d have taken them. There was a period after he and I restarted when I felt guilty about breaking up a marriage. Word got to me that someone in the Edinburgh force, a woman officer who’d been a friend of Karen’s, had described me as a disgrace to my gender.’

  ‘You should have told me,’ Skinner growled. ‘I’d have marked her card, and posted her to fucking Hawick.’

  ‘That’s why I didn’t tell you. That guilt trip didn’t last long anyway, only until I realised that it wasn’t me that broke them up. Andy would have left home anyway, Pops. The thought of being middle-aged was giving him anxiety attacks and he rebelled against it. His problem was that indeed he was fucking middle-aged, no longer the guy in the leather jacket who attracted me the first time.’ She winked at him. ‘At least you fitted another wife in between your marriages to Sarah. Andy came back to me because he was afraid he couldn’t hack it in the single’s world any longer. If he goes back to the wife and kids now it’ll be for the same reason. And you know what? The whole cycle will repeat itself. If you can pass Karen a message from me, tell her not to do it. Shag him if she feels like it, but don’t be his emotional crutch.’

  He chuckled. ‘I don’t think I’ll be doing that, somehow. If the subject comes up again when I talk to Andy I might feed the thought in, in reverse so to speak. Speaking of emotional crutches, are you seeing much of Dominic?’ he asked.

  ‘Not under lockdown conditions, Pops. We WhatsApp like everybody else, like you and I are doing now, but that’s it. If that’s your way of finally asking if I’m sleeping with him, the answer is no. I think we both know that would be a bad idea.’

  ‘Probably,’ he agreed. ‘How’s the work situation?’

  ‘It’s good,’ she said. ‘I’m in the High Court again on Tuesday, prosecuting a forty-year-old man from Glasgow who put his fifty-two-year-old partner in a critical care ward after a domestic assault, where she contracted Covid-19 and died. I wish I could do him for culpable homicide, but attempted murder is the most we can go to.’

  ‘Will the fact that you don’t have a live victim to put in the witness box damage your case?’

  ‘No, if anything it’ll help, because defence counsel will have nobody to intimidate in the witness box. We have very specific photographic evidence of the injuries he inflicted and we have forensic evidence to back them up. The jury’ll be in a cinema, so they’ll see everything on the big screen. There was a boot print on the victim’s back, we have her blood spattered on his clothing, and there was skin, hers, under his fingernails. She was violently sodomised as well. We can’t actually prove that wasn’t consensual, so he isn’t charged with rape, but I can make sure the jury knows about it. Defence can object all he likes but once it’s out there it won’t be forgotten by them whatever the judge directs. My expectation is that on Monday I’ll hear from the defence, wanting a deal for a guilty plea to assault. The deal I’ll give him will be that I ask for a minimum twelve years instead of life. When she sees the evidence, I’ll be surprised if the judge gives him less than fifteen.’

  ‘Me too, from what you’ve said. Good luck with it.’

  ‘Luck is what the accused will need,’ she replied. ‘So long, Pops.’

  The image on his screen froze for less than a second, then vanished. As it did, Skinner remembered that he had forgotten to chide his daughter for outing his Covid on Facebook. He smiled, while going to his contacts list and clicking on a number.

  ‘Bob,’ Assistant Chief Constable Lowell Payne greeted him as he took the audio call. ‘Welcome back to the world. I saw Alex’s post. You and Sarah really are okay, yes?’

  ‘Yeah, Lowell, we’re good. So good that Sarah’s just gone out on a job. Local though, here in Gullane.’

  ‘What, a suspicious death?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. An old man found dead in his chair, as they are sometimes. She’s doing a favour for a friend really, to save her waiting at the scene all day for an ME from Edinburgh. How are you? How’s Jean?’ Payne’s wife was the sister of Alex’s long-dead mother, Myra.

  ‘We’re both fine; waiting for the vaccine. Jean’s stir crazy, but otherwise okay. You two won’t need the jag now, I guess,’ Payne said. ‘You’ll have antibodies.’

  ‘I will,’ Skinner agreed. ‘But for how long? I’ll be having the jag, as soon as it’s offered. Sarah’s been vaccinated already, because of her job, but she still had to isolate with me when I showed positive and be tested as well, all the way through.’

  ‘Lucky Sarah. There’s ill
feeling in the service about us not being prioritised.’

  ‘Watch this space. The Saltire’s being lobbied about that, and I expect we’ll support it.’

  ‘Let’s hope you get results. Is that what you called to tell me?’

  ‘No, it isn’t; something else. I hear you’ve got Karen Neville on your team now.’

  ‘That’s right,’ the ACC confirmed. ‘She’s very good.’

  ‘I take it you looked at her background before you took her on.’

  ‘I didn’t have to. Mario was up front with me when he put her forward for the vacancy. I know she’s Sir Andrew Martin’s ex-wife.’

  ‘Did you know he was back in Scotland?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘No,’ Payne exclaimed. ‘I did not. Since when?’

  ‘For a few months now; he left his US job last year. I didn’t know either until he called me this morning.’

  ‘That’s a surprise. Alex told me that you and he weren’t on the best of terms. She assumes it’s because of her.’

  ‘We weren’t, but it wasn’t. We’ve had a chat and it’s fixed now.’

  ‘Is he looking for a job with Intermedia?’

  Skinner laughed. ‘If he is he didn’t say so. No, he called me because he thinks he’s got a problem. He reckons that someone’s got him under surveillance; someone’s stalking him. From what he told me,’ Skinner said, ‘he could be right.’

  ‘That’s concerning,’ the ACC agreed, ‘but why’s it one for me?’

  ‘You’re the guy he should have called in the first place, Lowell. He’s in touch with Karen, does his bit with the kids. If someone’s watching him, it’s possible they’re looking at her as well. That’s something that should interest you, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, it is . . . but what do you suggest I do about it?’

  ‘What I would do if I was in your chair. Discreetly have someone look at their service records, both of them, to see if anyone jumps out at you from their time in CID. Off the top of my head, I can’t come up with a name, and neither can Andy, but he saw plenty of action in his career. So did Karen before she took time out to have the family. I don’t have access to those records any more, and neither does Andy, but you do.’