Deadlock

by Quintin Jardine

  Payne nodded. ‘She is, but I understand what you’re saying. I can tell you that Alex is very definitely over him.’

  ‘That’s good to hear, but it would have to be mutual.’

  ‘There’s been no recent contact between them; I can tell you that too. She’d have told her aunt, and Jean would have told me.’

  ‘Also reassuring, but . . .’ Neville sighed. ‘Look, boss, I haven’t closed my mind to the idea of us getting together again. If it happened, it would be good for Danielle and Robert. Put it this way, I’m not being pulled in any other direction; I am not looking for commitment. I was vetted before I joined our department, so you will know that since I’ve been divorced I’ve had two relationships, neither of which lasted longer than a couple of months, and a few encounters through a dating site, which I left before I was transferred to counter-terrorism. I’m not a nun, never was, but I liked it when I had stability in my life. If Andy can offer me that and convince me that he’ll deliver, well, we’ll see. Mind you, that’s assuming he has any such intention. As I say, we’re just dancing around it so far.’

  ‘You will let me know if you wind up as Strictly contestants, won’t you?’

  ‘I promise I will, boss.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Payne said. ‘Meanwhile, you’re okay in yourself, are you? Not feeling constrained by the pandemic circumstances?’

  She laughed. ‘Boss, I’ve felt constrained since my first child was born. I’m well used to that, believe me. This lockdown is business as usual as far as I’m concerned.’

  Payne finished his coffee and left, via the garage. He still wondered about that second cereal bowl, but he had decided that to ask the question would have been an invasion of what little right to privacy their secretive, sensitive jobs allowed them. If it’s Andy’s, he thought, fine.

  Neville closed the garage door as soon as he had gone, then picked up the cover for the outdoor furniture. As she finished securing the set in its waterproof cocoon she glanced up at a first-floor bedroom window that overlooked the garden. She smiled at the man who gazed down at her. He was dark-haired, mixed race, and in his mid-thirties. He wore a white T-shirt which revealed an elaborate tattoo on his right deltoid; a crowned lion above a globe encircled by a laurel wreath, with a motto beneath that she knew read, ‘Per mare, per terram.’

  He opened the window and called to her. ‘Can I come down,’ he asked, ‘now that your mystery caller’s gone? I feel like a prisoner up here.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, Clyde,’ she replied. ‘You stay there, and I’ll come to you. Lunch can wait for a while.’

  Ten

  Every weekday morning, when she arrived at her office, Inspector Noele McClair reflected on her good fortune in having a mother who had been a teacher. Yes, without her, her son Harry would have been found a place in a school hub for the children of key workers, but she suspected that would have damaged his educational progress. He had been assessed as borderline dyslexic; with his grandmother taking charge of his home schooling, she had seen steady improvement in his reading, writing and general comprehension. Although he was missing his classmates, Harry was enjoying the change too. Granny was more patient than his teacher, and her lessons were shorter, naturally, as they were one on one. That meant longer playtimes, in the small garden of the steading where they lived, and sometimes in the play park near the school, if the weather was fine. A return to normality was weeks away, and stresses might develop in that time, but for the moment Noele was content.

  ‘How was the rest of the weekend, Shuggie?’ she asked Sergeant Jackson, who was coming to the end of a five-day-duty stint.

  ‘The night shift had it quiet,’ he replied, ‘from what they said at handover. North Berwick was bulging yesterday though, and Yellowcraigs. The traffic folk were there, checking addresses through the number plates of parked cars. They handed out a fair few fixed penalty notices.’ He grinned. ‘Some of them got parking fines as well; that really ruined their day, ken. Oh aye, and that car you said we should station at the top of the Aberlady straight, that was very busy yesterday afternoon stoppin’ cyclists and checkin’ their addresses. Everybody from outside East Lothian got told to get straight back home again.’ He paused. ‘I know all of it’s national policy, Noele, but do you no’ think that’s a wee bit heavy-handed?’

  She shook her head, firmly. ‘No way. There’s a great big beach in Portobello, so no need for the Edinburghers to cross council boundaries to go to Yellowcraigs or Gullane. Rules is rules, Shuggie. This isn’t a game, it’s about containing a deadly virus, and people have to be made to take it seriously, if necessary. It cuts both ways. I can’t go to Marks and Spencer!’

  ‘You wait till Rangers win the league,’ he said, portentously, ‘and see how seriously it gets taken through in Glasgow.’

  She smiled. ‘Do you think Edinburgh should worry about Hearts winning their league?’

  ‘Speakin’ as a lifelong Hibs fan, that would be a no.’

  Grinning still, she moved into her office, where a few incident reports waited for her in a tray on her desk. She was working her way through them, when her landline phone rang. ‘There’s a caller here, Inspector,’ Jackson said as she answered, ‘a Mrs Langham. She asked for you by name. She said she wants to speak to you about her father, Michael Stevens.’

  ‘Stevens? The sudden death Tiggy and I attended on Saturday?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Okay, put her through.’

  She waited for a few seconds, until a deep female voice boomed in her ear. ‘Is that Inspector McClair?’

  ‘Yes,’ she confirmed, sensing a possible confrontation. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘My name is Lynn Langham. I’m the daughter of Michael Stevens. I’m told that you attended his death on Saturday.’

  ‘That’s correct, and I am very sorry for your loss. What is it you’d like to know?’

  ‘I’d like to know why the police aren’t taking it seriously,’ the woman snapped.

  McClair felt her eyes widen in surprise. ‘I’m not sure how to react to that,’ she said. ‘My colleague and I were asked to effect an entrance to your father’s flat by his carer, after she couldn’t get a response from him. We did, and sadly found that he’d passed away in his armchair. I can assure you that we treated him and his property with the utmost respect. If you’re concerned that we didn’t involve his GP, doctors are under special pressure just now, so I found someone else to certify his death.’

  ‘Just like that?’ Langham exclaimed.

  The inspector felt her patience approaching breaking point. ‘Let me explain something to you, Mrs Langham. Your father died alone, which meant that whoever found him would have been required to call the police. In those circumstances I’m required to submit a report to the procurator fiscal.’

  ‘Without a post-mortem?’

  ‘Not my call. The fiscal isn’t obliged to ask for one, and in most sudden death cases he doesn’t. In most the cause of death is self-evident, as it was with your father. He had a stroke history and against that background the pathologist was clear that’s what killed him. Does that make it clearer for you?’

  ‘Although I live in England now, I have a Scottish law degree,’ the bereaved daughter told her. ‘You’re not telling me stuff I don’t know. But what you don’t realise is that you are describing to me, almost exactly, the circumstances of my mother’s death a year ago. I find that extraordinary, don’t you?’

  ‘I find it unusual,’ McClair admitted, ‘but I know nothing of your mother’s case, so I can’t comment on it.’

  ‘Dad came in from golf,’ she said, her tone noticeably calmer and less aggressive. ‘They lived in Whim Road then. He’d had an early tee time, and so he’d given Mum a cup of tea and left her in bed. When he came back she was still there, but she was dead. If you check your incident book, you’ll find that
you were called then too.’

  ‘Was an autopsy required after your mother’s death?’

  ‘No. She’d had a heart procedure, a minimally invasive aortic valve repair, but it hadn’t been a hundred per cent successful. She was on the waiting list for a valve replacement. The GP consulted her cardiologist, he had a look at her most recent scan and decided that the balance of probability was that the wonky valve had caused her heart to fail, suddenly and fatally. I was okay with that at the time, but now, for my father to go in much the same way, I’m not.’

  ‘Are you telling me you regard your father’s death as suspicious?’

  ‘No,’ Langham conceded, ‘but I would regard it as unexplained. I believe that it needs to be investigated.’

  ‘Almost certainly that would involve a post-mortem examination. Are you prepared for that?’

  ‘More than prepared,’ she retorted. ‘I’m insisting on it.’

  ‘Okay,’ McClair agreed. ‘I will take that on board, but as I told you, I can’t order it myself. I will have to speak to the procurator fiscal. It’s his decision, and he may balk at it, given that there will be cost implications.’

  ‘Sod that,’ the woman snorted. ‘I’ll fund it myself if I have to. I don’t want some first-year pathology student doing it either; I want the best.’

  ‘It was the best who certified your father’s death in the first place. Not because I felt it necessary to call in someone at that level, but because she’s a friend and attended as a favour to me.’

  ‘Then ask her if she’s prepared to risk proving herself wrong.’

  Eleven

  ‘He didn’t tell you?’

  ‘No, he bloody didn’t,’ Bob Skinner complained. ‘Did Karen say where these whispers were coming from?’

  ‘No,’ Lowell Payne replied. ‘But Karen seemed to regard them as substantial. She’s weighing up the possibility for moving south herself if it happens.’

  ‘I can find out,’ Skinner said. ‘Dame Amanda will know, and I’m sure she’ll share it. If it’s true, I would guess he’s been sounded out about it either by someone in the Home Office, or by one of the Mayor of London’s people.’ He chuckled softly. ‘And if that’s the case, it probably explains his feeling of being stalked. If he is being considered as the new Deputy Commissioner, they’re bound to do a positive vetting job on him, not least since he’s been out of the service and working overseas for a while. I’m surprised Andy hasn’t worked that out for himself.’

  ‘Do you think he’s up to the Deputy Commissioner job?’ the ACC asked. ‘After all, he did fuck up in Scotland.’

  ‘Actually, I’d question that, Lowell,’ he countered. ‘I know that’s the perspective within the service, but my view is that once his ambition had taken him there, Andy was frustrated by the nature of the job and by the structure he was saddled with by the politicians. I can empathise with that; I was dead against the national force from the start, as everyone knows. However, and I’ve never said this publicly, he was the wrong choice to head it. I’ll take the blame for that, because I never taught him to delegate, never having learned to do that properly myself. I’d have been as bad at the job as he was if I’d gone for it.’ He paused. ‘The Met, though, that’s a completely different service. It’s a city force, albeit an enormous city, and it’s got a well-established management structure. The Commissioner’s more of a chief executive than a copper, and the same goes for the deputy. The structure is there and everyone knows what it is. It’s oversight that’s required not delegation or micromanagement.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll get it?’

  ‘He’ll be a strong candidate, no doubt about that. If he’s been sounded out about it, I’d say he’s more than halfway there.’

  ‘I might be looking for a new DCI if it happens.’

  ‘Are you telling me that Karen will go with him?’

  ‘For the children’s sake, I suspect she will.’

  ‘I hope it works out for them both. Cheers, mate,’ he said. ‘Got to go. I have some calls to make.’

  Ending the conversation, Skinner turned to his computer and studied the list that Matthew Reid had sent him, six women and two men. Three of the eight names he recognised; the others were strangers to him. The first fell into the latter category. Mrs Wendy Alexander lived in a terrace on the Main Street; a note against her name suggested that she had difficulty with stairs. He took a breath, and dialled her number.

  His call was answered within five seconds. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mrs Alexander?’ he ventured. ‘My name is Bob Skinner.’

  ‘Sir Robert Skinner?’

  ‘Yes,’ he confirmed, ‘but I don’t go by it, not usually.’

  ‘I read your article in the Saltire Sunday edition this morning. Very interesting; it made me happy I’ve had the vaccine. The doctors are very good, you know. They arranged for me to be done at home by a district nurse. That was a blessing, I have arthritis and it’s very difficult for me to get out. Now, what can I do for you, Sir Robert?’

  ‘It’s more, what can I do for you?’ he replied. ‘I’ve been asked to join a group that’s looking after vulnerable folk like yourself, to see if we can help with anything.’

  ‘Really?’ Mrs Alexander exclaimed. ‘When he called on me, Mr Reid said someone would be in touch with me, but I never thought it would be you. You could get my papers for a start. Today was one of my good days, I managed to get down the stairs and along to the Co-op. Mostly though, the steps are too much for me and I’m stuck in the house.’

  ‘That will be no problem. What’s your favourite paper?’

  ‘The Saltire, of course, every day, and the Daily Star, then there’s the People’s Friend, and Hello magazine . . . for the photos, you understand. They’re once a week.’

  It occurred to Skinner that he had never knowingly met a Daily Star reader, but he kept that to himself. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I, or someone else from the resilience group, will bring those to you every day.’

  ‘Could you get me money from the cash machine, Sir Robert? I do mean you,’ she added, ‘and nobody else. Although we’ve never met I know that you were a policeman, so I can trust you.’

  ‘Sure, I can do that for you. Anything else we can help you with?’

  ‘You couldn’t do my Tesco shopping, could you? I’ve been getting by on the Co-op, but it doesn’t have all the things I like. Wine, for example; there’s more choice in Tesco.’

  He laughed. ‘I’m with you there, Mrs Alexander. I’ll visit you myself, this afternoon. I’ll go to the cash machine for you, assuming it hasn’t run out. You can give me a shopping list too, and I’ll get that done tomorrow morning. I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘Whenever you like,’ the veteran said. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  Half an hour later, he had worked his way through the list. Both of the men were Golf Club members. One was offended to find himself on a list of the potentially vulnerable and made that very clear. The other had laughed, and told Skinner that if he could arrange for the clubhouse bar to reopen, that would be help enough. ‘Otherwise, Bob, I’m okay, thanks.’

  The other five ladies had been more pragmatic. Only three had specific needs, but the others had been grateful, for the show of community concern, he sensed, as much as for the offer of help.

  Before heading out to keep his promise to Mrs Alexander, he called Matthew Reid. ‘Thanks for including me in the group, mate,’ he said, sincerely. ‘It occurs to me that I haven’t put enough into the village over the years. So it’s good to have the chance. By the way,’ he added, ‘given your age, should you not be on the vulnerable list yourself?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ the author said, cheerfully.

  Twelve

  ‘Let’s be clear, Inspector,’ Maria Mullen exclaimed. ‘You’re asking me to overrule Professor Sarah Grace and order an autopsy on what she’s certified
as a straightforward sudden death?’

  ‘No,’ Noele McClair countered. ‘I’m asking you to respect the wishes of the dead man’s daughter. Put yourself in her shoes. If your parents had died alone, each in exactly the same way, wouldn’t you be concerned about it?’

  ‘Suppose I was,’ the deputy procurator fiscal countered, ‘I’d still be obliged to consider the cost of what will almost certainly be a pointless exercise. If Professor Grace is satisfied that the old fella died of natural causes, you should be too.’

  ‘Professor Grace is happy to do the post-mortem herself if it makes the daughter happy. I’ve spoken to her.’

  ‘Without consulting me?’ Her tone was arch.

  ‘Sarah’s a friend,’ McClair said, combatively. ‘I’m the reason she attended in the first place. Plus, I had no obligation to consult you.’

  Mullen sighed. ‘Look, if I authorise this, shouldn’t I be ordering the exhumation of the mother as well?’

  ‘That would be a trick beyond even the Procurator Fiscal Service. Lynn Langham told me that her mother was cremated and her ashes scattered in the rough on the fourth hole of Gullane Number Three.’

  ‘Why, in God’s name?’ the prosecutor gasped.

  ‘It was her wish, apparently. It was because she spent half her life there looking for her ball.’

  ‘What about the father? What are they going to do with him?’

  ‘Bunker on the eighteenth fairway, for the same reason. They’ll ask a greenkeeper to rake him in with the sand.’