Deadlock

by Quintin Jardine

  Sixteen

  June Crampsey looked up in surprise at the person who stood in her office doorway. ‘Bob,’ she exclaimed. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here in person.’

  ‘To be honest, this morning I didn’t expect to be here.’ He grinned. ‘One of the things that puts me firmly on the side of law and order is my dislike of confinement: I could never hack it in jail. Even at home I’m restless, and come coffee time I’d had enough. I’ve been doing what I can about the village for the last couple of days but I still had to break free. Ours is an essential industry and I’m in charge of the British end of the company. I can’t do my job properly from home, June, any more than Huw Edwards could read the news from his garden shed. I’ve decided that I’m coming in for at least two days a week, and this is one of them.’

  ‘I have to confess I’m glad to see you,’ she said. ‘There’s been a strange atmosphere among the senior staff for the last few days, ever since we heard about Sheila passing away. We all knew her from the occasional visits she paid us when she was over for her Marks and Spencer fixes, and we know how important she was to Xavi. How’s he going to react to her death? Will he lose interest in the business? Since his dad, Joe, died . . . and Roca, the editorial director, retired, it’s been driven by him one hundred per cent. What if he’s had enough? Will he float the company? Will he sell off the non-Spanish elements? Could the Saltire have a new owner? Whatever, it’s good for you to be here, to damp down that sort of speculation.’

  ‘How can I damp it down,’ Skinner countered, ‘if I don’t know the answers to those questions myself? Any one of those things could happen, June. I’ll tell you one thing, if Xavi does decide to sell this up, I won’t be up for leading a management buy-out. That’ll be down to you young guys, like Hector Sureda, the CEO . . . a lad not to be underestimated, by the way.’

  ‘God,’ she gasped, ‘I hadn’t even thought of that.’ She shook her head. ‘If it came to it, we don’t have the expertise in-house to attempt that. But I’d hate to see the Saltire fall into the hands of a media tycoon, the likes of . . . you know who I’m talking about.’

  ‘Me neither,’ he admitted. ‘Maybe I do have the contacts who could interest potential investors, but . . .’ He paused, frowning. ‘Let’s not anticipate crises. When the time’s right, I’ll have a conversation with Xavi and find out what his thinking is. We’ve never discussed it, but my assumption has always been that he expects Paloma to succeed him in the fullness of time. She starts university this year; she’s going to LSE to study accountancy and finance. Further down the road he wants her to do an MBA at Edinburgh.’

  ‘How’s she handling the loss of her mother?’ Crampsey asked. ‘Did Xavi say, when he called you?’

  ‘No, but my guess is she’s holding him together. She’s a special kid.’

  ‘What about the funeral?’

  ‘It’s happened already. Spanish law requires that it happens very quickly, within a couple of days normally. There’s a burial ground on the Aislado estate, and Sheila’s there, beside his grandmother and Joe.’

  The editor’s severe face softened. ‘Aw, that’s nice.’ Then she frowned. ‘But is it healthy for Xavi? Won’t it be a permanent reminder of his loss?’

  ‘He’ll see it as a permanent reminder of their good life together. You know,’ he said, ‘I’ve never asked you, but have you read Xavi’s book, the autobiography he commissioned? He must have given you a copy.’

  ‘No, he didn’t; indeed, I’ve never heard of it. Xavi might be my half-brother, but he rarely acknowledges the fact. Paloma’s my niece, but we don’t know each other. Xavi really hates our mum, but I have no idea why. She never spoke about it.’

  ‘It’s all in the book,’ Skinner said. ‘I was going to let you see my copy, but on second thoughts, no. If Xavi’s never told you, it’s not my place.’ He straightened his back, pushing himself from the door jamb against which he had been leaning. ‘But enough. I came here to work, not blether, and you’ve got a paper to get out. What’s tomorrow’s lead? Do we know yet?’

  ‘Not for sure. The new Scottish Tory leader’s having a press conference this afternoon. We’ve been briefed that he’s going to call for the Health Minister’s resignation.’

  ‘Are we going to back that editorially?’

  ‘Certainly not! The view of the Saltire is that she’s done a decent job over the last year, under immense pressure.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Skinner said, with equal firmness. ‘Same as the guy at Westminster. When you consider the situation they’ve faced some might argue that they’re heroes.’

  ‘That’s not a view we’ll be sharing, unless you order it . . . and if you do, I’ll resign! I’m fairly sure that the majority of our readers wouldn’t go that far.’

  He grinned. ‘I’m as sure as you are about that. Either of them could have clay feet that we know nothing about. Who’s covering the Tory thing?’

  ‘Jack Darke.’

  ‘Will he ask them if the Scottish party want the Westminster Health Secretary to go as well?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Crampsey admitted, ‘but I can make sure that he does.’ She smiled. ‘Are you sure you weren’t a journalist in another life, Bob?’ she called after him as he left.

  He felt buoyant as he settled into his chair and switched on his computer. His conscience was slightly pricked by his decision to delegate home-schooling duties to Mark, but he had confidence in his teenage son, who knew as much, he reckoned, as most of his own teachers, and was competent to look after Jazz and Seonaid.

  He had two email inboxes, business and personal; each was open only to those on his contact lists, which were restricted. He had been able to manage both while sitting out the coronavirus, but his work folder replenished itself on a daily basis, most of the messages and documents in Spanish. The last message caught his eye. It was timed ninety minutes earlier, at midday, and was from Xavi Aislado. He opened it immediately.

  ‘Bob,’ he read, ‘when would it be convenient for us to have a Zoom meeting? One on one, nobody else in the room.’

  He keyed in a one-word reply, ‘Now,’ then turned to the rest of his business mail. The lunch break in Spain ran well into the afternoon, catering for the siesta that many people still took, therefore he was surprised when an invitation to join a meeting in progress appeared in his box. He clicked on it at once and Xavi’s solemn face filled his computer screen. His friend looked awful; there were circles of tiredness under his eyes, his face was pale, thinner than Skinner had ever seen it, and his chin was grey with a two-day stubble.

  ‘Hey,’ he murmured. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure yet, Bob,’ Aislado confessed, ‘truth be told. But this I do know. I spend an hour every morning sitting beside Sheila’s tomb, talking to her; sometimes longer than that. It’s all I really want to do.’

  ‘How’s Paloma taking it?’

  ‘Stoically,’ he replied. His accent had evolved, but under stress his Scottish origins seemed to be reasserting themselves. ‘She insists that she’ll still go into Girona every day, to her job as a gofer on the paper . . .’ A faint sad smile flickered on his face, without reaching his eyes. ‘Intern, that is. She’d kill me if she heard me call her that. I wish she could start LSE right away, but then I don’t for that would mean she’d be in London.’ He sighed, and for a moment, Skinner thought that he would cry, but he shuddered and with an effort seemed to pull himself together. ‘What I do know, Bob,’ he continued, ‘is that I’m not fit to run the business, nor will I be for a while. That’s not good, for it’s bound to lead to uncertainty for our employees, and we have hundreds of them. Because of that, I’m going to step back as executive chairman of the Intermedia group, indefinitely, until I feel fit to return. That means,’ he continued, ‘I need a replacement who’s up to the job, who thinks the same way as I do, and most important someone that I can trust. I ne
ed you, Bob. I want you to run Intermedia for me.’

  Skinner felt his eyes widen. ‘Xavi,’ he exclaimed, ‘I don’t have the background for this. I’m the wrong nationality for a start. It’s one thing having me oversee the UK elements of the business, but to expect me to exercise authority over what’s a largely European team, that’s a big step. I don’t know that I could do it.’

  ‘Bob,’ Xavi rumbled, ‘if aliens landed in Edinburgh this afternoon, you’d exercise authority over them. As for nationality, I had a British passport until last year, when I changed it because of fucking Brexit. Look, man, I don’t run the whole company hands-on. People report to me, you among them, and I take the strategic decisions. I don’t tell our editors what to report and I don’t tell our broadcast outlets how to present their programmes. This is my family’s business; we don’t have investors, we’re not geared up to our armpits, and I don’t have to kiss bankers’ arses. If I did, we wouldn’t be having this meeting, for I’m well aware that wouldn’t be your strong suit. I want you to help me here, I need you to help me. Will you?’

  ‘Have you asked the other board members?’

  ‘Hell no! I’m the boss. I don’t need to. But suppose I did, I’ve seen the way my senior people, board level people, react to you, and that makes me confident you’ll be able to step in, seamlessly.’

  ‘Would you want me full-time in Girona?’ Skinner asked. ‘I don’t think I could do that.’

  Aislado shook his massive head. ‘We live in the age of remote management. It’ll be your choice when to be in Spain. You could even commute, using the company jet. Come on, man, just say yes.’

  He sighed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you. It’ll be a twelve-month rolling contract. You’ll find it in your email inside half an hour.’

  ‘I don’t want a contract,’ Skinner protested, ‘rolling or stationary.’

  ‘Then don’t sign it,’ Aislado countered. ‘The terms will apply regardless. Go on, read it. Call me back if you need to.’ His hand moved, and a second later his image vanished.

  Skinner went back to his business email inbox and found an email from ‘Iceland@intermedia.com’, with an attached Word document. He opened it and saw that it was bi-lingual, written in Spanish and English. He went straight to his own language and read through it, slowly and carefully. It had been drafted by the company’s legal adviser, and appointed him as group executive chairman for a period of twelve months with effect from that day. All levels of management would report to him, directly or indirectly, and the only obligation on him was to keep Xavi updated on performance and profits every three months. Acquisition of new businesses within Intermedia’s area of operations, or disposal of corporate assets, would be debated at board level, but he would have the power of veto, subject to the owner’s endorsement. The last section covered remuneration. His eyes stood out as he read his proposed salary. It was in Euros, payable in Spain; the stated amount staggered him, and there was a performance bonus clause. The contract had been signed, by Aislado, and witnessed by the lawyer who had drawn it up.

  He reopened the secure Zoom app and sent a meeting invitation. Xavi accepted immediately; he was smiling as he appeared on screen.

  ‘Fucking hell, man!’ Skinner exclaimed. ‘I’ll do the job, but you can’t pay me that much.’

  ‘Why not?’ his friend asked. ‘It’s the rate for such a job in an international media company. It’s what I pay myself; the only difference is that as a shareholder . . . the only active shareholder now; Paloma’s holding is still in trust . . . I take my bonus in dividend. I’m sorry that it has to be paid in Spain, but the Madrid tax authorities are real bastards about anything that’s sent offshore. In fact they’re bastards in every respect. If you really don’t want to sign the contract, I’ll respect that, but I’d be happier if you did. I know that the lawyer would too.’

  He sighed. ‘The last thing the world needs is another unhappy lawyer. Okay, I’ll sign it, and bring it with me when I come over for the board meeting that I want him to call.’

  ‘When do you want it?’

  ‘This is Wednesday, so let’s say Friday, if the aircraft can be ready in time.’

  ‘I’ll make it so; it’ll be an early flight and the board meeting will be a working lunch. That way we’ll get you home on the same day. Does that suit you?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s fine.’

  ‘Thanks, Bob, neither of us will regret it.’

  Skinner stared at the screen as Xavi’s image faded. ‘What the hell have I taken on here?’ he murmured, frowning. For a few moments he considered calling back and withdrawing his acceptance of the post, until it dawned on him that he actually felt excited by the prospect. Instead, he called his wife using WhatsApp video and told her what had happened.

  ‘They’re paying you how much?’ she exclaimed. He smiled at her amazement.

  ‘I know, to us it’s ridiculous,’ he conceded, ‘but the big fella says it’s the rate for the job. We don’t need the money: we’re already well off by most people’s standards, wealthy by some. I’ll accept the salary and have the Intermedia accountant sort out the tax but then I’ll probably put most of the balance in trust for the kids.’

  ‘Including Alex?’

  ‘No, just the younger ones. Alex had an inheritance from her mother and grandfather, so she’s mortgage free, and Cameron McCullough told me that he’s provided for Ignacio in his will. They’re both covered in mine anyway.’

  ‘How do you feel about that?’

  ‘Why should it bother me? Nobody’s ever proved Cameron is or was bent, and I’m past caring about it.’

  ‘And yet you’re keeping your distance from him,’ Sarah pointed out.

  ‘‘That’s different,’ he said abruptly. ‘To hell with it, the important thing about my new job is that I do it properly and get the results that Xavi expects. The more I think about it, love, the more confident I become. In my police service I was the Chief Executive Officer of complex organisations with bigger payrolls than this one. They were in a different sector, I will grant you, but I’ve come to know the modern media industry in the time I’ve been with the company.’

  She smiled. ‘When you were chief constable, both in Edinburgh and in Strathclyde, even the dogs in the street knew that your big weakness was an inability to stand back from the action. How’s it going to be different in this job?’

  ‘In this job,’ he replied, ‘I don’t know as much as the guys on the ground, so I won’t presume to intervene. If I tried it here, June Crampsey would put me in my place in no time, and it will be just the same in Spain. Plus, there’s the language issue. My Spanish is good these days, but my Catalan is still hesitant, and that’s the working language in Girona.’

  He paused, as his computer screen showed an incoming FaceTime call. ‘What the hell?’ he murmured. ‘Sarah, Andy Martin’s trying to reach me. I’d better find out what he wants. Speak later.’

  He discontinued the conversation and clicked to accept the incoming call. Without preamble, as Martin appeared on screen he launched into him. ‘You were a bit fucking coy when we spoke,’ he barked. ‘Not as much as a whisper about the Met job. Did you think I wouldn’t find out about it?’

  ‘It never occurred to me to mention it,’ his friend replied, ‘seeing as I’d already asked for my name to be taken off the list. I was approached, Bob, that’s true, but I never said yes. I didn’t say no either, not until I heard that my name had been put to the Mayor of London by the Home Office. Once that filtered back to me I told the person who approached me and said I wasn’t interested. How did you hear about it?’

  ‘Not saying, but maybe you should drop the word to whoever does know about it within your loop.’

  ‘That would be only one person,’ Martin said. ‘Who the hell else has she told? When did you speak to her, Bob?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

&n
bsp; ‘Then let me guess; she’s told her boss, Payne, Alex’s uncle, and he’s been speaking to you.’

  ‘No comment.’ Skinner smiled, momentarily. ‘However, if you have taken yourself off the short list for London, you really should tell Karen.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m telling her anything at the moment. I’ve just discovered she’s got a bit on the side.’

  ‘Isn’t that her business, not yours? You’re divorced, remember.’

  ‘Yes, but I thought . . .’

  He gazed at the tired and solemn face on his screen. The man was in his mid-forties but looked older. During his police career he had neither had nor made room for much of a life outside work. For most of that time, Martin had been Skinner’s closest friend, as well as his protégé. The first crack had appeared when he had begun a relationship with his daughter, one that had been on-off and, ultimately, doomed. The initial breach had been repaired, but in truth, Skinner recognised, things had never been the same between them. Seeing Martin for the first time in almost three years, he felt an unexpected pang of pity and it shocked him.

  ‘Andy,’ he sighed, ‘she’s a single woman. She’s entitled to a sex life. How did you find out anyway?’

  ‘I saw him when I took the kids back to hers on Sunday. He was in the street by that time, but I saw him coming out of her drive as I turned the street corner. I’m sure of it, Bob; I’m not being paranoid here. I only had a quick look at him as I passed him in the car; he’s tall but not huge, thirty-something, mixed race, well-dressed, and well-groomed too. Make me guess, I’d say he’s ex-military, maybe even still serving. But the damnedest thing is, for all I only caught a glimpse of him, I feel that I’ve seen him somewhere before. I’m sure of it, and yet I can’t remember where or when. You know what my memory’s like. I have almost total fucking recall, and yet I can’t place this guy.’