Deadlock

by Quintin Jardine

  Karen felt herself shiver in the candlelight. ‘In cold blood?’

  He shrugged. ‘None of us ever had moral issues, if that’s what you’re asking. The people we were taking off the pitch were responsible for the death and maiming of hundreds, thousands, through roadside devices that blew up military vehicles, and suicide bombers in crowded areas that killed and mutilated troops and civilians alike, indiscriminately. Our targets were the leaders, people who carried Kalashnikovs for show but never got close enough to the action to use them. They thought they were safe; we showed them they were wrong.’

  ‘How many Taliban did you kill?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘In the eighteen months I served there, we carried out three missions a month, on average. My unit took three casualties in that time, two of them fatal, but the enemy didn’t fare so well. We left nobody alive.’

  ‘Does that include children?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Please, Karen,’ he exclaimed. ‘We didn’t kill these people in their homes. We were given specific targets, in combat zones, more often than not in places where drones couldn’t be used. Our intelligence was good enough for us to minimise collateral damage. I’m not saying there were no accidents, but we did our best.’

  ‘Still, you might have shot women and kids.’

  He shook his head. ‘I never did, nor to my knowledge did anyone else on one of my ops. We were very well trained, we knew our targets in advance; it wasn’t a case of killing anything that moved. Morally we were on the high ground,’ he said firmly. ‘Jesus, these people used women and kids as suicide bombers! We saved a lot of lives by killing a few fanatics. I will never apologise for it, and I will never feel guilty. I might have the odd bad dream, but only about the men I lost, not those I killed.’

  ‘So you didn’t suffer from PTSD, after it was over?’

  ‘Not even close. Selection for special forces involves psychological fitness as well as physical. The criteria are way beyond those of the police service.’ He refilled her glass.

  ‘Andy had PTSD,’ she said, taking him by surprise. ‘Just before he and I got serious. A man with a gun and a grudge held him prisoner. The guy was going to shoot him, beyond a shadow of a doubt, but Andy overpowered him, and killed him. I won’t say how, but he was a wreck after it. He never woke up screaming, but there were periods when he didn’t sleep for days on end. Eventually I made him undergo counselling . . . he’d turned it down before . . . but it took a while. There was another incident too, way in the past. It was an anti-terrorist operation that he and Bob Skinner were involved in. He’s never talked about that to me in any detail, nor has Bob, but I just know that something traumatic happened.’ She frowned. ‘He’s been very good to me over the years, has Bob Skinner, and to the kids, but I’m under no illusions about him. He used to be a very dangerous man.’

  ‘He still is,’ Houseman murmured. ‘I’ve seen him in action, in an armed situation.’

  ‘But he would worry about it,’ she continued. ‘He would have bad dreams, or so he told Andy. He had a brother, you know. When Andy was deputy up in Tayside and we lived in Perth, he was found dead there. Bob came to our house, and he cried like a baby. Yes, he’s hard as nails, but he has that in him too. Judging by what you’ve said to me about Afghanistan, you don’t.’

  ‘So?’ he asked.

  ‘So . . .’ she paused ‘. . . while we may quite happily fuck each other’s brains out until we get bored with it, from my perspective it won’t go any further than that. I’m not going to fall in love with you, and I’ll never let you get too close to my children. Understood?’

  Houseman nodded. ‘Understood.’ He emptied his glass and smiled. ‘Meantime, I’m a long way from bored.’

  Nineteen

  ‘The thing I like most about my garden,’ Matthew Reid declared, ‘is the complete absence of grass. It wasn’t quite like this when I moved in; there were more trees and more planted areas. I’ve spent the last thirty years making it as low maintenance as possible.’ Every part of the discreetly sited property that was not paved was filled with gravel beds in which various shrubs and trees were planted. Bright February midday sun shone as the author and his visitor sat at a glass-topped table, each clutching a tall glass coffee mug.

  Bob Skinner grinned. ‘That explains why you’re the only bugger who never talks about tomatoes, leeks and runner beans on a Friday evening in our Zoom virtual pub.’

  ‘I don’t hear you contributing much to that area of discussion,’ his host countered. ‘Stop that, Sunny,’ he said to the young red-coated Labrador which lay at his feet, making a determined effort to unfasten his shoe laces. The dog ignored him.

  ‘I don’t grow a hell of a lot,’ Skinner conceded. ‘Going to the farm shop’s easier. But I do cut the grass . . . or did until I decided I could trust my youngest son to use the ride-on mower. Mark, my middle boy, he surprised me last year by planting herbs beneath the kitchen window. He linked it in some way to a computer program that he’d written. He says it’s just the start, and that by the end of the summer the entire garden will be computerised, with humidity sensors, automatic watering, et cetera.’

  ‘Who’s going to do the weeding?’ Reid asked.

  Skinner laughed out loud. ‘Mark’s working on a robot for that very purpose. He’s been in touch with a scientist in Heriot Watt University who’s been involved in designing explorers for a possible European Mars mission, asking her for advice on construction.’

  ‘How did that go down?’

  ‘She’s offered to swap; her design for his program. I told him to agree to nothing until the commercial possibilities have been explored. She’s happy with that; now they’re talking about setting up a company to develop the idea. Once that’s done I’ll fund the construction of a prototype.’

  ‘Will we see you on Dragons’ Den?’

  ‘As far as they’re concerned I am the fucking dragon.’

  Reid nodded in the general direction of his garden. ‘Good luck with it. When they develop a remote that power-washes concrete slabs, let me know. I’ll be their first customer.’ His mood changed, he became sombre. ‘When do you think the handcuffs will be taken off us, Bob? When will this lockdown be eased?’

  ‘Don’t broadcast this,’ Skinner warned, ‘for I haven’t shared it with June at the Saltire, but it will probably get worse before it gets better. I’ve taken on a new job that involves me flying to Spain every so often. I spoke to the First Minister yesterday on another matter and happened to mention it. Clive warned me it’s possible that people flying into Scotland from anywhere outside the British Isles will be banged up in hotels for ten days, at their own expense.’

  ‘In theory that would affect me,’ Reid said, ‘but since I can’t fly to my other place anyway, it’s irrelevant. We may as well buckle down and do what we can here. So thank you again for joining the resilience group.’

  ‘Not at all. I owe this village; it’s sheltered me for most of my adult life and I haven’t given enough in return. Plus I’m getting to meet some real characters . . . Mrs Alexander for one. It’s a pity about some of the men on the list, though; crusty old bastards.’

  ‘You’re right about that,’ the writer agreed. ‘They don’t want to admit weakness, none of them, that’s what it is. All we can do is keep an eye on them even if it has to be from a distance.’

  ‘We missed old Michael Stevens, that’s for sure,’ Skinner observed. ‘He’s one that fell through the cracks, even though he was a foxy old bastard.’

  ‘Was his death preventable?’ Reid asked.

  ‘I doubt it, not the way he was living. Again, this is not virtual pub talk, but effectively he died of an overdose of his blood thinner. Sarah did an autopsy at the request of the daughter. She thought he was still okay to be living on his own, with a care package, but he wasn’t, not with open access to his medication. It should have been s
ecured, but it wasn’t.’

  ‘How old was he?’

  ‘Eighty-six.’

  ‘Christ, man, that’s no age, no age at all. Not a patch on the next person I have for you to reach out to.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  Reid disclosed the name.

  ‘Wow!’ Skinner said, grinning. ‘I can see why you’re passing that one down the line, but I’m not sure I’m brave enough.’

  Twenty

  ‘First Minister,’ Martin began as the sound caught up with the tele-conference image, ‘thanks for agreeing to talk to me.’

  ‘Not at all, Sir Andrew,’ Clive Graham said. ‘When Bob Skinner told me about your plans, I was intrigued and pleased too that they included my party.’ He paused. ‘I have to be honest and say that from my observations of you over recent years, I have never thought of you as politically ambitious.’

  ‘I wasn’t. As I hope Bob explained to you, I’ve come to recognise that I’ve done all I can as a police officer but I don’t want to sit on my hands for the rest of my life. I want to contribute my experience to the public service.’

  ‘Have you had any experience of politics?’

  ‘By the very nature of my job, no, I haven’t,’ he admitted. ‘But I don’t see that as a bad thing. I’ve always been suspicious of those people who take their honours degrees in politics and economics straight into a party research department, become special advisers then smooth their way into safe seats. Westminster’s riddled with them. I have a quaint belief that those who seek to govern working people should have real experience of working themselves.’

  ‘Do you know what my background is?’

  ‘Yes. You were a general practitioner who allowed his name to be put on a Scottish National Party regional list for the second Holyrood election with no expectation of success. As it happened, you were wrong and you’ve been there ever since. You’ve been in the cabinet for fifteen years, half of them as Health Secretary, the rest in the top job. In your administration, every member has hands-on workplace experience, but unlike you, none of them are responsible for departments that include oversight of their own profession.’

  The First Minister smiled. ‘You have been doing your homework, Sir Andrew. Can you guess why that is?’

  ‘I think so. Most of your cabinet are aged under forty, with at least half a career ahead of them. Let’s say you appointed a teacher or lecturer as Education Secretary, and that person lost his or her seat at the next election. They’d find it very awkward to go back to the classroom, or the lecture theatre.’

  ‘Got it in one. Whereas that wouldn’t be a problem with you . . . although I am getting way ahead of myself there. My first question is whether you’re a Party member or not. I did try to find you on our database but I couldn’t.’

  ‘I’ve never been a member of any political party, First Minister, but I voted Labour in my early years, when they were the dominant force in Scottish politics, until they were replaced as the left-of-centre flag-bearer by the SNP.’

  ‘What’s your position on independence? It’s Clive, by the way.’

  ‘Likewise, it’s Andy. I believe in it. I fear for England in the coming decades. It’s becoming more divided than ever; the north and the south are growing further and further apart and I can’t see that getting better any time soon, or in the longer term. We need to cut ourselves completely adrift.’

  ‘What about the EU? Would you support re-joining as an independent nation?’

  ‘I’d like to consider all the options. For example, could we form a trading bloc with the Norwegians? The governance of the EU worries me; it has an unfortunate habit of appointing second-raters and nonentities to its top posts. There’s still an outside chance it might disappear up its own arse. It’s making a bollocks of its vaccination programme at the moment, probably creating thousands of new Brexit supporters every day.’

  ‘Between us,’ Graham admitted, ‘I share some of your worries, but Scotland voted Remain; that has to be respected.’

  Martin smiled. ‘Scotland voted No as well, but you’re hoping to re-run that one. Won’t it be difficult not to put EU membership to the people?’

  ‘Let’s get independence done first, Andy,’ Graham chuckled. ‘For that I’m going to need the strongest team available, and your approach is welcome.’ He paused, frowning. ‘Before we go any further, though, let me be blunt. Is there anything you need to tell me now that might embarrass the Party if it came out at a later date?’

  ‘Does any video exist of me singing “The Sash” at a stag do? No, I’m a Catholic; we don’t have good tunes. Seriously though, I had a couple of episodes in my police career that are classified as secret, but I see no chance of either of them surfacing.’

  ‘If they did?’

  ‘I would deal with them.’

  ‘And your personal life?’

  ‘Divorced, two kids. Two failed relationships with the same woman; if you don’t know who she is I’m not going to tell you. No current involvement and no, I don’t use dating sites. There’s nothing in my back story to worry either of us.’

  ‘In that case, let’s go for it,’ the First Minister declared. ‘The first thing you need to do is join the Party. There’s no legal requirement for this, believe it or not, but you’re high profile so we should be prepared for journos sniffing around. As for the election itself, we have candidates in place for every one of the hundred and twenty-nine seats, but we still have to finalise the lists from which the top-up MSPs are selected under our quaint system. Bob said you live in Motherwell, yes?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘In that case, Andy, you’ll be the second name on the West of Scotland list; that will mean you’ll most certainly get a seat.’

  ‘As a matter of interest,’ Martin ventured, ‘whose is the first name?’

  ‘Mine.’

  Twenty-One

  Bob Skinner frowned as an incoming-call alert sounded in his ear-pods. As he walked he had been engrossed in the latest Michael Jecks audio novel, a departure from the author’s norm in that its time frame was twentieth century rather than medieval. With a silent growl, he tapped his right ear twice and accepted the intrusion.

  ‘Pops!’ his daughter exclaimed. ‘You’re never going to guess what I just heard as the top story on the Radio Scotland news.’

  ‘I’ll take a stab,’ he replied. ‘Andy Martin’s running for the Scottish Parliament under the SNP banner.’

  ‘You knew? And you never told me?’

  He laughed. ‘I didn’t know it had gone that far. All I did was make an introduction. Andy took it from there. I’m surprised the story’s broken so quickly but Monday’s a slow news day. The Nats’ press office probably decided to take advantage of that.’

  ‘What’s brought this about?’ Alex asked.

  ‘He says he’s after a new challenge in life. London came calling, but he decided against it.’

  ‘And you introduced him to Clive Graham?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I can’t work out whether you were doing him a favour or getting even,’ she said.

  ‘Forget the latter. Andy’s made his peace with me. I don’t believe he’s as much as glancing in your direction anymore. I could help him, so I did.’

  ‘Where is he glancing? Do you have any idea?’

  ‘Nowhere new, I reckon. I believe he’d like to get his family back together, but I have no idea whether that’s possible.’

  ‘Is Karen still single? That would surprise me; she’s an attractive woman.’

  ‘As far as I’m aware,’ her father replied. ‘Your Uncle Lowell would know better than me. She works for him.’

  ‘Do you think Andy will get a seat in Holyrood?’

  ‘I’d be surprised if he doesn’t. Clive wouldn’t have taken him on as a candidate just to humiliate him. The
way the electoral system works the leaders can make sure their top people all get seats. If they don’t win a constituency, they get in through the second ballot and the top-up system.’

  ‘And if he does, will he be a minister?’

  ‘For sure,’ he declared. ‘Just be grateful he doesn’t have a law degree. That means he can’t become Lord Advocate and be your boss.’

  ‘That had never even occurred to me,’ Alex said. ‘Justice Secretary would be bad enough.’

  ‘That would break one of Clive Graham’s rules.’ He paused. ‘Mind you, as Andy will never re-join the police service, it might not apply. Got to go now, kid. I’ve reached my destination.’ He ended the call and put on his mask, a black three-filter version emblazoned with the newspaper’s crest that was supplied to all Saltire staff and management.

  In fact, Skinner had not gone far from his own front door. He had walked to the top of Gullane Hill, then followed a path that led him into a cul-de-sac in which his destination was located. Mrs Anne Eaglesham was something of a legend in the village, and in the Ladies’ Golf Club in particular. He had known her since his earliest days as a Men’s Club member, and they had always been on good terms. She had been captain almost half a century before. Her name appeared seven times on the Champions board, in gold lettering, and she had won the trophy eight times in the years before those recorded. In her youth, and even into her middle age, she had played at national level. Mrs Eaglesham had been Scottish Ladies champion three times, the first as Miss Anne Worthington, and had played against the USA in the Curtis Cup, on the winning side on both occasions. She had been a widow for almost forty years; Mr Eaglesham had been very much older, and a non-golfer, thus there were very few people left in Gullane who could remember anything about him, least of all the source of his considerable wealth. They had one daughter, dead herself by the Millennium, and there were known to be two grandchildren, both American citizens, of whom she spoke rarely.