AFTERSHOCK
QUINTIN JARDINE
headline
www.headline.co.uk
Copyright © 2008 Portador Ltd
The right of Quintin Jardine to be identified as the Author
of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication
may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means,
with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of
reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued
by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2008
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any
resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
eISBN : 978 0 7553 5103 9
This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette Livre UK Company
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.headline.co.uk
www.hachettelivre.co.uk
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Fifty
Fifty-one
Fifty-two
Fifty-three
Fifty-four
Fifty-five
Fifty-six
Fifty-seven
Fifty-eight
Fifty-nine
Sixty
Sixty-one
Sixty-two
Sixty-three
Sixty-four
Sixty-five
Sixty-six
Sixty-seven
Sixty-eight
Sixty-nine
Seventy
Seventy-one
Seventy-two
Seventy-three
Seventy-four
Seventy-five
Seventy-six
Seventy-seven
Seventy-eight
Seventy-nine
Eighty
Eighty-one
Eighty-two
Eighty-three
Eighty-four
Eighty-five
Eighty-six
Eighty-seven
Eighty-eight
Eighty-nine
Ninety
Ninety-one
Ninety-two
Ninety-three
Ninety-four
Ninety-five
Ninety-six
Ninety-seven
Ninety-eight
Ninety-nine
One Hundred
One Hundred and One
One Hundred and Two
One Hundred and Three
One Hundred and Four
This book is for Allan Campbell Reid Jardine, my main man,
my son. Although this dedication will embarrass the hell out of him,
the world needs to know just how proud of him I am.
One
‘How’s she doing?’ asked Neil McIlhenney.
‘Maggie?’ Mario McGuire’s heavy black eyebrows rose. ‘For a woman who’s just had her womb and ovaries removed because of cancer, and who’s in the middle of follow-up chemotherapy, she’s doing bloody well. But why are you asking me? Why haven’t you been to see her yourself?’
‘I haven’t been given the okay.’
‘Come again?’
‘Her sister said she would phone me when she was ready for visitors.’
‘Her sister?’ Mario snorted. ‘Look, Bet’s only just come back into her life after fifteen years or so. She doesn’t know who’s who. You’re not bloody “visitors”; you’re family, as near as damn it. Phone her first, just to make sure she’ll be in, then get your arse down to Gordon Terrace and pay her a visit.’
‘Will do. How’s the baby?’
A big smile creased McGuire’s swarthy features. ‘Stephanie Margaret is blooming. She’s up to six and a half pounds, and she’s absolutely drop-dead gorgeous.’
‘Who does she take after?’
‘Her mother, mostly; it looks like she’s going to have the same red hair. But if you look closely, around her eyes, you can see her dad in her: you can see Stevie.’
Neil frowned. ‘Will that be good for Maggie? It’s only a couple of months since he was killed.’
‘Wee Steph can’t be anything but good for her. She’s what her life’s all about now; she’s her reason to beat this damn disease. And she will, too.’
‘What if she doesn’t?’
Detective Chief Superintendent Mario McGuire’s face had always been his weakness as an interrogator. Invariably, his feelings were written across it. At his friend’s question, it darkened. ‘That’s not an option,’ he growled.
‘That’s what I said about my Olive, when she was in treatment. The trouble is, mate, sometimes strength of will isn’t enough. I know that the surgeon was optimistic after the operation, but you can never take anything for granted. So I’m asking you. What if she doesn’t make it? How will you feel?’
‘What do you mean, how will I feel? How the fuck do you think I’ll feel?’
‘Like you’re feeling now: guilty. Only ten times worse.’
Mario’s mouth opened, but the words of denial died in his throat. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘Wouldn’t you, in the same circumstances? Suppose you had walked out on Olive and the kids . . . not that I’m saying you ever would have . . . and then she’d taken ill.’
McIlhenney nodded. ‘Sure, if that had happened I’d have torn myself apart . . . but I’d have done it anyway, for having been such an idiot. Chum, our circumstances, yours and mine, can’t ever be the same. Your marriage was over, yours and Maggie’s. Splitting up was the biggest favour you could have done each other. You let her enjoy the happiest time of her life with Stevie, and she let you and Paula get together as you should have done years before.’
‘Her happiness didn’t last long, though, did it?’
‘No, but what the hell has that to do with you? You didn’t set the booby-trap that Stevie walked into: you didn’t kill him. Dražen Boras did that, beyond a shadow of a doubt. If I’d been on duty at that time, it could just as easily have been me that went through the door and triggered the grenade. If you’d b
een nearest the scene, it would have been you. Suppose it had been, and Stevie was still alive, would Mags be going on a guilt trip right now? Would she hell!’
‘But that’s not what happened.’
‘Aw, for fu . . . Look, Mario, before you give yourself any more grief, go back and see Maggie, and ask her whether she harbours the slightest grudge against you for leaving her. Know what she’ll do? First she’ll laugh, and then she’ll thank you for it.’
‘Maybe.’
‘No “maybe” about it. Know what you really should do?’
McGuire shrugged again; a small, slightly sheepish grin crossed his face. ‘Seems like you’re in the fucking Mastermind chair, so you’d better tell me.’
‘You should go home to Paula, give her a very large hug and thank your luckiest star that it wasn’t you went through that door.’
‘That’s advice I don’t mind taking.’ He checked his watch. ‘Or, I should say, I won’t in about seven hours. But for now, is this just a social call, or do you have something to tell me? Is Edinburgh ablaze with crime?’
Detective Superintendent McIlhenney looked at the head of CID, then rolled his eyes. ‘In the second week of the July Trades Holiday? You have to be kidding. If you didn’t insist on the two of us meeting at ten o’clock every Monday morning, then I wouldn’t be here. I’d have gone fishing,’ he paused, ‘or maybe I’d have gone out and pulled off a couple of robberies, just to give my people something to do.’
‘Are you telling me that we’re victims of our own success?’
‘That’s a nice way of putting it. I don’t have a single serious unsolved crime on my books. I’ve got detectives sitting on their hands in every office in the city. I can’t even send them out to do crime-prevention lectures, because the schools are on holiday, and just about every other bugger along with them.’
‘How are the burglary stats? Holidays mean empty houses, ready to be broken into.’
‘That’s become a problem for the uniforms, rather than us. Nowadays empty houses mean burglar alarms going off in the middle of the night, but nine times out of ten . . . no, that’s not true, it’s more like nineteen out of twenty . . . it’s been caused by a spider walking across a sensor.’
‘Tell me about it,’ McGuire grunted. ‘Ours went off the other night because Paula left a window open in the living room; the wind got up in the middle of the night and blew a door shut. The alarm company called it in but, thank Christ, the control room recognised the name and address, and called me to check it out before they despatched a car.’
‘That would have looked good in the Evening News. But no,’ McIlhenney continued, ‘even burglary’s going out of fashion. And street muggings are down too: Brian Mackie’s extra patrols in high-risk areas seem to be doing the job there.’
‘Good for the new ACC. A few more like him and we’ll be hearing the word “redundancy” around this building.’
‘It won’t come to that.’ The superintendent chuckled. ‘Our deputy chief constable will be back from his sabbatical soon; Bob Skinner attracts trouble like a magnet attracts pins.’
‘True. He’s got another fortnight off, hasn’t he?’
‘That’s right, but he’s thinking about coming back next week.’
‘Is he at home?’
‘No. His kids are off to spend the summer with their mum in the US and he’s at his place in Spain for a couple of weeks.’
‘Alone?’
‘No, the Scottish Parliament’s in recess, so Aileen’s gone with him.’
‘Do you think this new relationship will last?’
‘Bob and the First Minister? Yeah, I reckon it will. She’s been great for him, just when he’s needed it. I was really worried about him for a while, after that armed incident up in St Andrews. I even thought we might have lost him; with that and his marriage break-up coming so close together, I was afraid he might have walked away from the job. Thank God for Aileen de Marco, I tell you; she helped him through it, and got him refocused. Now, six months on, he’s as contented as I’ve ever seen him.’
McGuire made a small sound of agreement. ‘Identifying Boras as the man who killed Stevie,’ he said, ‘that helped him too, I reckon. You should have seen him interrogate the key witness. He even scared me shitless, and I was on his side of the table.’
‘He’d get a bigger lift if we actually caught the bastard. Have you had any more feedback on that?’
‘I make a point of asking every week. I wish to Christ it was our inquiry, not the Northumbrian force’s . . . and I think they’re beginning to feel that way too. I’m becoming a nuisance to them . . . not that I’m apologising for it . . . but the story I’m getting hasn’t hanged. “We believe that Dražen Boras is in the USA and we’ve asked the FBI to assist in tracking him down.” Big help that is! I bloody well know he’s in the USA: it was the DCC and me who told them so. We also told them they’d need political pressure to stir the FBI into action, and that’s where they’re failing. Maybe we’ll get some movement when the big man gets back from Spain. He knows the buttons to push.’
‘Sure,’ said McIlhenney, grimly, ‘but nothing’s going to happen in a hurry . . . if it ever does. Boras will be well under cover by now; he’ll have a new identity, maybe even a surgically altered appearance. He’ll never come within our reach again.’
He started, as the mobile phone in his pocket began to vibrate. He took it out and flipped it open. ‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Sir, it’s Jack McGurk,’ a voice replied. ‘I’m in Corstorphine, up the hill, in a wooded area just above Murrayfield golf course.’
‘Crime scene?’
‘Maybe, sir; a suspicious death for now. I’m looking at the body of a young woman, fully clothed, lying on her back. Her eyes are closed and there’s no sign of a struggle.’
McIlhenney felt a prickling in the short hair on the back of his neck. ‘Jack,’ he ordered, ‘take a photo with your mobile and send it to me, on this number.’
‘Is that secure, sir?’
‘It’s as secure as we need for now. Do it.’ He closed the phone and held it in his hand.
‘What’s that?’ McGuire asked, his curiosity underlined by his expression.
‘Maybe nothing. Wait.’
After a few seconds the mobile vibrated once again. The superintendent opened it, and accessed the incoming picture message. He stared at the image, then whistled softly, and handed the open phone to McGuire.
The head of CID’s eyes widened. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered.
‘Yes,’ said McIlhenney. ‘Does that look familiar or what? We’d better get out there.’
Two
Andy Martin had a secret: well, maybe no longer a secret, as he had shared it with Karen, his wife, and with Bob Skinner, his closest friend, but it was definitely something that, with those two exceptions, he kept strictly to himself. The subject had not come up during the interview that had taken him to chief officer rank in the Tayside force. If it had, he doubted that he would be wearing the extra braid on his uniform.
The young Martin had been raised in a Christian family. He had been baptised and confirmed in the Roman Catholic Church; its values had been instilled in him throughout his childhood, and carried with him into his adult life. Yet he was in no way a prude. He had played rugby at near international level, and had been as ruthless as the game required. As a single man he had gathered a reputation as something of a swinger, with a succession of partners leading up to an ill-fated engagement to Alexis Skinner, Bob’s daughter. For a while, he had endured his friend’s wrath, but eventually they had been reconciled, and the bond between them renewed. In fact it was stronger than ever, and had survived the acrimonious break-up of that relationship.
Its ending had been due entirely to the influences that had moulded Martin’s character. He had loved Alex, but when she had terminated a pregnancy without consulting him, he had found it unforgivable. His Christianity was founded on the principles of the Ten Commandments, and althoug
h he and Alex had laughed about coveted asses, when it came to ‘Thou shalt not kill’, he could find no room for compromise.
They had split and he had drifted into a couple of dangerous liaisons, before finding security with Karen Neville, a serving officer herself at that time. They were happy together, with Danielle, their toddler, and with another on the way, and if a small part deep within him still yearned occasionally for Alex, he managed to keep it suppressed. He felt a warm contentment as he glanced at his wife, sitting beside him at the coffee-table in their conservatory, enjoying a rare Monday together after Andy had spent the weekend supervising the policing of an outdoor music festival.
His secret? No, not that: the world knew he had carried a torch for Alex for a while. No, the elephant hiding in Andy Martin’s briefcase, the truth that might have constrained his career if he had brought it out into the open, had to do with drugs.
For much of his police service in Edinburgh, he had been involved in the suppression of the illegal trade, and in the pursuit and prosecution of users and dealers alike. In his time he had met a few cops who had been known to smoke a wee bit of grass, and he had let it be known quietly that if they ever indulged around him, he would do them, just like any other punter. On his arrival in Dundee, to take over the deputy chief’s post, he had made it just as clear that, however liberal public attitudes had become, any of his serving officers caught with cannabis, or any other proscribed drug, would be sacked.
And yet although he enforced the law on illegal narcotics as stringently as any officer in Scotland, privately Andy Martin did not agree with it. He had searched the teachings of his faith for grounds to justify the control or prohibition of what people might choose to take into their bodies, and had found none. There was nothing in the Ten Commandments that said, even by implication, ‘Thou shalt not take drugs’. And in his view, if there was no moral basis for a law, then that law was flawed.
While he recognised the terrible effects that hard drugs could have on users and their families, he knew that control by prohibition was proving to be globally unsuccessful. His core belief was ‘prescription not proscription’. He felt, instinctively, that legalisation and licensing was the only long-term way to rid the streets of dealers and the world of their brutal suppliers. The US had proved in the Twenties and Thirties that legal prohibition of alcohol, another narcotic, was untenable, and governments around the world continued to draw much of their revenue from the taxation of tobacco. Therefore, as he saw it, if the same was recognised to be true of the narcotics trade, and it was legalised, regulated and taxed, with the resources currently devoted to the pursuit, prosecution and imprisonment of those involved in it being diverted to health education, society could only be improved.
18 - Aftershock Page 1