18 - Aftershock

by Quintin Jardine

‘That’s right. I’ve been there.’

  ‘About Dowley,’ said Broughton. ‘Any chance you could persuade the chief not to take it any further? To be honest, it would suit me if he stayed in post. As you know, the deputy Crown Agent is staring retirement in the face. If Joe went I’d come under renewed pressure from colleagues to apply for the job, and I’d really rather not. I don’t mind stepping into the deputy’s shoes, but with Phil on the Supreme Court bench, the top job would be too high profile for me.’

  ‘On the other hand, a big chunk of the police service would like a change,’ Martin pointed out. ‘Dowley isn’t popular. The promotion’s gone to his head.’

  ‘I can control him, Andy, especially if I become his deputy. This embarrassment is bound to bring him down a peg or two. Let me work on him, and I’ll make him manageable. I’ve seen a couple of Crown Agents come and go in my time.’

  ‘If that’s how you feel. We owe you a couple, Gregor. I’ll try to talk Jimmy and Bob out of going for his throat.’

  ‘Bob?’

  ‘Of course. Dowley crossed one of his guys; demanded that he be disciplined. You do that at your peril.’

  Broughton laughed. ‘I’ll remember that. Be seeing you.’ He headed for the door, then stopped, admiring one of the works of art that decorated the walls of the absent deputy chief constable’s office. ‘Nice picture. The Crown Office has works on loan from the Scottish Arts Council. I wonder if that’s one of theirs.’

  ‘No. That’s one of Bob’s own. He has more pictures than he has wall space at home, so he brings one or two in here.’

  As the fiscal closed the door behind him, Martin stepped closer to the painting, studying it. He had been glancing at it for much of a day and a half, aware of it, without paying it too much attention. It was an oil on canvas, around two feet square in a blue wooden frame, a coastal scene. In the background the sun was rising out of the sea, giving its waters a reddish tinge. To the left of the picture were distant hills, to the right a rugged, castellated building, and in the foreground, on a beach, a small female figure kneeling as if in prayer.

  His eye moved to the signature: it was a single word, and it could have been either forename or family appellation. ‘Sebastian’.

  Sixty-one

  ‘You know, Jack, I’d forgotten that you could have nights like this, on the town, just hanging out. Theo’s idea of a fun evening usually involved the Odeon, then Ben and Jerry’s.’

  ‘I know what you mean. Mary and I got out the habit too. Mostly my fault, I think; most evenings I’d have a pint or two with Dan Pringle after work and fall asleep in the armchair after dinner. I don’t blame her for chucking me.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ she said. ‘It’s a two-way street. If she’d been that keen herself she’d have dug you in the ribs. The truth of it is, I settled for what I had with Theo. He’s a good-looking guy . . . I have to give him that . . . and he made me believe that what we had going was best for both of us, him with his place and me with mine. That’s how good a con-man he is. I see now it was never “mine”, always ours.’ Her face twisted with the bitter recollection. ‘What a swine he is!’ she hissed. ‘He took that neck charm off a dead girl and gave it to me.’ She looked up at him. ‘He really did that? You’re not making it up?’

  ‘Lisanne, I couldn’t make that up. That’s what he did, all right. We have his signed statement admitting it.’

  ‘And he’ll go to jail, for sure?’

  ‘One hundred per cent sure. How do you feel about that?’

  She stared at the array of bottles lined up behind the bar, or perhaps she stared at nothing at all. ‘Who’ll decide where he goes?’ she asked.

  ‘The system will. It’ll depend on how long he gets; if it’s more than four years he could go to Shotts, or maybe Kilmarnock, for the first part of his sentence.’

  ‘Could you fix it for it to be somewhere really nasty?’

  Jack caught her eye in the mirror behind the Rose and Crown bar. ‘It’s the jail, kid; wherever he goes it’s not going to be nice. And with him being a cop . . . Need I say more?’

  ‘Good. Let’s see if he likes it up the . . .’ She stopped herself in mid-sentence. ‘Sorry: I nearly said something awful there. We’d got through a meal and a couple of drinks without talking about him. Subject closed for the rest of the evening, I promise.’

  He put a finger on her chin and turned her face towards his. ‘Get it out your system if you need to.’

  ‘I have done.’ She smiled. ‘The thing that amazes me, Sergeant McGurk, is that here I am out with another plod. Does that show a lack of imagination, or what?’

  ‘I’d like to think it shows good taste.’

  ‘I’ll accept that analysis for now.’ She finished her drink. ‘Here, let me get them in.’

  ‘Okay,’ he agreed, ‘but not here. It’s beginning to fill up.’

  ‘Let’s go to Kay’s, in Jamaica Street. It’s nice, and a bit off pitch: I’ve been a couple of times with my work crowd.’

  ‘Take me there.’

  They left Rose Street behind and headed north, crossing Queen Street, then turning into India Street, off Heriot Row. Kay’s was half-way down, a few yards into Jamaica Street; as Lisanne had promised, it was busy, but not thronged. ‘Pint of heavy and a vodka tonic,’ she called to the barman, from the doorway. Some of the drinkers looked round, appraising the six-foot-eight-inch detective for a second or two before returning to their conversations.

  ‘Jack!’ The call came from the far end of the bar. He waved in response.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Lisanne asked, glancing along at the dark-haired woman, as she picked up their drinks and handed the beer to McGurk.

  ‘The deputy chief constable’s daughter,’ he told her, ‘Alex Skinner: with, if I am not mistaken, Detective Constable Griffin Montell.’

  ‘He’s brave, isn’t he?’

  ‘So they say. But I reckon he’s a handbag.’

  ‘What’s a handbag?’

  ‘My worldly wise female cousin tells me that it’s a bloke you’re not really serious about, there to keep the wolves at bay.’ He took a mouthful from his glass. ‘I’d better go and say hello.’

  ‘Want me to stay here, in case of awkward questions?’

  ‘Hell, no. Come on.’ The customers parted for them as he eased his way along the bar. ‘Alex. Griff. This your local?’

  ‘One of them,’ Alex replied. ‘It’s a bit of a lawyers’ pub.’

  ‘It’ll suit you, then. This is Lisanne.’ He slipped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her into the circle.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Montell. ‘Are you two an item?’ he asked, with a wicked grin.

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ she told him. ‘First date.’

  ‘What do you think of the sarge so far?’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’ He glanced up at McGurk. ‘You’ve had a busy week.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘but let’s not talk shop in front of the ladies.’

  ‘Come on, man, Alex is practically one of us. The guy you had in court this morning, are you doing him for the murder?’

  Alex leaned forward on her bar stool and jabbed him forcefully in the chest. ‘Montell,’ she said, ‘is there any part of “Shut the fuck up” that you don’t get? Lisanne doesn’t want to hear this, and I’ll get it soon enough from my old man.’

  ‘It doesn’t bother me,’ Lisanne told her. ‘I don’t think he did it. Theo’s a shit, but he isn’t a murderer.’

  ‘Inside knowledge?’

  ‘I was married to him. Jack and I met when he and his boss came to turn my flat inside out. Finally, the bastard did me a bit of good.’ She smiled up at McGurk, and slid her arm around his waist. ‘There you are, it’s all out in the open now, so you needn’t make both of us feel awkward any longer.’

  ‘Witness-protection programme?’ asked Alex, mischievously.

  ‘I couldn’t have put it better,�
�� the sergeant told her. ‘Hey,’ he added casually, ‘have you heard from your father lately?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. He and Aileen have been looking forward to a holiday together. I haven’t been calling him, and his silence tells me that it’s gone well. You can brace yourself, though, he’s due back tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘I’m not his exec any more, remember?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ she laughed, ‘but if Mr Weekes isn’t your man, and you haven’t made another arrest by Monday, I reckon you’ll be seeing him pretty soon afterwards . . . maybe even before. Damn it,’ she said, ‘you boys have got me at it now.’ She finished her drink. ‘Let’s go, Griff, our taxi should be outside by now. Office summer party,’ she explained. ‘Late-night do. Enjoy the rest of yours.’

  McGurk watched them all the way to the door, then turned back to Lisanne. ‘You’re cool,’ he told her. ‘Amazingly so, in fact.’

  ‘I didn’t embarrass you, did I?’

  ‘No way. The look on Montell’s face was worth the price of admission. The news would have got out anyway; he works with my boss’s other half.’

  He finished his beer, as she finished her vodka. ‘Want another?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Let’s get you home, then.’

  They hailed a taxi out in India Street, as it dropped a fare at one of the grey sandstone terraced houses that McGurk knew would command up to and beyond a million in Edinburgh’s twenty-first-century housing market. They sat in the back, silent most of the way to Gorgie, responding occasionally to the driver’s monologue. The cab was about to turn into Caledonian Crescent, when the detective ordered the driver to stop. ‘Let us out here,’ he said. ‘That’ll be fine.’ He paid the man through the divider window and joined Lisanne on the rough, uneven pavement.

  ‘Why did we stop here?’ she asked.

  ‘Call me paranoid. Tell me I’ve been in the police too long, but . . .’ His eyes tracked along the line of parked cars: with a combination of effective street lighting and high-summer gloaming, he could see them all clearly, all shining, all empty, save for one, facing the flow of traffic as it sat opposite the doorway that led to Lisanne’s apartment. ‘Look,’ he murmured.

  ‘Jesus,’ she whispered.

  ‘Wait here,’ McGurk told her, ‘behind this bin. Stay out of sight until I call you.’

  As if it might make him seem smaller, he hunched his shoulders as he walked towards the vehicle, casually at first then picking up his pace. The driver’s door was beside the pavement. Without a word, he pulled it open, reached inside and hauled the occupant from his seat, lifting him off his feet in the same movement and throwing him across the bonnet.

  Theo Weekes snarled as he launched himself at the giant detective, only to realise, when a huge fist hit him between the eyes, that he had taken on more than he could handle. His legs buckled, but McGurk caught him before he could fall, propping him against the side of the car.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he moaned.

  ‘Keeping a promise. You’re going to jail, you bastard.’

  ‘Aw, McGurk, no. Gie’s a break. I won’t do it again, I promise.’

  ‘Give me one good reason why I should.’

  Weekes stared up at him for what seemed like a minute. ‘I can’t,’ he sighed, at last.

  ‘Okay,’ the sergeant said. ‘One more chance: let me down and you’re in for the hammering of a lifetime . . . and then Saughton Prison. Go home, and stay there. There’ll be a police car driving past your place at least every hour from now on. If I hear you’re missing, I’ll go looking for you myself, and this will be the first place I’ll try. Now, fuck off.’

  He stood back, allowing the man to slide behind the steering-wheel. He watched him as he started the engine and drove off, as he took the next turn and disappeared, then waited for a few more seconds before calling out to Lisanne.

  ‘I had a feeling he’d try that,’ he told her, as she rejoined him.

  ‘Will he be back?’ she asked, as they crossed the roadway to her door.

  ‘Not unless he wants his shiny white teeth in a brown-paper bag. I think I put the fear of God into him this time. Still, if you’re not comfortable here, is there anywhere else you could go?’

  She turned to face him. ‘Thanks, Jack, but I’m not letting him drive me out of my home.’ She slid her fingers under the lapels of his jacket. ‘Mind you,’ she murmured, ‘I’d feel a lot safer if you came upstairs with me.’

  ‘For coffee?’

  Lisanne smiled. ‘Eventually,’ she replied, ‘if you absolutely insist.’

  Sixty-two

  The aircraft came in from the east, and Bob Skinner knew that he was home again. The day was fine, the skies were clear and the sun was high in the sky, lending an unaccustomed sparkle to the grey waters of the Firth of Forth. He leaned forward in seat 1B, drinking in the cityscape as the pilot banked to the left.

  Aileen pointed through the small window. He followed the direction of her finger to a broad building on the crest of a rise, not far from Arthur’s Seat, and below it, to the boat-shaped structure of the Scottish Parliament’s controversial home.

  ‘The centres of power,’ she said. ‘It hardly seems real. It looks like Toytown from up here.’

  ‘It is bloody Toytown,’ Bob murmured, ‘only the games are for real: half a million people laughing or crying, shopping or stealing, fighting or fucking. That’s life, honey. But you’re at the top of the pyramid.’ He leaned closer to her, his voice becoming a whisper. ‘Have I told you lately that it’s a privilege to be sleeping with you?’

  She laid her forehead against his and smiled. ‘No,’ she replied, ‘but you should. Not many people have, and I’m thirty-seven years old. I’ll bet you’ve had a woman for every year of your life.’

  He started to count on his fingers; at nine he clenched his fists. ‘Divide by five and you’d be close.’

  ‘Those are just the ones you remember.’

  ‘No, I’ve got a flawless memory when it comes to nooky. I was widowed for about fifteen years, and in that time I had three relationships.’

  ‘With anyone I’ve met?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. One was with a divorcée in Gullane; she moved south ten years ago. One was with a television presenter who hit the big-time and settled in London. One was with a very nice lady who decided to marry somebody else, and got it right too.’

  She laid a hand on his heart. ‘Were you wounded, my darling?’

  ‘I didn’t have any right to be. I never asked her.’

  ‘That wasn’t my question.’

  ‘Bloody politicians,’ he grumbled. ‘Too sharp for your own good. I suppose I was, at the time, but I got over it.’

  ‘That’s comforting to know.’

  He blew softly in her ear, making her shiver. ‘Worry not. I keep on telling you: no ghosts in our bed.’

  She leaned against him as the Boeing came in to land, squeezing his hand hard in the second before the wheels hit the Tarmac. ‘I don’t have a fear of flying,’ she had told him, in the VIP lounge before the outward journey. ‘I don’t like it, that’s all.’

  ‘In my book,’ he had told her, ‘anyone who says that he enjoys the experience is either a fool or a liar.’

  When he had booked the flights, Bob had not asked for special treatment, but the airline, spotting the First Minister’s name on the passenger list, had provided it nonetheless. They were fast-tracked off the plane and through immigration control; even so, by the time they reached the baggage hall their suitcase was waiting for them.

  ‘Are you just a wee bit embarrassed?’ Aileen asked, as they walked through the blue channel.

  ‘Not in the slightest. You’ll never get used to who you are, will you?’

  ‘That’s just it. I’m plain Aileen de Marco from Glasgow.’

  ‘That was then, honey: this is now. I’ll tell you one thing, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

 
; He glanced sideways, looking her up and down, taking in her sleeveless white shirt, short white skirt and sandals. ‘There isn’t another head of government on this blessed planet with legs like those.’

  As they strode through International Arrivals, two uniformed officers, each armed with a Heckler & Koch carbine, gave them looks of appraisal, then, recognising Skinner, took their hands from their shoulder-slung weapons and snapped off salutes. ‘Afternoon, sir,’ said one, a sergeant.

  The deputy chief constable paused. ‘Afternoon, Eck. Has Scotland changed since we’ve been away?’

  ‘It’s been unnaturally warm, sir. Must be something in this global warming, after all. I wish we could take off this body armour on days like this.’

  ‘Feel free,’ Skinner replied. ‘But before you do, write letters to your widows, just in case, and leave them with my office.’

  ‘It must be tough for them,’ said Aileen, as they walked on. ‘Could we do something to help?’

  ‘Gimme the budget and I’ll buy lighter protective gear.’ He laughed. ‘Listen to us. Our feet are barely on the ground and we’re back to work already.’

  As they turned into the airport concourse, Skinner expected to see Alex waiting for them. Instead, Neil McIlhenney stood there, casual in light cotton trousers and a pale yellow shirt. ‘Welcome back,’ he said. ‘Good to see you, First Minister.’

  ‘And you, Neil,’ she replied. ‘How’s the baby?’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘Where’s my kid?’ asked Skinner. ‘She was supposed to be doing the taxi run. Is she okay?’

  ‘She’s fine. You know it was her office piss-up last night?’

  ‘First I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘She probably didn’t like to tell you. They were spending the profits on a big do at the Dome. She mentioned it when I spoke to her the other day, and I offered to sub for her.’

  ‘Bleary-eyed job, was it?’

  ‘Four a.m., she reckoned.’

  ‘That firm makes too much money.’

  McIlhenney led the way outside: his car was parked next to the doorway, being frowned upon by a bearded traffic warden with an evil eye.