18 - Aftershock

by Quintin Jardine

  A few seagulls greeted her as she walked along the grassy path, above the narrow beach. ‘Sorry to disturb you, birdies,’ she told them. ‘You’re probably not used to human company out here.’

  The coast was wild and desolate. There was not another soul in sight and yet, somehow, she did not feel in the slightest alone.

  Ninety-five

  In full uniform, Deputy Chief Constable Andy Martin sat in the well of the High Court in Dundee with a growing sense of horror as an usher in the corridor outside called out, for the third time, the name of the chief prosecution witness.

  The jury, eleven men and four women, had been empanelled the day before, and had heard opening speeches by counsel for the Crown and for the defence. They sat in two rows, some displaying signs of impatience, one or two showing signs of bewilderment. The judge, Lady Broughton, sat sternly above them, dressed in the wig and red robe, trimmed with white fur, that was the traditional uniform of the Scottish Supreme Court bench. The prisoner, Cameron ‘Grandpa’ McCullough, sat in the dock, stone-eyed and impassive, flanked by two huge constables as he watched the majesty of justice implode.

  Martin knew what was going to happen. He knew that when police officers had called at the Aberdeen home of Carmela Dickson, John McCreath’s widow, to collect her and her sister for their big day, they had found the house empty. The shouting in the corridor was a charade.

  Ten minutes after he had been sent to summon Mrs Dickson, the usher reappeared and whispered in the ear of Herman Butters, the Advocate Depute, who sat at a table, facing the judge, his wig pushed forward until it almost covered his eyes. He nodded and the official withdrew. Slowly, reluctantly, counsel rose to his feet. ‘My lady,’ he began, ‘I regret to inform you that the principal witness for the Crown has failed to appear.’

  ‘The whole of Dundee must know that by now,’ said Lady Broughton. ‘Are you telling me that, for the second time in as many weeks, you are unable to proceed?’

  ‘Regrettably, I am. The Crown offers no evidence against the prisoner.’ He resumed his seat.

  The judge glared at the dock. ‘Please stand,’ she snapped, not trying to hide her anger as the accused stood up. ‘Mr McCullough,’ she told him, ‘you lead a charmed life. Fate, or someone playing the part, seems to have intervened on your behalf. The case against you is deserted simpliciter. The jury is discharged. Ladies and gentlemen, I apologise for this inexcusable waste of your time.’ In the public gallery a few cheers broke out. She silenced them with a glare, then looked back towards the Crown table. ‘Mr Butters, there remains the matter of the charge on which the prisoner was remanded last week. Do you have a motion to present?’

  ‘Yes, my lady, I do. I regret to advise you that we are no longer able to proceed with that charge either. The indictment is withdrawn.’

  Lady Broughton’s eyes were like ice as they swept back to the dock. ‘In that case, Mr McCullough, you also are discharged and are free to leave. But before you do, let me make two things clear to you. I do not believe in luck when it comes to criminal matters, and I have a long memory. Good morning.’

  The room rose as she did. She turned to leave the bench; as she did she caught Martin’s eye, and gave an almost imperceptible nod. He read her intention: as the court emptied, he followed her through the side door into her chambers.

  By the time he entered, she had divested herself of her robe and wig, revealing long legs in a dark trouser suit, and was standing before a wall mirror rearranging her short auburn hair. ‘Lady Broughton,’ he began.

  There was no preamble. ‘I hope you’re as angry as I am,’ she said. ‘When I see a man like that walking out into the sunshine, I . . . Oh, dammit, Andy, you know what I mean.’

  ‘I know, Phil. Trust me on that. My chief constable would have been here to face the music himself, but he’s taken personal charge of the investigation into the disappearance of McCullough’s white powder from a secure store. God, is he on the warpath! He’s suspended half a dozen people, three officers and three civilians, pending the outcome.’

  ‘Any progress?’

  ‘One of our civilian clerks went on holiday on Friday: a Polish guy. He told colleagues that he was going on a package to Ibiza from Edinburgh. He didn’t. His bidey-in swears she doesn’t know where he is. Whether she’s lying or not, we don’t expect him back at work any time soon. Our opposite numbers in Krakow . . . that’s his home town . . . are looking for him over there.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll find him?’

  ‘I can’t say. By now he could be deep under a house, or an industrial unit: Grandpa’s a very thorough man, and there’s plenty of new building going on in the region.’

  ‘The man . . . your Polish clerk . . . must have had help, surely. That’s a lot of drugs to walk out of the door.’

  ‘Like I said, we’ve got half a dozen people under investigation, but it’s possible he did it alone. The packages were replaced by look-alikes, full of talc and flour; it could have been done over a period, probably was.’

  ‘How was it discovered?’

  ‘The stuff was reweighed: routine, to guard against people nicking small quantities of coke as party treats. There was a discrepancy, so we took a closer look.’

  ‘Too bad. Maybe if nobody had checked . . .’ the judge chuckled ironically ‘. . . but forget I said that. Anyway, the defence would have been bound to ask for another look. Do you think McCullough’s counsel knew those witnesses weren’t going to turn up?’

  Martin frowned. ‘Are you asking me if I think Sally Mathewson’s bent? For if she did, that’s what it would amount to. If she had knowledge of that, then as an officer of the court she’d have been obliged to declare it. Grandpa would know that; he wouldn’t have taken the risk.’

  ‘What about the witnesses? That really is bad, Andy.’

  ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘And I accept the blame on behalf of the police service, even if it was the Aberdeen force that lost them, and not my people. They were regarded as being at risk, and they should have been kept under observation all the time. Graham Morton’s pursuing that as well: he’s going to ask the Inspector of Constabulary to investigate.’

  ‘The chief up in Aberdeen won’t like that.’

  ‘Tough. He’ll have to go along with the request.’

  ‘Do you think they’re dead?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put anything past Grandpa. They could be under the same house as the Pole . . . or he could just have paid them all to go away for a while.’

  ‘Whatever he’s done, I hope you can nail him for it . . . not that I’ll have anything to do with future proceedings. I went too far with my closing remarks; they won’t let him appear before me again. I’d be a walking ground for appeal.’ She sighed. ‘What the hell? I’m out of it all for a while from the end of this week. The Court of Session’s on vacation and so are Gregor and I: we’re off for three weeks.’

  ‘Mario McGuire and Neil McIlhenney won’t like that: they’ve just made an arrest in the Weekes murder inquiry, and the Dean case is still open. They don’t have a lot of confidence in your husband’s deputy.’

  Lady Broughton smiled. ‘Nor in the Crown Agent, from what Gregor tells me. Well, they’re just going to have to get by. We will be on the golf course in Spain.’

  ‘Are you renting?’

  ‘No, we have a house, in a complex called Torremirona; it’s near Figueras.’

  ‘Enjoy yourselves, then. I know that part of the world.’ He laughed. ‘I’m sure the Glimmer Twins will be thinking of you.’

  Ninety-six

  ’Gregor,’ Skinner asked, ‘can you see any way that we can try Dražen Boras in Scotland rather than England?’

  ‘I wish I could, Bob,’ the procurator fiscal replied, ‘but I can’t think of a precedent for it. He committed both murders in England; that’s where he has to be tried. If anything, history undermines you. The Lockerbie bomb wasn’t planted in Scotland, but it exploded here and the victims died here, so this is where the
Libyans were tried.’

  The DCC paused to consider the point. ‘Could we argue,’ he continued, ‘that DI Steele was a Scottish police officer in hot pursuit, as part of an investigation into crimes committed in Scotland? Let the English try Boras for the Ballester murder, fair enough, but could we have him for Stevie?’

  ‘I could put that argument forward,’ Gregor Broughton conceded, ‘but it would be risky, even if I won. If he was prosecuted in the High Court, his counsel would probably argue absence of jurisdiction before the trial even got under way. If the judge overruled him that decision would be subject to scrutiny, and might be set aside. You have the probability, maybe the near certainty, of a conviction in Newcastle, or wherever they try him, and the real possibility of an acquittal in Scotland.’

  Skinner sighed into the phone. ‘Okay, they can have him.’

  ‘A wise decision, especially if you want to maintain friendly relations with your colleagues in Northumberland.’

  ‘That’s not an issue. I spoke to Les Cairns, my opposite number, last night. He’d have done the same thing in my shoes, and we both know it. The way things stand, he’ll take all the credit, having done bugger-all of the hard work. All he has to do is send a couple of officers down here to collect Boras, once the court formalises his extradition.’

  ‘And all you have to do is get on the plane . . . or are you and Mario taking another day or two down there?’

  ‘Hell, no! He has to get back to deal with a very shocked Shadow Defence Secretary. Me, I have to . . . I just have to get back, that’s all. Things to do.’

  ‘Mr Colledge, QC? Yes, I have the papers on my desk, ready for a remand hearing in an hour or so. I must say, if he thought he was representing his son’s interests during that interview, he made a real Horlicks of it, allowing the lad to confess on tape.’

  ‘From what I’ve been told, his confession was all over the clothing he dumped.’

  ‘Oh, yes, he’s had it, no doubt about that. Daddy’s already asked for a meeting with the Lord Advocate.’

  ‘Gavin’s not going to agree, is he?’

  ‘No, no. He’s referred him to me; I’m seeing him this afternoon. I know how it will go. He’ll ask me about a plea bargain, and I’ll tell him that I can only discuss that with his son’s legal team.’

  ‘He wants to see Mario and me too, to go over the evidence once again.’>

  ‘Are you going to do that?’

  ‘He is; I’m not. Like I said, I have other things on my plate.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Skinner sensed the fiscal’s hesitancy. ‘What’s up, chum?’ he asked.

  ‘I was just wondering whether those things might include the backwash from a call I had this morning, from a Scotsman journalist.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He asked me about you. He said that the redtops may be getting ready to run a story about you being implicated in two investigations, one being run by your own force and the other by the police in Spain. The suggestion is that you’ve been informally suspended.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘After I’d picked myself off the floor and got my laughter under control I told him to bugger off.’

  ‘Thanks, Gregor.’

  ‘Somebody’s making mischief for you, Bob.’

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ Skinner replied. ‘Someone close, too: I can sense it. There is nothing worse than being betrayed by a friend.’

  Ninety-seven

  ‘Do you think glass ceilings exist any more?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  Alex Skinner reached across the table for the bottle of St Émilion and topped up her goblet. ‘I’d have thought that was obvious. Here we are, two women having dinner together, not a man in sight. I’m still well short of thirty and I’m an associate in the biggest law firm in Scotland. Two days ago, I had a phone call from the chair . . . another she . . . of our most serious rival, asking if I’d like to join them as a partner. For your part, you’re still well short of forty: you’re our nation’s First Minister and we’re sitting in your official residence.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Aileen de Marco. ‘Yes, if a Martian bloke was teleported into this room he could be forgiven for thinking that we’re equal shareholders in humanity, and maybe even the dominant half of the species. But drop him into my home city, Glasgow, and he wouldn’t think that. He’d see the pubs, filled with so-called alpha males while Mum stayed at home with the weans. He’d see the hookers in the red-light district, selling sex to sad or voracious men, then giving much of their money to their pimps and the rest to their drug pushers, none of whom are likely to be female. He’d see foreign girls in sweatshop jobs, thinking they were lucky to have them. He’d see wee neds on the street corners, tooled up, learning to be just like their big brothers and even their dads, bad news one day for their womenfolk. He’d see refuges for battered wives. Would he see a single refuge for battered husbands?’ She peered over the top of her glass. ‘Would . . . he . . . fuck.’

  ‘Maybe Martians don’t have blokes,’ Alex mused. ‘Maybe they’re . . . androgynous . . . hermaphroditic.’

  ‘Then they can go and screw themselves.’

  ‘Stop right there!’

  Aileen giggled. ‘Yes, maybe that was taking it a bit too far. Mind you, why does Doctor Who always regenerate as another man? Why does he never turn into a woman?’

  ‘If he did she’d probably make a hell of a mess the first time she went to the toilet. As for his first period . . . Jesus, the mind boggles. Can you imagine David Tennant with PMT?’

  ‘No. Definitely not. As for the standing up or sitting down bit, though, I don’t think he does. I don’t go all the way back, but I’ll bet you, in forty years, or whatever it is, of travelling through space and time, the old Doc has never once taken a piss. Speaking of which, is that bottle empty?’

  Alex picked it up and shared its contents between them. ‘It is now.’

  ‘Will I open another?’

  ‘Better not. School day tomorrow, and all that.’

  ‘What did you say to her?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your rival firm’s boss. She who tried to lure you?’

  ‘I told her thanks but no thanks, that I’d stay with Curle Anthony and Jarvis for a bit longer.’

  ‘And how did she take that?’

  ‘She told me she wouldn’t ask again.’ Alex smiled, a little crookedly. ‘I told her there was something illogical in that. If they want me now, I said, then in a couple of years’ time, when I have more training and experience behind me, they should want me even more. So she left the offer open.’

  ‘Did you tell your boss?’

  ‘No. It would only cause bad feeling between the firms.’

  ‘Maybe you should,’ Aileen suggested. ‘He might offer you a partnership straight away.’

  ‘He has done already or, rather, he’s promised me one; when the time is right, he said.’

  ‘In that case, why don’t you tell him that the time’s right for your rival?’

  ‘He’d think I was blackmailing him. Anyway, I like doing what I’m doing at the moment. A promotion would change it.’

  ‘You sound just like your dad.’

  ‘That’s a compliment.’

  ‘It’s meant to be. He has your reluctance to move on, but there comes a time when you have to, or spend the rest of your life wondering. His has come now.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Alex. ‘Sir James retires next year, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Not any more. He goes next month.’

  ‘And will Pops . . . ?’

  ‘He’s promised me that he will.’

  ‘He’s made his mind up? How did you manage that?’

  ‘I suppose you could say there was a bit of mutual blackmail involved.’

  Alex peered into her glass. ‘I see. He’s doing that for you. So what are you doing for him?’

  ‘He’s supposed to tell you that.’

  ‘God
,’ she gasped, ‘you’re going to marry him.’

  Aileen nodded. ‘Is that okay with you?’

  ‘Are you asking me for his hand? Of course it is . . . as long as I don’t have to call you “Mother”. Sarah had a brief flirtation with that notion, after my brother was born.’

  ‘No, “First Minister” will be fine. Seriously, though, you don’t mind?’

  ‘I couldn’t be happier for both of you. You’re made for each other. Here, you’re not pregnant, are you?’

  ‘Jeez, no. Your dad has enough children as it is.’

  ‘Only three of his own. Mark’s adopted, remember.’ Alex paused. ‘Have you done due diligence on each other, told each other all your secrets?’

  ‘He knew most of mine before we started to get serious. But, yes, he’s told me all of his . . . including his dalliances, between his two marriages, and even during his second.’

  ‘Mark’s mum?’

  ‘Yes. He doesn’t think you know about that.’

  ‘Sarah told me, one time when she was mad at him. Did he tell you who the mystery woman was too?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There was somebody, when I was fourteen. I never found out her name. He hinted at her on Sunday, but he still kept it to himself.’

  ‘Yes, he told me about her too.’

  ‘Was she married? I wondered that, afterwards.’

  ‘No,’ Aileen replied, ‘but she married someone else, and that’s how it finished.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘Now that, I don’t think I can tell you. I’m a politician, Alex; I know the value of trust between two people, and I’ll never do anything to put that at risk.’

  ‘That’s good . . .’ said Alex ‘. . . because I’ll always trust you.’

  Aileen glanced at the clock on the sideboard. ‘Speaking of Himself,’ she said, ‘he should be home in triumph now from his trip to Monaco.’