Thursday Legends

by Quintin Jardine

  "Gourock. He spent the last thirty years of his life in a Jesuit

  hostel in Gourock, overlooking the Clyde." Bob felt the great sadness

  grip him again.

  "And how did he die?"

  "We don't know for sure yet. His body was found in Perth on Saturday;

  he had been in the river. The police there are treating his death as

  suspicious, for the moment, pending post-mortem findings. He managed

  to find some sort of peace in Gourock, he managed to find true friends,

  and he lived there in what passed with him for happiness, until someone

  from his past turned up and lured him away."

  "My, but that's awful. Do they know who this person was, the one he

  went away with?"

  "No they do not, Nicol; or, rather, we do not. But you can be damned

  sure we're going to find out." Skinner looked across at the veteran.

  "Those cronies you mentioned; can you put names to them?"

  "I'm sure I can. Let me see, there was Cammy Winters and Willie Day,

  our printing press men, and wee Benny Crainey, and Waggy Roughhead .. .

  they called him that because of the way his head bobbed when he walked.

  Then there was Jim Fletcher, the ex-policeman, and Pat Smith, the

  bookie's son."

  "Are they still about the town?"

  Mr. Falkirk scratched his chin. "Let's see. Cammy and Willie are

  dead; I know that. So is Fletcher. Benny and Waggy are still around,

  but they're old men now and no threat, I'd say to anyone. Pat Smith

  sold his betting shop as soon as his father died and went off to Canada

  with the girl who used to work behind the counter. He left his wife

  more or less penniless. If he ever comes back her brothers will do for

  him; a rough lot they were."

  "Does the name Skipper mean anything to you?"

  The old man frowned with the effort of recollection. "Skipper?

  Skipper? Yes, of course," he exclaimed. "There was Skipper

  Williamson. Do you not remember him? He was a foot baller played for

  Mother well, in the reserves mostly, unless they had a lot of

  injuries."

  Skinner sent his mind scanning through the line-ups of early

  nineteen-seventies football teams. "Centre-half?" he asked. "Good in

  the air, but not too great on the ground?"

  "That's him. I think his real name was Cecil; but everyone called him

  Skipper after they made him captain of the reserves. He liked a drink

  too, but not in the pubs. The foot ballers used to go to the

  Ex-Servicemen's Club. They thought it was more discreet. And come to

  think of it, that was another of your brother's hang-outs."

  "Is he still around?"

  "Very much so; but he's not in Mother well any more, other than at home

  games, in the hospitality box he keeps at Fir Park. He was a

  part-timer, and had a good job in the steel works so he was able to

  save up all his football money. Like a lot of players in those days,

  when he retired he bought a pub, the old Gaslight Bar in Windmillhill

  Street. He refitted it, changed the name to the Bluenose Lounge, and

  attracted all the Rangers fans in the town. Since there are far more

  of them than there are Mother well supporters, he made a fortune. So

  he bought another old pub, in Wishaw this time, and did the same again.

  Eventually, about fifteen years ago, he sold both places to one of the

  big brewers, and bought a hotel. He's done very well in that too, I

  hear."

  "Do you know where?"

  "Pitlochry."

  Skinner felt a tiny chill ripple down his spine. "He won't find many

  bluenoses up there," he murmured.

  "Oh, he isn't after that crowd any more. He's gone up-market. These

  days his clients are fishermen."

  Twenty-Nine.

  "As I see it, Maggie, we don't have anywhere else to go after this,"

  said Stevie Steele, keeping his voice low, even though he and the

  detective superintendent were alone in the small waiting room.

  "The girl was there when the picture was unpacked. She was there when

  the device was ignited, even though she hadn't been invited to the

  ceremony, as George Regan has just confirmed with the practice manager

  at Candela and Finch. Okay, we don't actually have her on camera

  pushing the button on the remote, but we've got solid grounds for

  bringing her in, regardless of what this guy's going to say to us."

  "Maybe so. No, certainly, you're right," she answered, 'but for

  safety's sake I still want to speak to him. The girl's still an

  outpatient in terms of the Mental Health Act. If this thing ever does

  wind up in court, I want to make sure there's no chance of our being

  accused of ignoring her rights as such. And there's something else

  too."

  "What's that?"

  "I'm not a one-hundred-per-cent book operator, Stevie. I have

  instincts and I pay heed to them until they prove unfounded. My

  instinct here is that this solution is too bloody easy. I cannot shake

  the feeling that there's a bigger picture .. . excuse the bad analogy..

  . and that we're not seeing it. Now tell me honestly; don't you feel

  that too?"

  The young inspector flicked a white flake of dandruff from the lapel of

  his blazer. "Show me an angle we haven't covered, ma'am," he

  challenged. "Did she have an opportunity to plant the device? Yes,

  she did. Once Cahal O'Reilly had verified its arrival in safe

  condition, he and his secretary had to hurry back to George Street from

  the RSA for an evening committee meeting. They left Andrea there. No

  one at the gallery can remember her leaving, or can say for sure that

  she didn't have access to the picture alone. That part of the building

  isn't covered by cameras either. As for the device, it wasn't large;

  she could have had it in her handbag. And to top it all, she asked if

  she could go to the arrival of the container from Bilbao."

  "I know all that; now answer the question."

  Steele gave her a sidelong, killer grin. "Yeah, okay. It's on a

  bloody plate and I'm like you. I get more satisfaction out of working

  for a living, which is what you're really saying. But consider this; I

  haven't even met this girl, yet I feel sorry for her. I don't want her

  to be the one who puts her away, maybe for good. Don't you think that

  could be true with you as well?"

  "Maybe," she conceded, as the door opened and a tall man in his late

  twenties, dressed in a white coat, bustled into the waiting room.

  "Sorry to keep you," he exclaimed extending a hand to Rose in greeting

  as the detectives stood. "I'm Adam Broadley, Andrea's mentor." He

  grinned. "Okay, I'm her shrink, but I prefer to think of myself that

  way. We'll talk here, if it's all right with you; we'll get more

  privacy here."

  "Fine," said the superintendent. "I'm Maggie Rose, and this is my

  colleague Steven Steele. Has the probation officer explained to you

  what it is we want to talk about?"

  "Not in detail, but enough."

  "And you're okay about this, from an ethical viewpoint?"

  "Sure. You're police officers so you know Andrea's history already,

  and you know the circumstances of her sectioning. Where I'm slightly

  uneasy is in talki
ng to you without her being aware of the fact, but

  I'll reserve the right to stop if I feel that I'm going too far."

  "That's agreed," said Rose, 'so let's get straight to it. Do you know

  where Andrea is working?"

  "With the Church of Scotland? Yes."

  "And you approve of that, given her history?"

  "I don't see anything wrong with it," Broadley answered. "In fact it's

  probably a positive element in her treatment. She's schizophrenic, as

  you know; split personality in old-fashioned terms, but it's a bloody

  awful description. This illness can manifest itself in many ways, but

  in this case the patient hears voices. More and more these days,

  people think that their computers are talking to them. I call it the

  software syndrome. Andrea's experience is more of the traditional

  type. Her father's profession may have something to do with it, for

  she gets the word straight from God. A bit like Joan of Arc without

  the armour."

  "But with twenty-first-century weaponry instead," Steele pointed out.

  The young man laughed. "True. If St. Joan had had nuclear

  capability... it would have shortened the Hundred Years War, that's for

  sure. But Andrea Strachan, fortunately, is not a very determined

  warrior. If God was choosing someone for a mission, he'd look for

  someone more physically adept than her. Anyway, to answer your

  question, the fact that she is actually working in the HQ of an

  established religion is on balance good for her, in that it takes God

  out of her fantasy world, and puts him into her everyday life."

  "What put the voice in her head in the first place?" Rose asked. "What

  made her attack that church?"

  "Again I think her father's profession may have something to do with

  it. Mr. Strachan is a very conservative Christian. He does not

  approve of un orthodoxy in any form. It's obvious to me that Andrea's

  picked that up from him and that in her mind it's taken wings."

  "I understand." The detective paused. "At this stage, Adam, I think

  it would be best if I stopped asking questions and told you something.

  When The Holy Trinity by Isobel Vargas went up in flames in the Royal

  Scottish Academy on Saturday, Andrea was right there in the room."

  Adam Broadley looked up at the ceiling, almost theatrically. "Ohhh

  dear!" he said, slowly.

  "You think it's possible then?"

  "I don't know for sure. She responded very well to her early

  treatment, and she's having no problems with her medication, but that

  sort of experience, or confrontation, would still be pretty dangerous

  for her. Did it happen through her work?" Rose nodded; he frowned.

  "What sort of people is she working with, in that case? Didn't they

  know of her psychiatric history?"

  "Not in that amount of detail."

  "You mean her father didn't tell them when he arranged the

  placement?"

  "No. He told them in broad terms what her illness was, but he didn't

  tell them about the way in which it manifested itself. And of course

  since the case was dealt with summarily in court, and was barely

  reported,

  there was no way in which they could reasonably have known about it,

  other than from him."

  "Bloody families!" Broadley exclaimed. "No matter how enlightened or

  intelligent they are, some of them still treat this illness like it was

  fucking .. . excuse my French ... leprosy. It makes me so angry."

  He smacked a big fist into the palm of his other hand, then grinned.

  "I'm still relatively new in my profession," he exclaimed. "I still

  have normal emotional reactions; I haven't become infected by my

  patients yet. Listen, I think I know what you want to ask me, so I'll

  save you the trouble. Yes, I think you should interview Andrea as soon

  as possible, but with one proviso; that I can be there."

  Maggie Rose smiled. "That was going to be my next question," she said.

  "Thanks for volunteering."

  Thirty.

  "That's fine, Mr. Skinner, you can ease down and stop now."

  Bob ignored the consultant's call; wearing only shorts and trainers, he

  continued to pound along on the treadmill, running on the spot, but at

  five-minute-mile pace.

  "I said you can stop now," Peter Patience repeated, louder this time,

  over the noise of the treadmill.

  "I'm enjoying this," Skinner replied, sounding barely out of breath. "I

  do at least four miles every day'

  "Good for you, but can you please do the rest later. My colleague and

  I need to look at the print-outs from the various monitors you have

  attached to you, and to do that we'd like to switch the bloody things

  off."

  "Okay." Dripping with sweat, the patient nodded, and reached out to

  touch a button on the control panel of the apparatus, to ease down its

  speed. He slowed it gradually, until, after around a minute, he came

  to walking pace, then stopped. He stepped off the track and allowed

  Hugh Hurley, the second consultant, to strip the monitor pads from his

  bare torso.

  "Is that us, then?" he asked.

  "Just about," said Patience. He pointed to Skinner's back. "That

  scar; is that where you were stabbed?"

  "Yes."

  "What about the two on your thigh, front and back?"

  "They're where I was shot; entry and exit wounds."

  "That's not on your medical history," Hurley exclaimed, with a hint of

  suspicion.

  "No. It's not."

  "Want to tell us about it?"

  "No I do not. If there were any after-effects I wouldn't be able to

  run freely, would I?"

  "I suppose not. Okay, we'll keep it off our report."

  "You do that. Now; what sort of shape am I in?"

  The two consultants exchanged glances, then smiles. "Mr. Skinner,"

  Patience began, 'as you know very well, you are in remarkable condition

  for a man in his thirties, let alone one who's nearer fifty than forty.

  You could and should have been returned to duty on the basis of the

  medical report which you brought back from America, and we are prepared

  to confirm without reservation that you are fit to resume active duty

  immediately. We'd be saying that if you were a soldier, never mind a

  senior police officer whose duties are assumed to be, in the main,

  sedentary."

  "They're bloody not," Skinner grinned. "What else will your report

  say?"

  "It will note that you were diagnosed, after your incident in the US,

  as suffering from what is commonly known as sick sinus syndrome, in

  which the sinus node, the heart's natural pacemaker, malfunctions,

  leading in your case to bradycardia .. . slow heartbeat... and loss of

  consciousness. This condition may recur, but it is quite possible

  that, even without intervention, you would never have had another

  episode. We find no sign of it today. In any event, that eventuality

  has been rendered irrelevant by the fitting of a dual chamber

  pacemaker, which is set to maintain your heart rate at a minimum level

  of fifty-five beats per minute, operating on demand; that is only if

  and when your rate drops to that level. You'll get around ten years'

  use out
of it; when the battery runs down, a new one will be fitted.

  Maybe by then the batteries will last longer, and that one will see you

  through to your eighties.

  "As for the rest of you, your vision is virtually perfect, with maybe a

  slight touch of astigmatism in your right eye, your ears are prone to

  deposits of wax, but otherwise your hearing is normal, your urine is

  free of any diabetic indications, your liver function is healthy and

  your prostate is not enlarged."