Quintin Jardine was a journalist before joining the Government Information Service where he spent nine years as an advisor to Ministers and Civil Servants. Later he moved into political PR, until in 1986 he 'privatised' himself, to become an independent public relations consultant and writer.
Praise for Quintin Jardine's acclaimed Skinner novels:
'More twists and turns than TV's Taggart at its best' Stirling Observer
'Rich in local characterisation... an enjoyable adventure' Edinburgh Evening News
'Remarkably assured ... a tour de force9 New York Times
'Deplorably readable' Guardian
'Robustly entertaining' Irish Times
'A heart-stopping thriller' Peterborough Evening Telegraph
'Excellent thriller' Manchester Evening News
'Once again Jardine serves up a thriller full of action, gritty realism and sharp patter' Darlington Northern Echo
'The Skinner series grows in authority and should be a natural for television' Time Out
Thursday Legends
Quintin Jardine
headline
Copyright © Quintin Jardine 2000
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.
First published in 2000 by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING
First published in paperback in 2001 by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING
109 8 7 65
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN 0 7472 5668 3
Typeset by Avon Dataset Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warks
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives pic
HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING A division of Hodder Headline 338 Euston Road London NW1 3BH
www.headline.co.uk www.hodderheadline.com
My thanks go to:
Professor Sir James Armour Scott Wilson and David Johnston, Radio Forth, Edinburgh Jack Arrundale, for a flash of inspiration
1
'Dammit, Diddler, you were a bit late there!'
He glowered up from the floor for a second or two, then grasped the outstretched arm and pulled himself to his feet.
'Sorry, Neil,' the sweating man acknowledged, gasping for breath. 'I guess I'm just not as quick as I used to be, only my brain doesn't know it yet.'
'Hmph! From what I've heard you never were as quick as you used to be. Ah, 'scuse me.' Mcllhenney shoved him to one side and lunged towards the yellow football as it flew towards him, trapping it close to the wall of the sports hall, and holding off the recovered Diddler easily, as he looked inside.
'Right, son!' The call came from Andrew John, surging towards goal at a rate just slightly above his normal walking pace. He rolled the ball into the path of the bearded banker, whose side-footed shot beat the token efforts of Mitchell Laidlaw, taking a breather in goal.
The sturdy lawyer restarted the game quickly, throwing the ball out to the halfway line. The hall was big enough to accommodate full-sized tennis and basketball courts -although it was rarely used for either of those sports - with a raised spectator gallery along one side and two glazed panels set in the other, allowing a view from the Centre's cafeteria.
'Pick him up, Neil,' John called out, as Benny Crossley cut towards the wing. As Mcllhenney sprinted across the court, it occurred to him that his team-mate was at least five yards closer to their opponent, but he let it pass. Benny was no flying winger and was usually predictable, and so he knew that he would turn back on to his right foot for a strike. His block was timed almost perfectly; he won possession as he surged through the tackle, sending the other man spinning, and headed back towards Mitch Laidlaw.
As he moved past the wall panels, he was aware of his son, Spencer watching him, his face almost pressed to the glass.
'Get stuck in, man!' In spite of his exertion, he smiled at the bellow, knowing that it was directed at the unfortunate Crossley, rather than at him. Stewart Rees appointed himself captain of every team in which he played, laying down the law to his colleagues at a volume which rose steadily as the hour progressed; to be fair to him, he did his waning best to set an example. As Rees rushed towards him, Neil played the ball to himself off the wall, avoided his lunge, then set himself to shoot.
For a moment he thought that he had been hit by a car. As Benny Crossley had found a few moments earlier, so the fabric-covered ball seemed to become an immovable object as his right foot slammed against it. His momentum sent him flying forwards, off his feet, twisting instinctively in mid-air to land safely on the hard floor.
There was no apology from Bob Skinner, only the sight, for Mcllhenney, of a retreating back, a long pass being rolled wide of Grant Rock into the path of a grateful Diddler, and an awkward mishit poke which eluded the flapping left hand of David McPhail, the duty goal-keeper.
He picked himself up, moved down, unmarked, to the halfway line and signalled to McPhail to throw the ball out quickly, but just as his team-mate saw his waving gesture, the heavyglazed door to the hall swung open; their equivalent of the referee's whistle. Full-time: the Diddler's goal had been the winner.
Bob Skinner came towards him, smiling, hand outstretched. Edinburgh's Deputy Chief Constable was wearing a Motherwell Football Club replica shirt; he was perspiring, but not as heavily as the others, and his breathing was steady. 'We did you at the end there, fella, did we not?' he chuckled, as Mcllhenney accepted the handshake.
'Maybe, but what a goal to win by. A bloody toe-poke, and sclaffed at that.'
Skinner beamed at him. 'For the Diddler, that was the equivalent of a thirty-yarder into the top corner. All we can do here is our best - whatever that might be.'
2
'Just one, as usual, then I'll need to get the kids home.' Mcllhenney dropped a five-pound note into the kitty jar, a half-pint tumbler which sat on the bar. 'Make it a pint of lime and soda, please, Lesley, and a couple of Cokes for Lauren and Spence.'
'I don't remember ever seeing you have a beer in here,' the bar stewardess ventured as she filled a tumbler from the dispenser. 'Don't you drink at all?'
He shook his head. 'Not any more, other than the odd glass of wine with a meal. That's a luxury I can't afford, not with those two.' He carried the Cokes, and two packets of Cheese and Owen crisps across to a table in a big bay window, where his two children were seated, playing a board game.
'I won't be long,' he said.
Lauren looked up at him; her brown hair was still damp from her swim in the Sports Centre pool. 'No,' she agreed, severely. 'Spence mustn't be up too late.'
He was frowning as he joined his football friends. Bob Skinner had noticed the exchange. 'She giving you a hard time?' he asked; quietly, so that none of the others could overhear.
'Not really. She thinks of herself as a sort of surrogate mother sometimes, that's all.'
'Aye, well. She would, wouldn't she, the poor wee lass. She's cut out for the role though.'
Neil looked up at the ceiling and laughed. 'Indeed she is; but what a teacher she had.' And then the lump was in his throat again. Still, it came without warning; usually when he was alone, but sometimes, in the company of very close friends, people who had known them both. At first it had overwhelmed him; there had been a couple
of occasions on which he, big, hard, Detective Sergeant Mcllhenney, had shocked his companions, by dissolving, quietly and without warning, into tears. Now though, he was able to master it, to control the sudden surge of grief before it got to the stage of public embarrassment.
Skinner, having been down that road himself, knew when to say nothing. Eventually his companion dragged his gaze away from the ceiling and looked around the bar of the small North Berwick hotel. The usual Thursday-night banter was picking up pace; the evening's game was being replayed, notably by the Diddler, who was well into the second talk-through of his winning goal.
'Bloody toe-poke!' Mcllhenney grunted.
'Skilfully guided away from the keeper, I'd put it,' the scorer insisted.
'Aye, you would. Now move a couple of your bellies along that bench and give me a bit more space.'
More seat-room materialised for the big policeman; he leaned back and let the chat continue, listening as it widened out, from the Diddler's never-ending store of gossip about the lives of Edinburgh's elite to take in the week's televised sport, which had highlighted the closely fought conclusion of the battle for the English Premiership.
He looked around his new friends, realising again that he, still in his thirties, was the youngest member by several years:
Stewart Rees: as quiet and friendly in the bar as he was loud and hectoring during their game, a chemical engineer and head of production in one of Scotland's smaller breweries.
Andrew John: an assistant general manager with the Bank of Scotland, possessed of a laconic sense of humour, and excellent footballing skills, even if these had been a shade eroded by ageing joints and an expanding waistline.
Benny Crossley: one of four squad members from Gullane, a man of few words, but every one of them weighed and sensible, with the precision of someone who made his living as a builder of quality houses.
Mitchell Laidlaw: managing partner of Edinburgh's biggest legal firm, a legendarily successful litigator of formidable determination, which he brought with him on to the football courts.
Grant Rock: the man about town - in this case, North Berwick - of the group, local Government official, Rotarian, and like many of the group, a golf addict.
David McPhail: a successful advertising executive, his roots, like those of Skinner, were in the west of Scotland, but he had transplanted successfully to Gullane more than a quarter of a century earlier.
Spike Thomson: in a sense the odd man out, the senior disc jockey on one of Edinburgh's commercial radio stations, the nearest thing North Berwick had to a resident celebrity.
Howard Shearer: the Diddler - Mcllhenney had often wondered where the nickname had come from, but had still to ask - the most enthusiastic, if least skilful member of the squad. A high-ranking fund manager, whose secretary arranged his diary to ensure that he was always at home for the five-a-sides on Thursday evenings.
And on his right, Bob Skinner: boss, friend, benefactor, whatever ... the man who had brought him into the squad, at a moment in his life when he had needed it most, killer squash player, karate maestro, golfing shark, but rough-and-ready footballer.
'The real high point of my night, though,' - the Diddler's high-pitched voice broke into his thoughts - 'was shifting big Mcllhenney here off his feet.'
'Ye'd better bring some extra padding next Thursday night then,' Grant Rock told him. 'The sergeant's going to be looking for you.'
'No need for padding, Grock,' said Neil. 'Not with an arse like he's got.' He drained his glass and stood up, waving across to Lauren and Spencer. 'Got to get these two home, lads. See you next week, and thanks once again.'
'He's a good bloke, that,' said Andrew John, moving his seat closer to Skinner, as the door of the lounge bar closed on the father and his children. 'You did well bringing him along here. Hellish shame about his wife.'
'Aye, it was that.'
'How long's it been now?'
The big policeman scratched his chin. 'Let's see. He's been with us for five months, since January, and she died about six
weeks before that. Yes, just over six months.' 'What was she like?'
'Olive? Simply the best, like the song goes. A tremendous woman.'
'Cancer, was it?'
'Aye, in the lung. She gave it her best - they both did - but it was too much for her.'
'And how's he settled down since? It must be difficult for him with the two kids.' The banker paused. 'Of course, you would know that, wouldn't you?'
'That was a long time ago, Andrew, and I was only left with one - wee Alexis. You could argue that having the kids will have helped ease the loss, in a way, but it's not true. It occupies you, but you never forget; not for a second.'
'This boys' club of ours must help him too.'
'It does. Gets him out of the house once a week at least.'
'He's not a bad footballer.'
'Better than that. He played Junior, for Armadale, before he joined the force.'
Andrew John's eyes lit up with a new respect. 'Why d'you not bring him before, then?'
Skinner grinned. 'Never thought to. Anyway, he'd gone to seed. Since Olive fell ill he's lost a couple of stone at least, and got himself back into training. His father died of a heart attack a few years back; it's all the more important to Neil now that he stays fit, for the kids' sake if nothing else.'
'Talking about kids,' John continued, 'how's your new one getting on?'
The grin turned into a beam of delight. 'Our wee Seonaid? She's absolutely great. Sleeps all the time, unlike her brother.' 'And Sarah? How's she?'
'Loving it. For the first time in her adult life, she isn't thinking about work at all. The day after Jazz was born she insisted on being picked up from the Simpson to go to a crime scene. Not this time, though. Motherhood's finally got to her... thank Christ for it too, with three on our hands.'
The banker nodded. 'Of course, your adopted lad. He's settled in.'
'Fine, thanks. He's an intense wee boy, very clever; to see Jazz and him together you'd never know that the two lads weren't natural brothers.'
'Your older daughter, how's she?' John grinned. 'Might as well ask about them all,' he added.
'You'd be better asking Mitch Laidlaw about our Alexis. He sees more of her than I do; ten hours a day in the office at least. She's living in Leith now; nice wee flat she has.'
'No romantic entanglements?'
Skinner looked at him and sighed. 'I never ask, my friend. I never ask.'
3
Andy Martin stared at the wall. He had become familiar with it since moving into his town house in Dean Village. One or two friends and colleagues had asked him why he had bothered, since his new home was less than half a mile from his Haymarket flat; but those who really knew him needed no explanation.
Since his break-up with Alexis Skinner, the detective had been focused almost completely on his work. Sure, there had been the odd night out with his team. Sure, Bob Skinner and he remained as close as ever, and if Andy suspected that his friend was secretly pleased that the engagement was over, neither of them ever discussed the matter. Sure, on more than the odd occasion, he had dipped into his old address book for dates and the odd one-night stand, instant flings which more than anything else had served to show him that he had virtually no friends outside the job. And even they, or most of them, tended to be just that bit more distant now that he was high on the ladder, and on the fast track for Chief Officer rank.
He had never thought of himself as a lonely man; now he realised that, before Alex, he had been just that and, without her, he was once more. The Haymarket place had become intolerable for him. The part of him which mourned her loss saw her in every shadow; but the part of him, the stronger part, which could never forgive her, could never forget either, never forget the shock of discovery or the choking, blinding, deafening rage which had overwhelmed him when she had told him, in that damned house, that she had aborted their child.
So he had sold it, to a young, upwardly mobile coupl
e, as they had been once, and had moved into the modern three-storey end-terraced house with a living room on the first floor, a small balcony overlooking the Water of Leith, and with at least one bedroom more than he felt he would ever need. And the wall had become his companion.
Of itself, it was nondescript, without windows, painted in a pale pastel colour, a barrier between his solitude and the busy life of his neighbour, a pleasant, middle-aged woman with a senior job in the Scottish Government administration, two daughters and a Vauxhall. But since moving in he had hung it, and most of the others, with his collection of paintings by contemporary Scottish artists, acquired over the years from galleries and sale rooms in and around Edinburgh, and on one or two occasions, from exhibitions at the city's respected College of Art.
Each one had for him its own personality, and said different things to him. They were his friends, although they were still acclimatising, blending into their new surroundings as he moved them around, finding the arrangement within the room's differing patterns of light which showed all of them at their best. 'Maybe now they're right,' he said aloud as he sat in his armchair and gazed at them. It occurred to him that he had not felt as peaceful for months, not for more than a year, when all was serene with Alex and him, before their conflicts had arisen; yes, maybe now they were indeed right.
The ladies liked them too; he grinned at the recollection of his pleasure at showing his collection to someone for the first time. Sally, an old flame, had been bowled over by them -literally, as it had turned out - only a week before. So had Jane, a month or so back. Karen Neville had never seen them, though, and he doubted if she ever would. The others were ... safe; Karen was trouble waiting to happen.
He and the spectacular sergeant had come together in the wake of violence and of two vastly different personal tragedies. They had both meant it to be a one-off, but there had been a repeat performance, then another, and another, until finally he had allowed the relationship simply to fade away, before it reached the point at which he would have been obliged to move her out of her job in his office. He liked Karen, and undoubtedly they were great together under the duvet, but the memory of Bob Skinner's indiscretion with a member of his personal staff was too strong for him to push away.
Thursday legends - Skinner 10 Page 1