Skinner's Ghosts
QUINTIN JARDINE
headline
www.headline.co.uk
Copyright © 1998 Quintin Jardine
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.
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.
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 5359 0
This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations
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
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
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
‘privatized’ himself, to become an independent public
relations consultant and writer.
This book, like those which went before, and those
which will follow, was inspired by my wife.
Catherine Campbell ‘Irene’ Jardine
1946-1997
Kate, my lovely Kate.
1
The woman walked, at a steady unhurried pace, down the middle of the village road.
She was wearing the wig and gown of one of Her Majesty’s Counsel, a formal, enveloping uniform which served to emphasise, rather than mask, her advanced years. She was small, and bird-like in her features, with a few grey whiskers sprouting among her wrinkles; clearly, she was very old.
Yet for all that, she walked straight-backed and steadily in front of the hearse, and its burden, as she led it down the main street, down the short distance from the great grey castellated house to Aberlady’s churchyard, and to the grave which awaited. As she approached, in the doorway of the church a lone piper played a lament.
‘Who is she?’ asked Pamela Masters.
Beside her, at the wheel of the white BMW as they sat at the head of the queue of waiting traffic, Deputy Chief Constable Bob Skinner smiled.
‘Don’t you know, Sergeant?’ He paused. ‘But then I don’t suppose you would. It’s been a long time since even I’ve seen her in action.
‘She is Christabel Innes Dawson, QC; in her heyday, the only woman silk in Scotland, and one of the very finest too.’
‘And who’s . . .’
‘Who’s in the chest? That is Lord Orlach, Senator of the College of Justice, and Lord Justice Clerk for what seemed like about a hundred years. Old Orlach was the last of the Supreme Court judges not to be subject to compulsory retirement. He finally did step down though, last year.’
‘And Christabel’s his widow?’
Skinner drew in his breath, and shook his head. ‘Christ no! Orlach’s wife died donkeys’ years ago, but he and she never married. He had his town house in Heriot Row, and latterly his country seat out here, while she had her establishment in India Street, with the brass plate on the door saying “Miss Dawson, Advocate”. They had a relationship though, that lasted fifty years, until the old boy died last week.
‘When he was plain John Stevenson KC . . .’
‘KC?’ Pamela interrupted.
‘Aye, King’s Counsel; it was that far back . . . and she was a junior, admitted to the Faculty of Advocates almost over the dead body of the Dean of the time; he took her on to assist him in a capital murder trial. Their affair began back then.’
He glanced across at the pretty, dark-haired woman in the passenger seat. ‘It was never admitted, or discussed, though.’ He smiled, at a memory. ‘They really did think they were being discreet, too. There’s a story about Orlach, that once, in the New Club, an Outer House judge asked him how Christabel was . . . as innocently as that. Orlach froze him with a look, and afterwards, every time one of that judge’s decisions came before him on appeal, the old boy would reverse it.’
‘Why didn’t they marry?’ she asked him.
Skinner laughed again, softly. ‘Well at first, Mrs Stevenson wouldn’t have approved. Then, by the time of her death, Orlach was on the Bench. It was never said of course, but the feeling was that if they had got hitched, Christabel would have had to leave the Bar. The rules were such that you could never have been sure that she wouldn’t have wound up pleading a case before her husband, and that wouldn’t have done at all.’
He smiled at the black-gowned figure as she drew nearer, then suddenly and spontaneously stepped out of the car and stood beside it. As she turned to lead the hearse into the churchyard, Christabel Innes Dawson, QC, glanced
sideways and gave him the briefest nod of recognition.
‘Of course,’ he said as he folded himself back into the driver’s seat, ‘the fact that they didn’t marry meant that she could and did appear before him without restraint.’ He laughed again, out loud this time. ‘I remember she cross-examined me once in a criminal trial, with Orlach as presiding judge. Andy Martin too. He was raw at the time and she knew it. At the end she was screaming at him like a banshee, and old Orlach let her get on with it.’
‘Did she try it on with you too?’ Pamela asked.
‘No, fortunately. She had a degree of respect for DI rank and above, but detective constables and sergeants . . . she chewed ’em up and spat out the bits.’
He looked at her mischievously. ‘She still appears, you know. A few times a year she’ll take on the defence in a High Court trial. More often than not she gets an acquittal. Maybe we can fix it for you to be a police witness in one of them.’
She snorted, and flounced her dark hair. ‘No thank you!’
As the hearse passed through the churchyard gates, the uniformed police officer who had stopped the traffic turned to Skinner, saluted and waved him on. The DCC nodded an acknowledgement and slipped the car into gear.
He glanced to his left as he passed the church, as the old lady moved to join the congregation inside.
‘All these years maintaining their discreet front,’ he murmured, ‘yet when the time comes she leads him to the grave. There’s a nobility about that, though, Pam, is there not?’
She looked at him, as the BMW snaked though the chicane exit from Aberlady, heading for Gullane. ‘Maybe there is. What I can see though is a situation that’s a bit close to home. I’m as big a secret as old Christabel there . . . or so you think.’
‘What d’you mean . . . so I think? I haven’t told anyone, not even Andy. So who would know?’
‘Ruth McConnell, your secretary, for a start. D’you think she hasn’t guessed? DCI Rose for another. God, her eyebrows went up when you made me your Exec six months ago!’
Skinner shrugged his shoulders. ‘But I replaced you with Neil McIlhenney after two months.’
‘Sure, and DCS Martin was delighted to have me added to his personal staff, wasn’t he?’ she said ironically.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘He never said a word to me. I told him that we had agreed you’d be better working for him and he accepted that at face value.’
She twisted in her seat to look at him. ‘Okay, so tell me why, when she called into the office two days ago to see Mr Martin, your daughter . . . his fiancée . . . froze me like a block of ice with a single look. Not, I suggest, because she thinks I fancy Andy.’
Skinner frowned at her. ‘You don’t think Ruth’s been talking, do you?’ He sounded genuinely shocked.
‘Of course not,’ she said at once. ‘DCS Martin’s figured it out, and told Alex. He’d do that, wouldn’t he?’
Her companion sighed. ‘Well they live together, so I guess so. Those two have no secrets from each other. But, hold on. Even if Andy and Alex have guessed, they wouldn’t let on to anyone else.’
‘Mmm,’ said Pamela, demurely. ‘But are you as confident of Sergeant Boyd, from the Haddington nick, who stopped the traffic back there in Aberlady, and recognised both you and me: in casual clothes heading towards Gullane, where you have a cottage . . . and on a Friday afternoon to boot? Even a plonker like him will have put two and two together from that. Jesus, he’s probably been on the radio to HQ already.’
He nodded. ‘Touché. You’ve got me there.’ He fell silent as he swung the car round a long left-handed bend, and drove them past the small stone cairn, marking the entrance to Luffness Golf Club, settling deep into brooding thought, until long after he had closed the door of the cottage behind them.
Finally, as they sat on wooden chairs in the secluded garden, enjoying the warm summer sun, he turned to her.
‘So,’ he said, with the beginning of a frown, ‘are you giving me the message, Pam, love? Do you want me to put us on an official footing? Or do you just want out?’
She shook her head. ‘No, out is certainly not what I want . . . unless you’ve decided you want your wife back. If that’s the case then I’m off like a shot. To tell you the truth, when you went off to the States in May for your wee boy’s first birthday, I was more than half expecting you to bring them back with you.’
Bob frowned more heavily, and fell silent once more. ‘To be as honest with you,’ he said at last, ‘I thought that might have happened too, despite what you and I have together. Coming home and leaving the wee fella behind was one of the toughest things I’ve ever had to do. But there’s a wall between Sarah and me that we couldn’t break down. I guess she’s gone native again, gone back to being an American. Somehow she isn’t the woman I met and married.’
Pamela laughed, suddenly and with a trace of mockery. ‘Nonsense!’ she said. ‘Of course she is. It’s just that you’ve never seen her in her native environment before. Also, for the first time in your lives you’re seeing her take up a position which isn’t exactly in support of yours. You can add to that the fact that she’s probably never seen you on the defensive before.’
‘Well okay,’ he said, wearily. ‘So we’ve both seen each other in a new light, and neither of us could handle it. Whatever the case, I won’t get back together with her just for the baby’s sake. That wouldn’t be right for any of us. Anyway, she’s made it clear where she wants to be. Remember what she said in her goodbye note about not wanting to be stuck in Edinburgh for the rest of her life. She has a hospital job in the States now, and she’s doing scene-of-crime work for the local police.’
‘Is she seeing anyone, do you think?’ she asked, softly.
The question took him by surprise, so much that he was unable to keep the hurt from showing in his eyes. ‘Possibly,’ he said, quietly. ‘I’m not sure, but I think she could be.’
‘But you didn’t tell her about us?’
‘No. Like I said, I didn’t. I thought it was maybe too soon for that.’
‘You mean you thought you’d keep your options open?’
‘No! I didn’t want to kick her in the teeth, that’s all.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Or maybe I was just chicken.’
She raised an eyebrow, a gesture denoting scepticism. ‘Chicken? The great Bob Skinner was chicken?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘We all run from something,’ he said quietly.
‘Come on, what are you saying to me, Pamela? Like I asked you before. Is all this too heavy for you? Do you want us to chuck it?’
She pushed herself out of her chair, knelt on the concrete paving, at his feet, and laid her head in his lap for a few seconds, rubbing her face from side to side against his thighs. Finally she looked up at him, still shaking her head. ‘No I don’t want that . . . although God knows I should. You’re the DCC; I’m a sergeant. You’re married, even if you are legally separated. Madness, sheer madness.
‘But no, what I am saying is that you and I don’t have the option of being like Old Christabel and Lord So and So. We can’t keep that sort of secret.’
He frowned at her again, knitting his brows heavily, accentuating the deep vertical line above the bridge of his nose, and the scar which ran alongside it. ‘Why not? I always tell my troops that their private lives are their own as long as it’s consistent with duty and discipline. We’re not working together any more, so why are we different?’
She squeezed his thighs, hard. ‘Because we are, man! Look, are you or are you not the Secretary of State’s security adviser? Were you or were you not a candidate for the top job in the Met until Sir Derrick Raymond agreed to do another two years? Do you or do you not want Chief Constable rank somewhere? Three Yes’s: don’t you tell me differently.
‘Bob, you’ve got that ambition, and that potential, and here you are, sleeping with a detective sergeant under your command!’
‘Not in the office, I ain’t,’ he said doggedly. He almost ad
ded, ‘Besides, maybe I care more about you than about all that stuff,’ but something held him back.
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Fine. So why haven’t you told your daughter about me? Or Andy Martin? Or the Chief? Or am I wrong? Have you briefed the Command Corridor, off the record?’
He threw up his hands. ‘Okay! Okay! Okay!’
‘Well!’ She sighed, and paused. ‘Look, I’m not asking for a public declaration of undying love. I like it the way it is, as long as you’re completely and genuinely separated from Sarah. I love being with you. You excite me more than anyone I’ve ever known. But your companionship . . . and great sex, of course . . . for now that’s enough for me. As long as it doesn’t do you harm, and as long as it doesn’t compromise your future career. So think about it, eh?’
Skinner sighed. ‘Okay sweetheart. I know you’re right, and I’ll do something about it. I’ll tell the Chief, Andy and Alex . . . probably in reverse order. But in my own time . . .’ He pointed a finger at her, suddenly, ‘. . . and mind, I won’t be seeking their advice or approval.’
‘What if Andy Martin wants me off his staff once you’ve told him?’ she asked him.
‘I’ll deal with that if it happens.’ Abruptly he stood up, gathering her in his arms. ‘Meantime . . . what was that you were saying about great sex?’
2
The telephone rang four times, before the automatic answering machine picked up the call. As she heard Bob’s recorded voice giving the response, Pamela sat up in bed, a sheen of perspiration glistening lightly on her back.
A few seconds later, the caller left the invited message. Neither she nor Bob could hear what was said, but both recognised the inflections of Detective Chief Superintendent Andy Martin’s even, steady baritone.
She nodded in the direction of the bedside telephone. ‘Go on, pick it up,’ she urged him.
He grinned at her, tugging at her arm to draw her back down beside him. ‘Later. Chances are it’s work. If it is, I’m not letting it in here.’
07 - Skinner's Ghosts Page 1