Funeral Note

by Quintin Jardine

  There wasn’t a chance of my turning it down. I was getting stale in CID; I knew it and it was only a matter of time before my line managers did as well. I needed a new challenge, so badly that I’d even been contemplating asking for a move to uniform. However, I didn’t want to give the impression of being too keen, so I let it appear for a few seconds that I was engaged in sombre thought.

  When I decided I’d pondered enough, I looked back at him and said, gravely, ‘I’d like to do it, sir. I’m honoured even to be considered for the post.’

  ‘It’s gone beyond consideration,’ he retorted. ‘It’s yours. I’ve talked it through with DCI Leggat, and he’s onside with the idea.’

  Fred Leggat was my immediate boss. I’d had to tell him about my meeting at HQ and the sod hadn’t given me a clue that he’d known what it was about. ‘When do I start, sir?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘You’re here. You might as well start now.’

  ‘But . . .’ He’d stunned me again. ‘What about vetting?’

  ‘That’s all been done; you’re cleared. You’ll be replacing DI Dorothy Shannon. It’s time for her to move back to CID. I’m doing a straight swap; she’s going to your job in Dalkeith. The pair of you can spend the rest of the week doing a handover to each other.’ He looked at me. ‘How’s Jen?’

  The sudden switch of topic threw me off balance. In the middle of giving me a career-changing move he was asking me about my wife?

  ‘She’s okay, sir,’ I replied. ‘She’s a full-time housewife these days.’ I was going to leave it at that, but I realised that his question had come from genuine concern, not casual curiosity.

  ‘By which I really mean,’ I continued, ‘that she doesn’t go out any more unless she really has to. She’s never got over losing the wee fella, and I don’t believe that she ever will. She’s withdrawn from all her circle of friends. I’m told that’s not unusual in these circumstances, but she hasn’t made any new ones. Our house is like a builder’s show home, and the garden’s like a Chelsea Flower Show exhibit, because she has nothing else in her life. When I say she doesn’t go out, I am not kidding. She does all the shopping, food, everything, on the internet. If you ever run short of double A batteries, just call by our place. Jen buys them by the box.’

  He frowned. ‘Has anyone suggested medication?’

  ‘For what, sir? There’s nothing medically wrong with her. She’s just sad, for a terrible reason, and the pill that will make her happy again hasn’t been invented. I’ve tried, believe me, in all the ways you’d expect. Nothing worked. I booked a surprise break in Paris a year ago. She wouldn’t go. I’d packed our case, there was a taxi at the door, and she refused point blank to get in it. We don’t sleep together now: it’s not that she’d refuse, but I know that I’d be imposing myself on her, just using her body, and I’d rather pay a hooker than do that.’ I gasped at the enormity of what I’d just said. ‘Not that I have, sir,’ I spluttered, ‘or ever would.’

  ‘I know that,’ he said, sympathetically. ‘Your vetting was very thorough . . . but I know you better than that anyway. But if you ever feel the need . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I exclaimed. ‘If I ever do I’ll resign from SB rather than compromise myself, or the job.’

  ‘Hell, George,’ he chuckled, ‘I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to ask you to be open with me if you do get involved with a third party. If I know about it, then, unless you really are paying ladies of the night, you’re not in any professional difficulty.’

  He paused again. ‘Do you want to bring anyone with you?’ he asked.

  Will the surprises never end? I wondered. ‘To SB?’ I responded. ‘Can I?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s possible. I may have made mistakes in the past by moving people into the Branch one at a time, so, if there’s anyone you’ve worked with that you feel might be an asset . . .’

  I didn’t have to think about it. ‘Lisa McDermid,’ I said, instantly, ‘my sergeant. She’s a top operator.’ And she might not get on too well with Dottie Shannon if she stays in East Lothian, I added, but only in my thoughts. However I did say, ‘By the way, sir, she’s single, but she and I, we’re not . . .’

  The chief grinned. ‘I know that too,’ he chuckled. ‘Fred Leggat’s not going to be too chuffed at losing both of you, but Dorothy’s a good operator, so yes, you can have McDermid. You’ll have someone else in your team too, since DC Singh’s due for rotation as well, but at this moment I’m not entirely sure who it’ll be.’

  At that moment I didn’t give a bugger. I used to work with big Tarvil and I was sorry he’d be going, but the boss could have dropped old Charlie Johnston on me as his replacement and I wouldn’t have cared. I’d been re-energised. I’d gone into that room afraid, because I’d thought I was facing the end of a stagnant career, and I’d come out with a new one, and with my self-confidence restored.

  Fred Leggat tells a story from the past, about seeing Bob Skinner dealing with a couple of lazy officers who thought they could get away with anything. ‘Scary, George. Fucking scary.’ If that’s so, being praised by the man is at the other end of the scale. He hadn’t even said all that much to me, yet I found myself . . . inspired isn’t too strong a word.

  It wasn’t the prospect of redundancy that had frightened me. No, it was the thought of what might have followed if I hadn’t been able to find another job, of being stuck in that refrigerator of a house with no escape other than to the golf course during the day and to the Longniddry Inn in the evening. I’ve forbidden Jen from making our newish home a temple to wee George’s memory . . . that will never fade . . . and so she’s gone to the other extreme, making it everything that it wasn’t when he was around, neat, ordered, everything in its place, so unnaturally tidy that it reminds me of him even more and now, even though he never lived in that house, my heart breaks all over again every time I walk thought the fucking door. I’ve thought about leaving her, but I couldn’t be that cruel. I confess that I did harbour thoughts about Lisa McDermid for a while. I never said anything out of place, but she cottoned on anyway, and very gently, very kindly, told me to forget it. She suggested that Jen and I find a shared hobby, and for a couple of months, I tried, but it was no use. Wrapped in her green housecoat, my wife is dying of grief, a terrible affliction; it may take another thirty, forty years to run its course, and while it does I’ve pledged to be as kind to her as I can, and to love her, as I always have, while spending only such time as I must in her company, lest I fall victim too.

  My career move, to a job with irregular hours in an office further away from home, offered me another avenue of escape, and I was buoyed up by the prospect as I walked from the chief’s office to the small suite that houses Special Branch.

  Some might imagine there’s a keypad on the door, or a secret knock, but I just walked in. The first person I saw was Tarvil Singh, dwarfing his desk, as always. He was my DC when I’d worked in Edinburgh, before he’d been moved out of mainstream CID. He’s a Sikh, but he doesn’t wear a turban when he’s working, because he says it makes him too conspicuous. Given the size of him, that always makes me laugh. He wasn’t surprised to see me; that told me who’d done my vetting.

  DI Shannon was expecting me too. I hadn’t seen her for a while, not since her uniform days in Leith. Before that, there was a time when I’d seen quite a lot of her, including the pink bits, and the scars from a bad car accident she’d been in as a kid. Back then, when I was another man, she and I had what is called, euphemistically, a ‘fling’, until a very good friend made me see sense. She’s the one blot on my marital record, and it was so short-lived that it hadn’t occurred to me to wonder whether it had showed up on my vetting. When I worked out that if Tarvil had done it, she’d probably signed off on it, I knew the answer.

  She hasn’t changed much since then; her hair tone might be a little more subtle, but that’s it. One thing I did notice fairly quickly; I didn’t see as much of her gold tooth as I remembered. That was becaus
e she wasn’t smiling as she began to brief me on the contents of the two trays on her desk.

  ‘Are you sorry to be going, Dottie?’ I asked her. ‘The county patch is okay, I promise you.’

  ‘That obvious, eh?’ she muttered. ‘Yes, George, you’re right; I’m a bit pissed off. Most people leave this job on promotion, but not me, oh no. And there I was thinking that the glass ceilings had been shattered for good.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose I’ve only got myself to blame. I had a run-in with the new deputy chief’s sainted husband not long before he died. I guess he must have told her, and my card was marked from then on.’

  As I looked at her, I recalled how I’d got myself involved with her. In the workplace, Dottie is not one of those sparkly women, and I’d decided that my mission in life was going to be to make her laugh. When I succeeded, after a couple of post-shift drinks, I found that there was another side to her.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, quietly, ‘will you fucking lighten up on yourself, woman.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘You can talk, George. You were the one who got all uptight on me, remember? And it stuck, so it seems; look at you now, Mr Serious. What makes you think you can tell me to . . .’ And then she remembered. ‘Oh, George. Shit, listen to me; you of all people can do that. I’m sorry, love, I forgot.’

  She forgot? She fucking forgot? Lucky her.

  ‘You poor man,’ she exclaimed, but I stopped her in her tracks with an upraised hand.

  ‘Please don’t, Dot. This is where I work and I don’t bring that here. I said you should lighten up because you were sounding more than a wee bit paranoid there. Maggie Steele is evidence that the ceiling’s smashed, and as for her blocking your promotion, that’s plain daft. Our moves had sod all to do with her; they’re down to the big man, and he’s not holding you back as I see it. You’re going to work with Fred Leggat. He’s about three coughs and a spit off retirement and when he goes that opens up a DCI slot. Who’s going to get that?’

  ‘Becky Stallings, probably,’ she said, gloomily.

  I laughed. ‘Becky? She thinks Edinburgh’s the countryside. No way will she get a rural job.’

  She looked at me over her reading glasses, doubtfully. ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Certain of it, so brighten up.’

  ‘Okay, if you say so.’ She paused. ‘How’s life anyway, if I’m allowed to ask?’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t; you probably read my vetting report anyway.’ Her eyes flickered and I knew she had. ‘How’s yours?’

  ‘Private life?’ I nodded. ‘Crap, since you ask. My man got bumped by his bank and left town for a job in Hong Kong, without as much as a goodbye dinner. Four years down the pan. Some pair, aren’t we?’

  ‘At least we’re not security risks. Come on, brief me on the job and I’ll buy you a drink when we’re done.’

  By the end of the afternoon she had brought me up to speed on the dark and mysterious ways of the Branch, which turned out to be more routine than anything else. There were no major crises, and the threat level was officially ‘substantial’, mid-point in the five grades. ‘It’s hardly ever below that these days,’ she said. She also gave me a list of contacts in SB offices in other forces, and in the security services. These were locked in a wall safe; she showed me how to change the combination, then turned her back as I did so.

  She turned down the drink afterwards; I was quietly pleased about that, as I’d regretted the offer as soon as I’d made it. Instead we arranged to meet the next morning at Dalkeith, to go through the same process in the other direction.

  I broke the news to Lisa McDermid, in a bizarre cross-purposes discussion . . . when I asked her to come into my room, she got the wrong idea . . . as soon as I got back to Dalkeith, and so she was gone when I got there next morning, to brief Shannon. Fred Leggat wasn’t, though. He was in his office and his face was tripping him, as I’d half expected. He was cruising and hadn’t planned on breaking in a new support team in his last few months in office, but I managed to persuade him that Dottie would hit the ground running.

  I got back to Fettes by mid-morning, to find Lisa and Tarvil in conversation in the outer office, and a summons from the chief waiting for me on my new desk.

  ‘Did Shannon brief you on the Varley situation?’ he asked, as soon as I was through his door.

  ‘Yes, sir, she did.’

  ‘Did it come as a surprise?’

  Skinner is good at bouncing the unexpected at his colleagues. I suppose the time it takes them to respond tells them how sure they are of their answers. ‘Not as much as it might have,’ I replied, quickly. I’d asked myself the same question the afternoon before. ‘I was in the same office as Jock about eight years ago. I don’t know why, but I didn’t take to him. He struck me as a guy who always wanted to know more than he’d let on.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he murmured. ‘Have you ever heard of Freddy Welsh?’

  ‘I know nothing about him,’ I confessed, ‘other than he’s a general builder and contractor, in quite a big way.’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘and now we need to know more. Dottie and Tarvil had a look at him yesterday, but only to check out his background and contacts. I’d like you to go a bit deeper. Maybe I’m wrong, but I can’t see a well-set-up guy like Welsh being personally involved in something as small time as fag smuggling. That said, he wasn’t going to meet Kenny Bass for a tip on the three-thirty at Lingfield. So what was it about? Put McDermid on to it; she isn’t known around town. See if she picks up any hints.’

  ‘Yes, sir. What about Bass?’ I asked. ‘Is he saying anything?’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘Take a guess?’

  ‘How about, “Who’s Freddy Welsh?” Is that close?’

  ‘Right on the money, George, right on the money.’

  ‘Sauce’ Haddock

  Most of the time, when someone begins a sentence with ‘I have to say . . .’ what it really means is, ‘I’m going to say . . . whether you like it or not.’

  I probably shouldn’t say that I was beginning to get very fond of the chief constable’s ex-wife, but I will . . . regardless. I don’t mean that I fancied her. If I did I would definitely keep that to myself. No, I liked her, pure and simple. I could tell that Jack had reservations about her but I found her bold and provocative, things I like in a person, and I could detect no side to her, none of the aloof superiority that cops, and particularly young ones like me, often encounter in our dealings with those my mum calls ‘members of the professions’. She was friendly and had treated me as an equal in every encounter we’d had.

  ‘What are those?’ I asked her after she’d finished describing Mortonhall Man’s last meal.

  ‘Classic kosher dishes,’ she replied. ‘Jewish food, as approved by ritual and the local rabbi. One of the few things I miss about New York City are the delis.’

  ‘Are there any of those in Edinburgh?’

  ‘There’s the Viareggio chain,’ she pointed out, ‘but they’re Italian. There are no kosher ones that I know of, but they’re not places I’ve ever looked for over here.’

  ‘His last meal,’ I continued. ‘Would it have been homemade?’

  ‘Possibly,’ she conceded. ‘If you can trace kosher-approved suppliers in the area, you might get a lead to him.’

  ‘How about kosher restaurants? Are there many in Edinburgh?’

  ‘From memory,’ she murmured, ‘I think there’s only one . . . and it’s entirely vegetarian, so you wouldn’t get chicken broth there, or stuffed fish either.’

  ‘What about the matzoh balls?’

  ‘Nor them; there’s egg in the recipe. Hey,’ she laughed, ‘did you hear about the blonde who thought the matzoh was an endangered species?’

  I was still grinning when I put the phone down.

  ‘Who’s made your day?’ the boss called to me.

  ‘Dr Grace, the pathologist.’

  ‘What were you talking about?’

  ‘Circumcision.’

  Even Jack reacted to
that. ‘You what?’ he exclaimed. ‘With the chief’s ex?’

  ‘I’m not kidding,’ I told him. ‘She gave me a lecture on the subject: not how it’s done, but who has it. Are you circumcised?’ I asked him.

  ‘Mind your own fucking business. What are you asking me that for?’

  ‘Call it a statistical survey. More people are than you’d imagine.’

  ‘Ray is,’ Becky volunteered.

  McGurk actually started to turn pink. ‘Can we leave DI Wilding’s tackle out of this, please,’ he moaned. ‘If you must know, yes I am.’

  ‘And you’re not Jewish.’

  ‘Of course not. You don’t have to . . .’

  ‘I know,’ I said, cutting him off in mid-sentence. ‘That’s what Sarah explained.’ I paused, for a little effect. ‘That’s before she said firmly that our man was.’

  ‘Come again?’ the DI murmured, dryly. ‘Did the rabbi who did it put his initials on his work?’

  ‘Hardly,’ I replied, slightly narked by her sarcasm. I shook my head and repeated what Sarah had told me . . . leaving out only the line about the blonde and the matzohs.

  Her reaction was the same as if I’d shaken her awake. She blinked, once, twice then focused on me. If Becky Stallings has a fault as a team leader, it’s her occasional tendency to slip into cruise mode, rather than driving full on at the task in hand. When she snaps out of it, though, she’s a formidable operator. Half an hour earlier she’d begun to echo Jack, chuntering on about her team having been stuck with a job that uniform should be doing, putting a name to the dead man from the evening before, when we should have been tasked with putting the screws on Kenny Bass. That disappeared in an instant as she started to gnaw on the bone I’d given her.