‘Why not?’
‘Jesus, man, you can’t guess? Because his wife is pregnant and because she was scared to death by his involvement in what just happened.’
Skinner whistled. ‘Bloody hell! I should have considered that.’ He leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds. ‘My problem is,’ he said, ‘that I’m taking Neil because he’s in the loop, so to speak.’
‘Do you have another option?’
‘No, but it looks as if I’ll have to find one. Thanks for marking my card, though. And thanks for our chat. It’s always good to talk to you.’
‘Indeed? Why?’
Skinner winked. ‘It reminds me how sane I really am.’
Two
There were days when Sir James Proud could not help but agree, reluctantly though it may have been, with his wife. He could retire at any time he chose, with a pension that would fund a lifestyle that would be the envy of most, and with the certainty that he would be able to top it up by accepting one or two of the offers of directorships that would be bound to come his way.
He could have gone, honourably, after the warning shot of his coronary incident. Instead he had lost weight, taken sensible exercise, and resumed his duties.
Proud Jimmy had been a police officer for all of his adult life, and had been the chief constable of Scotland’s capital city, of which his father had been Lord Provost, and of the green lands around it for far longer than any of his predecessors. Indeed, only one of them was still alive, and he was in his mid-eighties.
In his heart of hearts, he had never expected to make it to the highest rank in the service, and certainly not to the command of Scotland’s second largest force. When he was appointed there had been whispers that his elevation owed much to his connections to people of influence, but he had ignored them. He knew his strengths: he was a good administrator, a first-class personnel manager, and he had an authoritative appearance, with bearing to match, that made him stand out in a crowd. Strangely, the virtue which he valued least, the natural diplomacy he had inherited from his father, was the one that had been crucial in taking him to the top. Never, at any time in his service, had he been known to upset anyone, other than certain members of the police advisory board, and even then, only when it had been absolutely necessary.
On the other hand he was aware of his weaknesses: he was old fashioned in his attitudes, almost his entire career, after four years of beat-pounding, had been spent behind a desk, and he had no background in detective work. He had spent his early years protecting public order and preventing crime, usually from a distance, but he had never been a thief-catcher and, in truth, had never really understood what made a good one stand out, not, at least, until he had met Bob Skinner.
He had understood from the outset that there was something exceptional about the young man, whose very early promotion to detective sergeant had been sent to his office for approval. He had seen it first in his personnel file. Graduate officers were unusual in those days, but one who came from an affluent professional family was unique in Proud’s experience. And then, of course, there was his father. The young Skinner’s promotion would be likely to take him into sensitive areas, and so, without his knowledge, he had been vetted. The screening had revealed that William Skinner was far more than an ordinary Scottish solicitor. During the Second World War he had been a member of the Special Operations Executive, and although the Ministry of Defence had refused to divulge any details of his service, they did reveal that he had been decorated three times, the last being the award of the George Cross. Because of the nature of the SOE’s work, none of the citations had been made public, and there had been no mention of them on the younger Skinner’s original application to join the police service. At the time, Proud had found this slightly strange: it was some years later that he discovered that Skinner himself had been unaware of his father’s distinctions until after his death.
His imposing deputy was on the chief constable’s mind as he sat at his desk that Friday morning, staring at Kevin O’Malley’s ‘Eyes Only’ report. The psychiatrist was not one to mince his words.
Deputy Chief Constable Skinner [Proud read] has come through another testing operational situation with flying colours. He shows no sign of emotional or psychological damage; indeed, the calmness and detachment which he showed in discussing the events which led to his discharging his weapon mark him out once more as an exceptional person.
In my years in practice, during which I have counselled many officers following potentially traumatic experiences, I have never encountered an individual, not one as rational as he is, at any rate, with such self-control. And yet, that in itself gives me cause for concern. Every person has an emotional breaking point. With most, it is easy to predict when this is likely to occur. With someone who is as tightly wrapped as DCC Skinner it is virtually impossible.
I am aware, since he was willing to discuss it during our session, that he is facing the imminent, and apparently irreversible, break-up of his marriage. I have to say that he appears to be handling this with the same calmness that he shows in professional situations. He and his wife seem to have reached an amicable parting of the ways in which the interests of their children will be paramount, and this is to be welcomed. Nevertheless, the arrangements which he described mean that he is about to become, for the second time in his life, a single parent, throughout the school term at least. Even with domestic assistance, this will impose a further burden upon him.
Mr Skinner has done a great deal in his career, for his force and indeed for his country. He is at an age and in a position of seniority where any other individual would be content to stand back entirely from any operational role that might place him at risk. Yet he is unwilling to do this, arguing that if a situation similar to that with which he has just dealt were to arise again, it would be his duty to assume field command in the absence of anyone with equal experience and skill. It would be easy to say that it is unlikely that such a crisis will occur again in this area, but given the times in which we live such a prediction would be foolish.
I have known Mr Skinner for many years. I would not like to be in a position of having to counsel or, worse, treat him, after he has found where his breaking point lies. I believe that it is in his interests for him to be taken away for a period from any chance that he might have to lead another active operation. I understand from our discussion that he is about to go, for a short period, on special assignment to London. This is timely, and may serve the purpose, but from what I gather it is not likely to be enough. Short of a complete reorganisation of your command structure, and reallocation of responsibilities, I recommend that DCC Skinner, on his return to Edinburgh, be given sabbatical leave for a period of six months.
Proud Jimmy sighed as he finished the report and tossed it into his pending tray. ‘Certainly, Kevin.’ He groaned. ‘Maybe you’d like to try telling him.’
Yes, this was a Chrissie moment, all right, one of those times when his wife’s wish, unspoken but crystal clear nonetheless, seemed very attractive. He enjoyed gardening. His golf clubs were gathering dust in his locker at the Royal Burgess . . . not that they had ever seen much use, but he had always promised himself that there would be a time when they did. There was the book that he wanted to write, the one about the history of policing in the city of Edinburgh. And there was Lady Proud herself, above all, and the time that he knew he owed her.
The moment when he would have no choice but to retire would come soon enough, in a little more than a year, in fact. Christmas was on the way: he would have, potentially, one more of them in post, but by the Easter after that, he would have to be gone. What more could he achieve, he asked himself, between now and then?
Nothing, he answered.
Nothing, other than his most cherished wish: to see Bob Skinner appointed his successor. Normally a deputy would never succeed in his own force, but Proud’s diplomacy had overcome that hurdle years before, by having Skinner’s spell as security adviser to
the Secretary of State recognised officially as outside experience.
So what had kept him in the job? Paradoxically, it was Skinner himself, and his ambivalence, his refusal to commit himself to applying for the position. For a while it seemed that he had decided firmly against it, but a wise counsellor had persuaded him to consider where his duty really lay. But still, Proud could not be sure whether, when he did give up the baton, his anointed successor would pick it up.
And now here was Kevin O’Malley, throwing a spanner into the works. Sabbatical leave, indeed; he respected O’Malley, and he saw the merit in his proposal, but the timing was just plain wrong. It was an open secret that the name of Willie Haggerty, his assistant chief constable, was pencilled in for the newly announced vacancy in Dumfries. When that happened a successor would have to be appointed, and he would want to consult his deputy about the candidates. Then there was the unexpected vacancy in the head of CID’s office, brought about by Dan Pringle’s retirement. That would accelerate an intended shake-up of the divisional CID commanders, and Bob would want to be around for that. Indeed, he had already mentioned turning down the London assignment, but Proud had been able to persuade him that it was too important.
He looked at Chrissie’s photograph on his desk. ‘Sorry, love,’ he whispered.
He had just turned back to his morning’s workload when Gerry Crossley, his secretary, buzzed him. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Sir James,’ the young man began. ‘I have a caller on the line who’s asking if she can speak to you, personally.’
‘Police or civilian?’
‘Civilian, sir. She says her name is Trudi Friend, and that it’s a highly sensitive personal matter.’
The chief constable gasped. ‘I’ve never heard of the woman. She’s asking for me personally, you say?’
‘Yes, sir. I asked her if she could give me a little more detail, but she declined. She says that because of the nature of her request she can only explain it to you.’
‘Tell her to explain it in writing, in that case: if it’s a complaint against one of my officers it has to be handled formally.’
‘I’ve told her that already. She assures me that it isn’t; she says that the matter is private and not professional.’
‘How does she sound? Is she hysterical in any way?’
‘Not at all: she’s perfectly calm, and perfectly polite.’
Proud sighed, then looked at the pile of work before him. What was getting him down, if not the routine? ‘In that case, Gerry,’ he said, ‘I’d better be the same. Put her through.’
As he waited, he realised that he was curious. It was an unusual feeling for him. He spent his life being bombarded by briefings, reports, committee minutes, and assorted other facts. Most of the time, people told him things that he already knew. He was protected, expertly, by his secretary and others, from callers outside his circle. He tried to remember the last question he had needed to ask at work, before the three that he had just put to Gerry, and failed.
‘Mrs Friend,’ Crossley announced. He heard the usual click on the line.
‘Sir James?’ The woman’s voice sounded fresh and vigorous.
‘It is. How can I help you?’
‘It’s very complicated, but what it boils down to is this: I’m trying to find my mother.’
The chief constable felt a bristle of indignation, but he controlled it. ‘Mrs Friend,’ he said, ‘there are routine channels for reporting missing persons. You can approach them directly, and save yourself quite a bit of time.’
‘It’s not like that, I assure you; it’s not that simple. I’ve come to you because I believe that you are the person best placed to help me.’
‘How long has your mother been missing?’
‘Forty-one years.’
‘Forty-one . . .’
Trudi Friend cut across his exclamation. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, but there are circumstances. Sir James, does the name Annabelle Gentle mean anything to you?’
The chief constable frowned as his mind travelled back to his teenage years. ‘Annabelle Gentle? No, I’m afraid that it doesn’t.’
‘How about Claude Bothwell?’
Claude Bothwell? he thought, and as he did, a face appeared before his mind’s eye. Claude? No, but Adolf, that’s another matter.
‘Where are you calling from, Mrs Friend?’ he asked.
‘I’m in Peebles.’
‘Can you get to Edinburgh easily?’
‘Yes. I can come up tomorrow, if necessary. Why?’
‘Because I think we should meet. I’d like to hear your story in person.’
Three
Inspector Dorothy Shannon enjoyed being based in Leith, for all its exotic reputation. Most of that came from times past: the eighteen years of her police service had seen considerable change, with bonded warehouses being turned into designer apartments, and new homes going up on demolished factory and warehouse sites, and in the dockland areas.
She had experienced a few misgivings when she was posted there, on promotion, but she had found it a pleasant place to work after years in those parts of Edinburgh that do not figure on the tour-bus routes.
She liked her job, too, most of the time. That morning was one of the exceptions. She was standing in a bookmaker’s office, in Evesham Street, not far from Great Junction Street: the proprietor, whose name was Gareth Starr, was facing her across the counter. She had answered a call-out to an attempted robbery. It had not gone well for the thief; indeed, he had suffered a net loss in the transaction.
Dottie Shannon glared at the little, grinning man. ‘Do you find this funny?’ she asked.
Starr’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter as he looked at the object on the counter. ‘Fuckin’ hilarious, doll,’ he replied.
‘That may change soon,’ said Detective Sergeant Sammy Pye, from the doorway. ‘Tell me what happened here.’
The man pointed to the uniformed inspector. ‘I just told her.’
‘Fine, now tell me again.’
‘If you insist. I’d just opened up when this bloke comes in.’
‘You were alone?’
‘Aye. I’m not usually, but Big Ming, ma board man, was down at the corner shop getting coffee and bacon rolls for us. Anyway, this idiot comes crashin’ through the door, youngish fella, but no’ that young, late twenties, maybe. He looks around and then he pulls out a gun and waves it at me. “Ah’m armed,” he shouts. I told him that I could see that, then I asked what he wanted. I took a look at his eyes: they were all over the place. He was drugged up, for sure.’
‘Did he offer any other violence?’
‘Nah, he just pointed the gun at me and told me to hand over all the cash I had in the place. I told him that I don’t have a lot of cash at the start of business, just my float. I expect the punters to give me theirs as the day goes on. He told me to shut the fuck up and gi’e him what I had. I took another look at his eyes, then at the gun . . . he was waving it all over the place . . . and I opened the safe. He couldn’t see in, so I only took some of what was in there, about a grand, and put it on the counter.’
‘So far so good,’ said Pye. ‘And then what?’
‘Then the stupid bastard,’ Starr beamed at the memory, ‘tucks the gun under his left oxter, and goes to pick it up with his right hand. And that’s when . . .’
‘That’s when he whacked him with the bayonet.’ Dottie Shannon’s lip seemed to curl with distaste.
‘Where did it come from?’ asked the detective sergeant.
‘It was in the safe,’ Starr told him. ‘I palmed it when I took the cash out.’
Pye leaned over and looked at the great blade. It was embedded in the wooden counter, nailing down a pile of cash, on top of which lay a severed finger. There was blood all around, and in a trail to the door. ‘Where did you get it?’ he asked.
‘It was ma father’s. He brought it back from Korea: he said it had seen the insides of a right few Chinese.’
‘You keep it sharp, do
n’t you?’
‘It’s no use if it’s blunt, is it?’
‘Do you have any other weapons here?’
‘What do you mean, weapons? I’m entitled to defend maself, am I no’?’
‘I’m going to leave that for the procurator fiscal to decide,’ Pye told him. He crouched, took out a handkerchief, and very carefully picked up a Luger pistol, which lay on the floor. ‘Have you touched this since the intruder dropped it?’
‘No, I left it for you people.’ The bookie’s ebullience seemed to be fading away.
‘Come on, Mr Starr, did you really think this was a firearm?’
‘How can you say it’s not?’
‘By the weight, for a start: this is plastic. And by the size: a real Luger would be bigger than this.’ He glanced at it. ‘Finally by the fact that it’s got “Made in China” stamped on the butt.’
‘How was I to know that?’ Starr protested.
‘I’m not sure you cared.’
‘The bastard was trying to rob me. Why should Ah care?’
‘Like I said, that’s not a question I’m going to deal with at the moment. The man you mentioned, Big Ming? Where is he?’
‘He’s in the back shop.’
‘Is that Ming as in Menzies?’ asked Shannon.
‘Nah, his name’s Jim Smith. We call him that because he smells a bit.’
‘Did he see any of this?’
‘The boy bumped into him when he ran for it, but that was all.’ Starr scowled. ‘Knocked the coffees and the bacon rolls all over the fuckin’ place.’
‘Had you ever seen the thief before?’
‘Not that I remember; he’s not one of my regulars, that’s for sure.’
‘Description?’
‘Maybe six feet, skinny, needed a shave. He wore a green jacket and a grey woolly hat: at least I think it was grey. The thing was filthy.’
Pye turned to Shannon. ‘We’d better find this bloke quick, Dottie. Could you arrange for uniformed officers to check with the Western General and the Royal for anyone who’s wandered in minus a right index finger?’ He took an evidence bag from his pocket, picked up the detached digit and, very carefully, placed it inside. ‘I’ll take care of the forensic side. At least we won’t have any trouble getting a print. Mr Starr, I want you to come with me: we’ll need a formal statement from you. Meantime, you’d better hope that this man hasn’t bled to death. In fact, I’ll let you call your lawyer right now. You might want him to meet you at my office.’
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