16 - Dead And Buried

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Excellent. I know the general manager of the Balmoral well enough to borrow his photocopier. Let me make duplicates of your material, and we’ll see how far I can run with it.’

  ‘Are you sure? It’s really very good of you. I didn’t expect anything more than . . .’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I’m quite looking forward to it, in fact. It’ll be just like being back in action.’

  Eleven

  By any measurement, James Andrew Skinner was a handful. He was also a very perceptive little boy. It was not lost on him that he never did things with both his mum and dad together any more. His older brother Mark was less observant: he was a child of the Internet generation, and he had to be persuaded to leave his computer for an afternoon, even to see a special pre-Christmas morning showing of the newest Shrek movie. Happily, he was also a child of the pizza generation, and the mention of lunch afterwards at Benny and Jerry’s swung the issue.

  ‘It’s too bad Seonaid couldn’t come,’ James Andrew said, as he picked up a wedge of his mozzarella, tomato and pepperoni selection.

  ‘She’s too young, Jazzer,’ his father replied, ‘you know that.’

  ‘She watches Shrek on the DVD at home.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s different. She never sits still all the way through, plus she gives us a running commentary. You can’t do that in a cinema.’

  ‘When will she be old enough?’ he said, as he took a bite.

  ‘In a couple of years I guess. How old were you when we took you to your first movie?’

  ‘Four,’ the boy mumbled, through a mouthful.

  ‘There’s your answer.’

  ‘Why didn’t Mum come with us?’

  Bob shot a glance at his son. ‘She’s looking after Seonaid,’ he replied.

  ‘Trish could have done that.’

  ‘Mum doesn’t like Shrek,’ Mark pointed out. ‘She thinks Mike Myers’s accent is silly and she can’t stand the man who does the donkey voice.’

  ‘Dad can. Dad likes him, don’t you, Dad? You like Eddie Murphy, you laughed all the way through.’

  Bob wound the last of his spaghetti round his fork. ‘I like what he does in Shrek, and I like some of his early stuff, like Forty-eight Hours.’

  ‘And you like Mike Myers?’

  ‘Only when he’s a green ogre.’

  ‘So you like him.’

  ‘In that part, yes.’

  ‘So why don’t you and Mum like the same things?’

  ‘Jazz, shut up!’

  Bob’s fork had stopped halfway to his mouth at the question: when his older son spoke, he laid it back down on his plate. He had never heard Mark raise his voice to his brother, or to anyone else for that matter. James Andrew’s fists bunched, and for a moment it seemed that he was going to use them, until he caught his father’s eye and subsided back into his chair, his expression sullen, but not cowed. ‘I’ll ask what I want,’ he muttered.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ his brother shot back at him. ‘It’s a silly question, it’s none of your business, and it’s upsetting Dad. Married people don’t have to like the same things all the time. Isn’t that right, Dad?’

  ‘That’s true,’ Bob replied gratefully. ‘We’re all different, boys; every one of us is a unique individual, with our own likes and dislikes. It would be virtually impossible for two people, even people who are married to each other, to have exactly the same tastes.’

  ‘Tastes?’

  ‘Likes and dislikes, Jazz. Life isn’t like that. What if everyone liked the same football team?’

  The youngster grinned, his irrepressible humour surfacing once again. ‘It would be all right if it was Motherwell.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were a Motherwell supporter.’

  ‘You are, so I must be too.’

  ‘What have I just said? You’re a person in your own right. You don’t have to support the same team as me.’

  ‘But I want to.’

  Relieved that the conversation had moved away from the difficult direction in which it appeared to be heading, Bob gave in. ‘Have it your own way, then, be a ’Well fan . . . but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Come on now, finish up that pizza. There might just be ice-cream after it if you do.’

  The bribe worked: the boys concentrated on lunch and on talking about the movie. When they were finished he took them round to Borders, where he bought a video game for the boys, a tactile story book for Seonaid, a golf magazine for himself, and . . . he made a show of choosing it . . . a style glossy for Sarah. Harmony was restored completely, on the outside, yet as they drove home, after feeding the ever-growing colony of swans in Holyrood Park, Bob found himself glancing at Mark in the rear-view mirror, and wondering. The boy’s outburst in the restaurant had been astonishing, and completely out of character.

  Sarah was in the sun-room when they got back home to Gullane; when he glanced in, Bob saw her there with Seonaid sitting at her feet. The child was concentrating hard on screwing one of the legs off a Barbie doll. He unwrapped the video game in the kitchen and sent the boys upstairs to the playroom to plumb its mysteries, then went through to join them. When she saw him in the doorway, his daughter squealed, pushed herself to her feet and ran towards him. He swept her up in his arms, just as her balance became unsteady. ‘Daddy!’ she yelled, and kissed him, square on the nose.

  ‘Hey, baby, have you been a good girl?’

  ‘No,’ she replied firmly.

  ‘That’s true enough,’ said Sarah. ‘She’s made me watch Shrek II, and Finding Nemo. Not that she understands either of them.’

  ‘It’s the colours.’ He sat on the sofa, placing Seonaid between them and fishing inside his jacket for her present. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Play with that just now, and I’ll read it for you later.’ The toddler took the book with only moderate interest, slid back down to the floor, and resumed her attack on Barbie.

  Bob reached into the other pocket of his jacket and handed Sarah her magazine. ‘That’s for you,’ he said.

  She looked at it. ‘Mmm, interiors: that’ll come in handy.’ She picked a sheaf of papers from her lap and held them up. ‘The agent I commissioned to find me a place on Manhattan emailed me these this morning.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘One or two. I’m not going to rush into anything, though. I’m quite prepared to rent, until I find the right place. I can afford to now. I’ve had an offer on my parents’ place that’s way above what we expected. It opens up the possibility of a smaller place in New York and a weekend house in Connecticut, somewhere more suitable for the kids when I have them. I’m not going to work when they’re with me: I’m going to be a full-time mother then.’

  ‘I like the sound of that,’ he told her. ‘Listen, Sarah, we have to tell them what’s happening. I’m quite certain that Mark’s guessing already, and even the bruiser knows that something’s different. I know we’d wanted to put it off till after Christmas, but that’s not going to work.’

  She drew a deep breath. ‘You sure you’re not imagining things?’ He described the flare-up in the restaurant. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Yes, it sounds like you’re right. Okay, let them enjoy the rest of the day, then we’ll change their little lives tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t put it that way, please.’

  ‘Sorry. Look, Bob, I wasn’t implying anything: no fault, no blame, that’s what we agreed, and I’m happy with it.’ She paused. ‘Are you still seeing Alex this evening, to tell her?’

  ‘Yes. Want to come?’

  ‘No: it’s better that she hears it from you alone. If I’m there it could be awkward: she’s bound to take sides.’

  ‘As you wish, but you’re misjudging her.’

  ‘No, I’m not. She’s your daughter: it’s only natural she’s going to resent me for what’s happened.’

  ‘She won’t, but never mind.’ He picked up Sarah’s emails and began to look through them.

  ‘I almost forgot,’ she said. ‘There was a call for you while you were
out.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘He didn’t give me his name. He said he was calling from London, and he left a number you could call him back on. He said it was a secure line.’ She reached into the pocket of her shirt, took out a slip of paper, and handed it to him. ‘One of your spook friends, I suppose.’

  ‘Not just any old spook, I think. Thanks.’

  He went upstairs, to what was now his bedroom, and his alone, picked up the phone and dialled. He heard the ring tone twice, and then a click as it was answered. ‘Yesss?’ The enquiring voice was as dry as a skeleton.

  ‘Sir Evelyn?’

  ‘Yes.’ The tone changed with recognition. ‘Bob, thank you for calling. You left a message with my PA yesterday about a personnel change.’

  ‘That’s right. DCI McIlhenney’s no longer accompanying me: instead I’ll be assisted by Detective Inspector Dorothy Shannon.’

  ‘Is she up to the task?’

  ‘Of course she is, Evelyn. I wouldn’t be bloody bringing her otherwise.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s so, but some of my colleagues are worried that you’re entrusting the task to someone with so little experience of our . . . how to put it . . . environment.’

  ‘Which colleagues, exactly?’

  ‘You know, I’m sure; people from across the river.’

  Skinner almost growled: ‘This may be a daring thing for a simple Scots copper to say to the director general of the Security Service, but given the monumental catastrophe which your fucking environment almost brought about, it’s essential that the subsequent investigation is run by people from outside. You can tell your friends from the place across the river that Dorothy Shannon is my choice. She’s had positive vetting, and she’s been security cleared by me, personally. If she’s vetoed, then I’m not coming either. You know me well enough to understand that’s not a bluff. You also know, I reckon, that if it came to that, you’d be shat on from a great political height. My appointment was recommended by you, but, as you assured me, approved by the Prime Minister. If I’m forced out of this investigation, I will make certain that he knows how it came about.’

  ‘Don’t get excited, Bob,’ said the DG. ‘I’m not trying to force you out; as you say, you’re my personal choice for this assignment. If you’re happy with Inspector Shannon, that is good enough for me, and I’ll override any objections. I’m looking forward to seeing you on Monday. Is there anything I can do to help you when you get here?’

  ‘I’ll need a runner from within your organisation, and maybe someone from that other place, someone who can ensure that whatever I ask for, I get in full, and quickly.’

  ‘You’ll have my personal authority.’

  ‘So did Sean Green, and look where that got him.’

  ‘Touché. How have you dealt with that, by the way?’

  ‘The Fiscal’s Office has stamped the file as a suicide and closed it.’

  ‘Discreet, and effective. I’ll take your request on board. You’ll have your runners.’

  ‘Thanks. See you next week.’

  Twelve

  Detective Chief Inspector David ‘Bandit’ Mackenzie loved his family. He enjoyed all the free time he spent with Cheryl and the kids, but this weekend, well, it was something special: it was one that might never have been. A few days before, he had been involved in a shoot-out: he had escaped with his life, but still he felt as if he had left something behind him.

  He hugged his beer to his chest as he looked out of the window of his new home. It was not his first of the day. Three Miller Draft empties were sitting in a line in the kitchen, waiting for their friend to join them. He was unaware of his wife’s presence behind him, until she slipped her arms round his waist.

  ‘Hey, big boy,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘are you all right?’

  He jumped involuntarily at her touch. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, tipping his head back with the bottle. ‘Why do you ask that?’ He tried to sound casual, but it came out as defensive.

  ‘Because it’s not even five o’clock yet, and you’re halfway through a six-pack. Because the football results are on telly and you’re not paying the slightest attention.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he repeated. ‘It’s been a hard week, that’s all.’

  ‘It finished all right, though: a nice transfer to a CID section, away from all the druggies and the pushers. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure, you’re right, it is.’ He turned in her arms to face her, switching on the old Bandit smile as he did so. ‘Okay, how do you want to spend this promising Saturday night? Will we get a baby-sitter and go paint the town? Or will we get a takeaway and settle for a night of passion?’

  ‘One more beer and that’s off the agenda for sure. As it happens, the baby-sitter’s booked, and we’ve got a table for two at the Spanish restaurant near the parliament building.’

  ‘Olé! Will there be dancing? Do they have flamenco?’

  ‘I don’t imagine so.’ Cheryl Mackenzie laughed. She plucked the unfinished bottle from her husband’s hand, and headed towards the kitchen. She was passing the phone when it rang. She answered the call, listened, then turned, her hand cupping the mouthpiece. ‘It’s someone called DS Wilding. He says he needs to speak to you.’

  Bandit scowled. ‘He’s one of the people at Leith,’ he explained. ‘We met very briefly yesterday. Sorry, love; if this is his way of impressing the new boss he’s got it badly wrong.’ He took the handset from her. ‘Ray, what’s the panic?’

  ‘No panic, sir,’ Wilding replied calmly, ‘but something you need to know. I’m at a crime scene.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘A house in Trinity: twenty-two Swansea Street.’

  ‘Where’s that? I’m new to this patch, remember.’

  ‘Up from the waterfront, near the Starbank pub.’

  ‘What is it? A break-in?’ asked Mackenzie, irritably.

  ‘Do me a favour, sir. I wouldn’t have called you on your day off about a simple house-breaking. This is a homicide.’

  ‘Shit. Who’s the victim?’

  ‘His name’s Gareth Starr: he has to be the unluckiest man in town. Yesterday someone tried to rob him, but failed. Today somebody’s tried to bump him off, and succeeded.’

  ‘Definitely a homicide? Not just a suspicious death?’

  The chief inspector thought he heard his sergeant chuckle. ‘Oh, no, sir; all the suspicions are confirmed on this one.’

  ‘I suppose I’d better turn out. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ As he spoke, he saw Cheryl, standing in the kitchen, waving the beer bottle. ‘Tell you what, Ray,’ he added quickly, ‘have a car pick me up, so I don’t waste any time finding the place.’

  Thirteen

  Lady Proud smiled as she gazed at her husband, settled in his armchair, his face slightly flushed. Normally such a coloration would have worried her, but he had come back from his mysterious meeting in the Balmoral Hotel looking like his grandson always did after a trip to Toys R Us. She never asked him about his business, and normally he did not volunteer information, but on this occasion he had blurted out the whole story as soon as he had hidden his Jenners bags in the cupboard under the stair. ‘She must be quite a woman, this Trudi,’ she said. ‘It’s a long time since I put a look like that in your eye.’

  Sir James blinked. ‘Really, Chrissie, I don’t know what you mean by that. She’s attractive, certainly, with her Mauritian blood, but she’s not, well, she’s not like you at all.’

  ‘Keep digging, Jimmy, keep digging.’

  ‘What? Och! It’s got nothing to do with her. It’s her story that’s got me interested: her missing mother, the involvement with Adolf Bothwell. It’s a proper mystery when you think about it. This young woman, she has her illegitimate child with the help and advice of her sister and her husband, who also oversee its transfer into the care of Barnardo’s. After it’s all behind her, she goes off to make a new life for herself, but she still comes back to them for her holidays, the last tim
e all excited about this man she’s met, and is going to marry. And then she disappears, from their lives, from the school, from everything, without leaving any trace. Yes, a real puzzle.’

  ‘And you’re going to solve it, are you, Sherlock?’

  ‘I’m damn well going to try.’

  ‘It’s what you’ve always wanted, Jimmy, isn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To be a detective, like Bob Skinner, that man McGuire and all the rest.’

  ‘I’m quite happy with the way my career’s turned out,’ he said defensively.

  ‘Of course you are, but still, don’t tell me you’ve never envied Bob his skills.’

  He frowned. ‘Some of them, I admit; others, no. For example, I think I’ve proved myself rather better at marriage than him.’

  Chrissie Proud laughed. ‘You’ve had expert help.’

  He almost asked, ‘From whom?’ but realised, just in time.

  ‘So now you’re going to prove that you can find things out too.’

  ‘I think I can help the woman, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘But you have a couple of thousand people at your disposal who could help as well.’

  ‘No, no, that would never do. This situation doesn’t warrant police time being spent on it. This is something I have to handle myself. Who better than me anyway? I was there at the time all this happened. So were quite a few other people: I know who they are, and where they are today, as you’ll find out if you sit down and listen. Just wait for a moment until I get my book.’ He rose from his chair and left the room, returning a minute later, empty-handed. ‘Do you know where it is?’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s not where it should be. Have you been tidying up again?’

  Lady Proud rose, walked over to the television cabinet, opened it and took from its shelves a loose-leaf notebook, bound in heavy brown leather. ‘You used it on Tuesday,’ she reminded him pointedly. ‘When you were finished, you put it in there.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered sheepishly, avoiding her gaze as he took it from her and resumed his seat. He unclipped it, opened it, and flicked through the thick directory section until he found the number he sought, and dialled it. ‘Bertie,’ he said, as his call was answered. ‘Glad I caught you; I thought you might be at Muirfield. It’s Jimmy Proud here.’ He laughed. ‘I’m doing fine, and you’re not in trouble, if a Court of Session judge can ever get into trouble, that is. I want to pick what’s left of your brain about our schooldays.’ Pause. ‘Of course you can go that far back, it’s only forty-five years or so. Remember Adolf Bothwell?’ Pause. ‘That’s right: taught French and German. More than a bit full of himself, we all thought. Do you remember any whispers about him being involved with a junior school teacher called Annabelle Gentle?’ A longer pause. ‘No? Do you remember her?’ Pause. ‘No? Pity. Do you remember anything about his leaving the school?’ Pause. ‘Yes, that was my recollection too. There was no warning, his timetable was fixed, and he just didn’t turn up for the new term. Your brother, the Solicitor General: would he have been in the junior school then?’ Pause. ‘Upper primary, you reckon? Maybe I’ll have a word with him. There’s just one other thing. Remember when we were in our fourth year and we won the relay trophy at the school sports? Who presented it?’ Longer pause. ‘Yes, that matches my recollection. I was sure it was Adolf’s wife.’