16 - Dead And Buried

by Quintin Jardine

  Sir James Proud studied them all, his satisfaction growing with each favourable finding. He ended with the Herald, and was about to set it aside when a headline leaped at him from the foot of page one: ‘MI5 Chief and MP Die in Chopper Crash.’ Beneath it, there was a sub-head: ‘Tories Face By-election Test.’ He folded the newspaper and read.

  Downing Street confirmed last night that Sir Evelyn Grey, the director general of MI5, was one of three victims of a helicopter crash in Salisbury Plain. Ormond Hassett MP, the Conservative front-bench agriculture spokesman, also died when the craft went down and exploded on a flight from Surrey.

  Sir Evelyn (64) had been head of the Security Service since 1989. He was regarded as one of the government’s most influential advisers, and as the most powerful figure in the British intelligence community.

  Announcing his death, the Prime Minister’s Official Spokesman said, ‘The gap left by Evelyn Grey’s loss will be extremely hard to fill. The contribution which he has made to the national security cannot be overestimated.’

  Mr Hassett (63) had been MP for the Spindrift constituency since 1979. A grain merchant, he spent most of his career on the back benches, until his appointment to the agriculture team in 2003. It is understood that he and Sir Evelyn had been attending adjacent seminars in Surrey and that the intelligence chief had offered him a lift home. The pilot of the aircraft, Mr Winston Chalmers (37), was also killed.

  ‘Now there’s a tragedy,’ the chief constable said aloud, sighing as he laid down the newspaper and turned to his in-tray.

  Twenty minutes later, it was almost empty, when there was a knock on the door. ‘Come,’ he called out. It opened and his deputy entered. Proud beamed with pleasure as he rose from his chair. ‘Bob, welcome back. I wasn’t really expecting to see you again this year.’ He picked up the Scotsman. ‘I’ve just been reading about poor Evelyn Grey. Has that put your investigation on hold?’

  Skinner stared at him blankly. ‘Sorry?’ he said.

  ‘The helicopter crash: he was killed yesterday, along with a Tory MP. Didn’t you know about it?’

  The DCC recovered from his surprise, but not too quickly, he hoped. He replied with the literal truth: ‘No. Nobody told me. A helicopter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did they say how Hassett came to be on board?’ The words were still echoing, when he realised that the chief had not named the dead parliamentarian.

  It was a monumental gaffe: Proud knew that just as well as Skinner did. And then another possibility struck him. Had the slip been deliberate, even if only subconsciously? If so, it would make no difference, for the subject would never be raised by either of them again.

  ‘You look tired, my friend,’ said Proud Jimmy, as Skinner settled into the chair that faced across his desk. Then he corrected himself: ‘No, you look exhausted.’

  ‘I am. And, sweet Jesus, am I glad to be back.’

  ‘You’re finished in London?’

  ‘Yes, it’s all signed off: I’ve spent the last few days debriefing people, and being debriefed myself by some Americans.’

  ‘Americans?’

  ‘Yes, it went transatlantic. It was a very messy business, Jimmy: it showed me that I’d never really understood treachery before. I found out a lot about myself, too, and a lot about other people that I hadn’t really appreciated. As an example, I thought I knew Adam Arrow, but I didn’t, not at all. I saw this ultra-hard, ultra-efficient wee soldier, but really I was looking at a guy who had spent his life trying to live up to his dad, until it made him into someone else’s puppet. As another, I’ve always seen myself as a tough guy, but a moral one, yet Amanda Dennis was able to believe that another hard man would kill himself rather than face interrogation by me. That’s not what happened, but knowing me, she still accepted it without question. There’s one plus point, though. I found out that I can’t shoot someone dead in cold blood, not any more at any rate. The Americans gave me the okay to do that when I’d completed my mission in Delaware, but when it came to it, I declined. Maybe that was only because I actually liked the bastard I was supposed to terminate, but I hope not.’

  Proud looked at him. ‘Is all this self-discovery going to change you, do you think?’

  ‘I’d like to believe that it’s going to make me a humbler, gentler, wiser and more considerate man. Yes, I’d like to believe that . . . but I don’t know whether I’m actually capable of change.’

  Proud thought of the report that still lay in his desk. ‘O’Malley’s worried that you might be approaching your breaking point,’ he said.

  Skinner stared at him, and then he laughed bitterly. ‘That’s ironic, Jimmy, because I’m worried that I don’t have one. Will I tell you the conclusion that I’ve reached?’ He carried on without waiting for an answer.

  ‘I’m never going to do anything like this again. From now on, if someone says to me that I’m the only man for a really tough job, I’m going to ask him whether there’s any part of “Fuck off!” that he doesn’t understand.

  ‘I’m no longer interested in exploring my outer limits. My priorities are my family, which in time will come to include Aileen, and doing my job to the best of my ability, which means being a conventional police officer, not a fucking action man looking for every opportunity to stick his thick fucking head above the fucking parapet!’

  ‘Does that mean you’re ready to step into my chair?’ the chief constable asked quietly.

  ‘Only if I believe myself worthy of it, and I’m not sure that I am.’

  ‘As someone who’s sat in it for more years than most, I’m damn sure you are.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve got to convince myself.’

  ‘Then have some time off. That sabbatical that O’Malley recommended: six months; take it.’

  ‘That’s way too long, man.’

  ‘Three, then.’

  Skinner sighed. ‘Okay, I will, but I’ll go off at the end of January, to give me time to let the smoke clear and to let the new people settle into their new jobs. How’s McGuire been so far?’

  ‘Commanding. That post has been waiting for someone like him since you stepped up.’

  ‘McIlhenney?’

  ‘He’s making his presence felt already; and not just felt but respected.’

  ‘And Willie Haggerty? How’s his situation?’

  ‘He’s going. The Dumfries and Galloway board met yesterday; he’ll be their new chief constable.’

  ‘Are you ready to confirm Brian Mackie as his successor?’

  ‘Once Haggerty’s appointment is announced officially, I will.’

  ‘Christ, that means the wee Glaswegian will outrank me.’

  Proud laughed. ‘The solution to that lies with you. Go off on your leave and get your head sorted out.’

  ‘Okay, I will. Now, let’s change the subject to continuing investigations. Before I came in here I read that pile of papers on my desk. What have you done, in the light of your old rector’s evidence?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘I took Mr Goddard to see McIlhenney, of course, as senior investigating officer, and he made a formal statement. What else would I have done?’

  ‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing at all. What’s happened since then?’

  ‘Weston’s been arrested and charged with murder. When his house was searched they found ampoules, virtually empty, but still bearing traces of the drugs that were used to subdue the man Starr.’

  ‘The murder weapon?’

  ‘That hasn’t been found,’ said Proud. ‘However, they have obtained a set of knives that match those in the victim’s kitchen and they’ve had a specialist look at the missing one. She’s prepared to say, under oath, that the amputations were performed with an identical blade.’

  ‘How will the old man stand up in the witness box?’

  ‘Bob, there’s every chance that he’ll have taught the fathers of both prosecuting and defence counsel, not to mention the judge himself. He’ll cow them with a glance.’

  ‘Nice one.’
Skinner chuckled. ‘But, Jimmy, you keep saying “they”. It’s not: it’s “we”. It’s your force, a team, and you’re at its head. Man, while I’ve been away you’ve been leading from the front, all the way through.’

  ‘Even if I was a little self-indulgent over Trudi Friend’s mother?’

  ‘What was self-indulgent about that? If I’d been here I’d probably have farmed it out to a detective constable down in Peebles and we’d have heard no more of it. You did it your way and you uncovered a mass murderer, or what was left of him. Congratulations, Chief.’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you’d say all that to Chrissie: she still thinks I’m an old showboater who fell for a pretty face and went out of my way to impress her. As for your congratulations, I’m not sure I deserve them. I never did find Annabelle Gentle, and now, I never will.’

  ‘Oh, no? What did you find?’

  ‘Claude Bothwell, dead, and that was that: no trace of the women, no more leads, case closed.’

  ‘What did you expect to find under that shed? One dead woman, or maybe two. If that had been the case it really would have been all over. But you didn’t. You had a triangle, but not the way you expected.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Proud. ‘I’m old and tired. Walk me through this.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Skinner retorted. ‘You’re an outstanding police officer, you can work it out for yourself. Jimmy, a few days ago I found myself telling a guy in the States that nothing in this world is unbelievable. Now I’m being shown the truth of that yet again. I think I know these women.’

  Ninety-six

  ‘They come here every day that the weather permits,’ the captain told him, as they walked at a leisurely pace up the narrow street. ‘Except for Mondays, of course, when it is market day and very busy.’ They passed cafés, a pâtisserie, boutiques and a shop offering leatherwear, before stepping out into a sun-bathed square. ‘This is it, the Plaça de la Vila, the town place, you would say in English, and this is where they will be, at a table outside the Bar Isidre.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Proud. ‘And you’re sure they have no idea I’ve been asking about them?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to them, nor to anyone else. I have handled this thing myself.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I think it’s best I leave you to wait for them. They won’t be hard to recognise. They are still very beautiful.’ The policeman gave a brief salute, then turned and walked out of the square, not by the way they had come but up another street that wound its way up towards the old church.

  Proud settled into one of the plastic chairs outside Bar Isidre, his favourite spot in Torroella de Montgri. There were people around, but in January they were few, retired, mostly, from northern Europe, escaping dark winters; his ear caught German voices at the next table, English at another. He ordered a coffee and a croissant from the beaming proprietor, and settled in to wait. He knew the square well, and he loved its quirks. There was the big painted sun-dial on the south-facing aspect, three centuries old, set to Greenwich Mean Time, and ten minutes fast, whenever the sun shone. Opposite stood the restored building that was a care centre for the elderly, north-facing to keep it as naturally cool as possible in the summer months. Across the square there was the old exhibition hall with its spindly clock tower, topped by bells that rang the hour, then did it again two minutes later, in case anyone had missed them, or miscounted.

  He dunked his croissant in his coffee, listening and counting as they rang twelve times. And then he saw them, two figures walking up the hill towards him, each slim, each elegant, each with silver hair piled on the top of her head.

  They were chatting as they approached, the smaller of the two laughed at something, calling out a few words of Catalan: Proud could see her daughter in her face. He beckoned to the proprietor, whose name, printed on the sugar packets, was Josep. ‘Would you ask the ladies,’ he said quietly, ‘if they would care to have coffee with me?’

  He studied their faces as his invitation was conveyed, taking in their surprise, returning their glances with a smile and a nod, rising to his feet as they came to join him. ‘Good morning,’ he greeted them. ‘I’m very pleased you can join me.’

  ‘You’re Scottish,’ the taller woman observed.

  ‘I am, from Edinburgh, as it happens.’ He stood until they had taken seats, then resumed his own as Josep, unbidden, returned with two cortados, strong coffee with milk, served in small glasses. He smiled. ‘My name is James Proud,’ he began. ‘Forty-two years ago, I was a reasonably good athlete. I won a trophy at my school sports, and you, Señora, presented it to me. I’ve never forgotten you; I think I’d have recognised you anywhere.’

  Montserrat Rivera gasped; her mouth opened slightly and her face seemed to pale very slightly under her tan.

  ‘What do you do in Edinburgh, Mr Proud?’ Annabelle Gentle asked; her tone was more suspicious than curious.

  ‘Actually, it’s Sir James,’ he said, almost shyly. ‘I’m the chief constable.’ Their eyes narrowed slightly. ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have found you. I promised someone that I would.’

  ‘And who is that?’

  ‘Your daughter, Miss Gentle.’

  ‘My . . .’

  ‘Her name is Trudi Friend. She wants to find you because your granddaughter is getting married, and also, I believe, although she hasn’t said as much, because she thinks it’s time. She’s waiting in L’Escala, at my friend’s house, with my wife.’

  Montserrat Rivera gazed at him coolly. ‘If you’ve found us,’ she murmured, ‘you’ve found Bothwell. It was I. I killed him, not Annabelle. It was what he planned to do to me, I know it.’

  ‘So do I,’ Proud told her. ‘He’d already killed two wives.’

  Her eyes creased as she winced. ‘Why does that not surprise me? He was an evil man. Charming and handsome on the outside, but when you saw what was within him you knew that it was rotten. He beat me.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He stole from me; all the money my father gave me when we married.’

  ‘I guessed that.’

  ‘He seduced Annabelle. He told her I was a monster and that he was leaving me, after the school year was over. And then Annabelle and I met. She sought me out, because she wanted to see for herself how wicked I was. She bumped into me, as if by accident, in Patrick Thomson’s, the department store. We got to talking; we met again, and eventually she told me the truth. I was no fool. He had bought a new hut for the garden.’ Her eyebrows rose. ‘Imagine!’ She snorted. ‘A man is leaving, yet he does that, and buys cement to make concrete to stand it on. I saw him dig in the garden, and I feared what he was digging. So when he tried to kill me, in the kitchen, with a hammer, I was ready for him, and I killed him.’

  ‘No.’ Proud was startled by Annabelle’s forceful whisper. ‘That’s not what happened. We both killed him. I came to the house and we confronted him. He went berserk, flew into the most horrible rage I’ve ever seen, and he attacked us both with the hammer. I grabbed his arm and Montsy stabbed him. That’s how it was. When it was dark we rolled him in a rug, we buried him in the hole he had made, and then, next day, Montsy mixed the concrete and covered him. When it was hard, we moved the shed on to it. When we were finished we left, made a run for it in his car and came here, to Spain, where there was no extradition.’

  ‘You’ve lived here ever since?’

  ‘Yes,’ Montserrat replied. ‘We went to work in my father’s hotel, and when he retired, we took it over. We sold it five years ago; we’re retired now.’

  ‘What about Bothwell’s money?’

  ‘I found a bank-book for an account in the Channel Islands. I took back what was mine and left the rest. I still have the book.’ She looked at him. ‘So . . . Sir James . . . what happens now? You will have us arrested here, I suppose, and taken back to Scotland. There is extradition now.’

  ‘And what the hell would I do that for, Señora?’ Proud replied, with a chuckle. ‘I’d be a laughing stock
, prosecuting two lovely senior citizens for defending themselves from a double murderer. Even the very worst advocate in the country would be sure to get you acquitted, and your defence would be handled by the best.

  ‘You know,’ he continued, ‘there have been times lately when my memory has let me down. In fact, it’s happened again; blow me, but I’ve forgotten every word you two have just said to me. Apart from “What happens now?” The answer to that is that, with your agreement, I will take both of you to L’Escala in my Hertz car, and Annabelle will be reunited with her daughter. How does that sound?’

  As he looked at Annabelle Gentle, he saw her eyes fill, and overflow, not contradicting the smile on her face, but somehow enhancing it. ‘It sounds,’ she said, ‘like something I should have done fifty years ago.’

  ‘Good,’ Proud declared. ‘Let’s get on with it.’ He placed a ten-euro note on the table and waved to Josep. As he rose from his seat, he realised that, throughout a long career, he had never felt as good about anything he had done as he did at that moment.

  As they turned to leave the sun-washed plaça, Montserrat Rivera linked her arm through his. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘you really are a most remarkable detective.’

  Ninety-seven

  With her head on his shoulder, she gazed up at the bedroom’s corniced ceiling, dimly lit by the lights of St Colme Street. ‘Do you think the official residence is meant to be used for love trysts?’ she murmured.

  ‘This one’s entirely legitimate . . . by twenty-first-century Western standards, at least.’

  ‘I suppose so. It’s a new year, you’re divorced, and you’re on your own with the kids and the nanny.’

  ‘Yes, First Minister,’ he replied, ‘all of that is the case. And on Saturday, as agreed, you’re coming to meet them.’

  ‘God, maybe I should find that frightening. Until now we’ve only been contemplating a relationship; now we’ve got to make it work.’

  He laid his hand on the flatness of her firm belly, feeling her warmth, feeling the velvet smoothness of her skin. ‘We’ve made a pretty good start,’ he said. ‘You survived dinner with Alex this evening. How did you find her?’