Pray for the Dying

by Quintin Jardine

  Copyright © 2013 Portador Ltd

  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.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group 2013

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  E-pub conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire

  eISBN: 978 0 7553 5706 2

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

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  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Also by Quintin Jardine

  About the Book

  Dedication

  PreScript

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  PostScript

  About the Author

  Twenty years ago Quintin Jardine abandoned the life of a media relations consultant for the more morally acceptable world of murder and mayhem. Over thirty published novels later, it’s a decision that neither he nor his global network of fans have ever regretted. Happily married, he splits his time between Scotland and Spain, but he can be tracked down through his website www.quintinjardine.com.

  By Quintin Jardine and available from Headline

  Bob Skinner series:

  Skinner’s Rules

  Skinner’s Festival

  Skinner’s Trail

  Skinner’s Round

  Skinner’s Ordeal

  Skinner’s Mission

  Skinner’s Ghosts

  Murmuring the Judges

  Gallery Whispers

  Thursday Legends

  Autographs in the Rain

  Head Shot

  Fallen Gods

  Stay of Execution

  Lethal Intent

  Dead and Buried

  Death’s Door

  Aftershock

  Fatal Last Words

  A Rush of Blood

  Grievous Angel

  Funeral Note

  Pray for the Dying

  Oz Blackstone series:

  Blackstone’s Pursuits

  A Coffin for Two

  Wearing Purple

  Screen Savers

  On Honeymoon with Death

  Poisoned Cherries

  Unnatural Justice

  Alarm Call

  For the Death of Me

  Primavera Blackstone series:

  Inhuman Remains

  Blood Red

  As Easy As Murder

  Deadly Business

  The Loner

  About the Book

  ‘After what happened, none of us can be sure we’re going to see tomorrow’

  The killing was an expert hit. Three shots through the head as the lights dimmed at a celebrity concert in Glasgow. A most public crime and Edinburgh Chief Constable Bob Skinner is right in the centre of the storm as it breaks over the Strathclyde force. The shooters are dead too, killed at the scene. But who sent them?

  The crisis finds Skinner, his private life shattered by the abrupt end of his marriage, taking a step that he had sworn he never would. Tasked by Scotland’s First Minister with the investigation of the outrage, he finds himself quickly uncovering some very murky deeds . . . and a fourth body, whose identity only adds to the confusion.

  The trail leads to London, where national issues compromise the hunt. Skinner has to rattle the bars of the most formidable cage in the country, and go head to head with its leading power brokers . . . a confrontation that seems too much, even for him.

  Can the Chief solve the most challenging mystery of his career . . . or will failure end it?

  For Eileen, for ever, or as close to that as we can manage.

  PreScript

  From the Saltire newspaper, Sunday edition:

  Strathclyde Chief Constable believed dead in Glasgow Concert Hall Shooting

  By June Crampsey

  Mystery still surrounds a shooting last night in Glasgow’s Royal Concert Hall in which a woman was killed in a VIP seat at a charity concert, inches away from Scotland’s First Minister, Clive Graham MSP. The identity of the victim has still to be confirmed officially, but it is believed that she was Antonia Field, the recently appointed Chief Constable of the Strathclyde Force, the second largest in the UK after London’s Met.

  The killing was carried out by two men, who were themselves shot dead as they tried to escape, after murdering a police officer and critically wounding another.

  A security cordon was thrown round the hall immediately after the incident, but reporters could see what appeared to be three bodies outside in Killermont Street, one of them in police uniform. A fourth man, said to be a police officer, was taken away by ambulance, and a spokesman for Glasgow Royal Infirmary confirmed later that he was undergoing emergency surgery for gunshot wounds.

  Edinburgh Chief Constable Bob Skinner, husband of Scottish Labour leader Aileen de Marco who was a guest of the First Minister at the fund-raiser, took command at the scene. Briefing media in Glasgow City Chambers, he refused to name the victim, but did say that it was not his wife, nor was it the woman who had accompanied her to the concert, believed to be Edinburgh businesswoman Paula Viareggio, the partner of another senior police officer in the capital, Detective Chief Superintendent Mario McGuire.

  Most of the eyewitnesses refused to speak to journalists as they were ushered away from the concert hall. Many seemed to be in shock. However, world-famous Scottish actor Joey Morocco, Master of Ceremonies for the evening, told the Saltire as he left, ‘There
was complete confusion in there.

  ‘The conductor, Sir Leslie Fender, had just raised his baton and the house lights had dimmed when I heard three sounds that I know now were shots, one after the other. Then everything went completely dark, pitch black, and someone started screaming.

  ‘Before that, though,’ Mr Morocco continued, ‘I was standing in the wings and I was facing the audience. In the second or two before the lights went out, as the shots were fired, I saw movement in the front row. There were three women on the First Minister’s left.

  ‘Aileen, she’s a friend, by the way, she was sat furthest away from him, then her companion, Paula, and then the lady who’d arrived with Mr Graham. I don’t know her name, but somebody said she’s the chief constable. I saw her jerk in her seat then start to fall forward. That’s when the lights went out.

  ‘The emergency lighting came on automatically, after a few seconds. It wasn’t much good, but I could make out that the seat next to the First Minister was empty and that there was a shape on the floor.

  ‘There was panic after that. I heard Mr Graham shouting for help, then I could just make out a policeman rushing forward. I think it was Mr Allan, the assistant chief constable. I tried to use the mike but it was useless with the power being out, so I jumped up on to the conductor’s podium and yelled to everyone to stay in their seats and stay calm until the lighting was restored. But the people in the rows nearest the front, some of them realised what had happened and they started to panic.

  ‘Mr Graham was brilliant. He stood up, called out to everyone to stay where they were, for their own safety. It was an incredibly brave thing to do,’ Mr Morocco added. ‘He might have been the target himself and the gunman might still have been there, but he put himself right in the line of fire, then he took off his jacket and put it over the woman on the floor. That’s when I knew for sure that she was dead.

  ‘Thing is,’ he explained, ‘she was wearing a red dress. Normally at a big public event Aileen wears red, her party colours, but last night, for some reason, she didn’t. So I’m wondering if she was the intended target and whether the gunman just made a mistake.’

  Addressing journalists in a hastily convened briefing in the Glasgow City Council Chambers, after being asked by the First Minister to take charge of the situation, Mr Skinner refused to comment on Mr Morocco’s speculation.

  ‘It’s way too early to be making any assumptions,’ he said firmly. ‘We believe we know who the shooters were, but we’re a long way from understanding their motives.’

  Asked whether Al Qaeda might be involved, he replied, ‘I’m not ruling that out, but the gunmen were not Muslim and the nationality of a third person involved in the plot makes that highly unlikely. However, I can tell you that this was a well-planned operation carried out by people with special skills.

  ‘We’ve been able to establish already that the hall was blacked out by an explosion that took out the electricity substation serving the building. It was remotely detonated as soon as the shots had been fired. We’re also sure that the two men gained entrance to the building dressed as police officers, and ditched their disguises before trying to escape.’

  He refused to go into detail on how they had been killed, or by whom.

  When I spoke to him later, by telephone, he explained that neither of the victims could be identified before their next of kin had been told. He added that the First Minister was under close protection at his home, and that his wife was also being guarded at a secret location.

  One

  ‘I put Paula in harm’s way, Mario,’ Bob Skinner murmured, as he gazed at his colleague, their faces pale in the glare of the freestanding spotlights that had been set up to illuminate the scene. ‘I am desperately sorry.’

  Never before had Detective Chief Superintendent McGuire seen his boss looking apprehensive, and yet he was, there could be no mistaking it.

  ‘How exactly did you do that, sir?’ he replied, stiffly. ‘Your wife invited my wife to chum her to a charity concert. Given that Aileen is a former and possibly future First Minister of our country, most people would regard that as something of an honour.’

  ‘Someone tried to kill her,’ Skinner hissed. ‘There was intelligence that a hit was being planned. You know that; I knew it. I was asleep at the fucking wheel, or I’d have considered that as a possibility.’

  ‘Then it was Paula that saved her life, Bob,’ McGuire pointed out, more gently. ‘If she hadn’t told Aileen that she was wearing a red outfit, on account of her being so pregnant it was the only thing that would fit, then Aileen would have worn her usual colour.’

  The chief constable frowned. ‘But Paula isn’t wearing red.’

  ‘No, she found something else. Thank your lucky stars again that she didn’t think to tell Aileen about it. Stop beating yourself up, man. Nobody’s going to blame you for anything, least of all me. Paula’s all right, she’s off the scene, and that’s an end of it.’

  Skinner nodded towards the splayed body, a few yards away from where they stood, in front of the auditorium stage of Glasgow’s splendid concert arena. ‘She would blame me, if she could.’ He put a hand to an ear. ‘If I listen hard enough I reckon I’ll hear her. Five minutes, that’s all it would have taken. If we’d got to our informant five minutes earlier . . .’

  ‘You’d probably have been caught in traffic,’ his colleague countered, ‘and got here no quicker. Okay, if the Strathclyde communications centre hadn’t been on weekend mode, you might have got the word to ACC Allan and prevented the hit . . . but they were and you didn’t.’

  ‘Speaking of old Max,’ Skinner murmured, ‘how is he? I didn’t have time to talk to him when he met us at the entrance. “She’s dead,” he said. That was all. I assumed it was Aileen. I didn’t wait to hear any more. I just charged inside and left him there.’

  ‘He’s wasted; complete collapse. When I got there he was sitting on the steps in the foyer with his face in his hands. He had blood on them; it was all over his face, in his hair. He was a mess.’ He paused. ‘The guy you were with, the fellow who took Paula and Aileen away. I only caught a glimpse of him. Who is he?’

  ‘His name’s Clyde Houseman. Security Service; Glasgow regional office.’

  ‘He’s sound?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Skinner’s eyes flashed. ‘Do you think for a minute I’d entrust our wives’ safety to him if I wasn’t sure of that? I told him to take them to the high security police station in Govan and to keep them there till he heard from me. And before you ask, there’s a doctor on the way there to check Paula out, given that she’s over eight months gone.’

  ‘But she was fine, as far as you could see?’ McGuire asked, anxiously.

  ‘Yes, like I said. Obviously, she got a fright at the time . . . not even Paula’s going to have the woman in the seat next to her shot through the head without batting an eyelid . . . but when I got to her she was calm and in control. Far more concerned about Toni Field than about herself.’

  ‘Did she see . . .’

  ‘Not much. Even when the emergency lighting came on, it wasn’t far short of pitch dark, and Clive Graham got between her and the body, and made his protection officers rush her and Aileen out of there, into the anteroom where I found them. Aileen screamed bloody murder, of course.’

  ‘Was she in shock?’

  ‘Hell no. It wasn’t from fright. She just didn’t want to leave. I’m a cynic where politicians are concerned, and my wife’s no different from any of them, maybe worse than most. She wanted to be seen here alongside Clive Graham, who appears to have been a complete fucking hero. He’ll get the headlines and Aileen was livid that she’ll be seen as a weak wee woman, hiding behind her husband. I wasn’t fucking wearing that, mate. I told Houseman to get them out of there, regardless of what she wanted, and I sent Graham’s people back to do their job.’ He grunted. ‘You know that actor guy, Joey Morocco? Didn’t he turn up on the bloody scene while all this was going on, demanding to know that Aileen was
all right!’

  ‘Morocco? The movie star? What’s his interest in Aileen?’

  ‘The very question I put to him, but she said they were old friends. News to me, but they were all over each other. I might as well not have been here. He offered to take the girls to his place, but I told him that unless it was bomb-proof like the Govan nick, that wouldn’t be a starter. Then I told him to clear out, with the rest of the civilians.’

  ‘How long are you going to keep them there?’

  The chief constable’s eyebrows rose. ‘Christ, Mario, I haven’t thought that far ahead. I’ve been here for twenty-five minutes, that’s all, trying to keep this crime scene secure till the forensic team arrive. Anyway, this isn’t our patch. That’s an operational decision for . . .’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Both police officers turned towards the newcomer. McGuire, irked by the interruption, frowned, but Skinner knew the voice well enough. ‘Clive,’ he murmured in greeting, as the First Minister stepped into the silver light, with his two personal protection officers no more than a yard behind him. He was tartan-clad, waistcoat and trousers, but no jacket. The chief constable guessed that garment was draped over the body of Toni Field.

  The woman had been his arch-enemy. She had been a surprise choice as head of the Strathclyde force, a job for which he had declined to apply, in spite of the entreaties of his wife and of the retiring chief. Most Scots assumed, therefore, that she had been appointed by default, but Skinner recognised the quality of her CV, and even more important its breadth, with success in the Met and England’s Serious Crimes Agency added to relevant experience as chief constable of the West Midlands.

  She and Skinner had been on a collision course from their first meeting, when it had become clear that Field was in support of the unified Scottish police force advocated by Clive Graham’s government, and that she expected to be appointed to lead it, regardless of his own ambitions.