‘I know Hanlon; he’ll want to sit alongside you.’
‘You’re right. He’s asked if he could, and not only him. Clive Graham tried it before him. I’ve told them both that they’re not on. This is the assassination of a high-profile public figure we’re dealing with and I’m damned if I’m having anything that sniffs of political posturing alongside it.’
‘Hah!’ Martin exclaimed. ‘That’s already happened. I’ve just seen that Joey Morocco guy vox-popped on telly, outside in Buchanan Street. The way he tells the story, the First Minister’s something of a hero, standing up in the line of fire when the emergency lights came back on. Graham’s going to have to give himself a gallantry medal.’
‘Stupidity medal more like.’ Skinner paused. ‘Did Morocco say who the victim is?’
‘No, but he did say it isn’t Aileen, or Paula. They are both unhurt, yes?’
‘Yes, fine, I’ve spoken to them both, before I had them rushed out of here. Aileen wanted to stay and wave the red flag, of course.’
‘Ouch! Bob, can I do anything? Personally, or through the agency?’
‘Yes, you can. I’d like you to take Alex to Sarah’s, and stay there with her. I don’t believe for a second there’s any sort of threat to them, but I’m feeling a bit prickly, and I want all my family under one roof and looked after till I can get to them.’
‘I understand. I’ll do that. Now, Alex wants to speak.’
Skinner could picture his elder daughter snatching the phone from her partner’s hand. ‘Dad!’ Her voice had the same breathless tone as Sarah’s, a little earlier.
‘Be cool, kid,’ he told her. ‘The panic’s over; there’s no hostage situation or anything like that. Andy will tell you as much as he can. I have things to do and then I have to go to the Royal Infirmary. We have a cop there fighting for his life and I have to see how he’s doing. Go now. I’ll see you when I can.’
He ended the call and walked back towards the pool of light in front of the stage. The First Minister had been escorted away by his protection officers, and Councillor Hanlon had gone to the Glasgow council headquarters, to have them made ready for the media briefing to come. But Skinner was not standing guard alone.
‘I’ve just spoken to your niece,’ he said to Detective Chief Inspector Lowell Payne. ‘I didn’t tell her you were involved, though, in case she phoned Jean. There’s enough anxiety in my family without spreading it to yours.’
There was a personal link between the two men, one that had nothing to do with the job. Ten years after the death of Skinner’s first wife, Myra, Alex’s mother, Payne had married her sister.
‘Thanks, Bob. I appreciate that.’
‘Don’t mention it. Listen, Lowell, this job I’ve taken on, temporary or not, I have to be on top of it from the start. That means I need to get up to speed very quickly on the basics of the force, areas where my knowledge may be lacking: its structure, its strengths and its weaknesses, as perceived within the force.
‘I’m going to need somebody close to me, to advise me and instruct me where necessary, a sound, experienced guy. You’ve got twenty-five years plus in the job, all of it in Strathclyde. Will you be my aide, for as long as I need one? Officially, mind; you’ll come off CID for the duration and operate as my liaison across the force. You up for it?’
The DCI seemed to hesitate. ‘Are you not worried there might be talk, about you and me being sort of related?’
‘No, and anyway, we’re not. My daughter being your niece does not make you part of my family, or me part of yours.’
‘In that case the answer’s yes.’
‘Good. Now, what’s happening outside?’
‘Everybody’s calm, and they’re leaving. They’re all potential witnesses, I know, but there’s no need to ask them all for contact details, since they’re all on a central database. They all booked through the internet, so they all had to leave their details.’
‘Good man. Not that we’ll need to go back to any of them. None of them can answer any of the questions we need to ask.’
‘Those being?’
‘Who sent the hit team, and why?’
Payne frowned. ‘Why? Does there have to be a why these days, when terrorism is involved, and politicians are the target?’
‘Doesn’t matter. It’s our job to look for it.’
‘And mine to help you.’
Skinner turned. He had recognised the voice, from many similar scenes over many years. The man who faced him was clad in a crime-scene tunic, complete with a paper hat that failed to contain the red hair that escaped from it. Looking at him the chief wondered if he would have recognised him in ordinary clothes, or, God forbid, in uniform.
‘Arthur,’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re looking as out of water as I feel. What the hell are you doing in Glasgow?’
‘You should know, boss,’ Detective Inspector Dorward replied. ‘You approved the set-up. Ever since forensic services were pulled together into a central unit, we’ve gone anywhere we’re needed and more than that, we’ve had a national duty rota at weekends. I drew this straw. And bloody busy I’ve been. I’d not long left a very messy scene in Leith when I got the call to come through here.’ He paused. ‘But I could ask you the same question. Why are you here?’
‘I was following a line of inquiry. It led me here.’
Dorward raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh aye,’ he drawled. ‘I know what that means. So far I’ve counted four bodies on the ground. Any of them down to you?’
‘Just the one.’
Dorward nodded towards the figure under the jacket. ‘Not her, though?’
‘Definitely not. Now don’t push your luck any further, Arthur.’
‘Fair enough, Chief; in return, you get your big feet off my crime scene.’ He looked at Payne. ‘And you.’ He paused. ‘Here, weren’t you at Leith?’
The Strathclyde DCI nodded.
‘Then what the fuck’s going on here? What’s the connection?’
‘Never mind that,’ Skinner told him. ‘This is what matters. For openers, we need you to recover the bullets that killed our victim here, for comparison with the ones that were recovered from the two bodies in Leith.’
‘Are you saying they’ll be the same?’
Skinner nodded.
‘And if they’re not?’
‘Then we’re all going to find out how deep shit can get. Go to work, Arthur.’
‘Errr . . .’ a deep contralto voice exclaimed from the relative darkness beyond the floodlights, ‘can we just hold on a minute here?’
Its owner stepped into the bright light. She was tall, around six feet, and wore, over an open-necked white shirt, a dark suit that did nothing to disguise the width of her shoulders. Her hair was dark, swept back from a high forehead, her eyes were a deep shade of blue, but her nose was her dominant feature. A warrant card was clipped to the right lapel of her jacket.
She eyed Skinner, up and down, no flicker of recognition on her face. ‘So who the hell are you, to be giving orders at my crime scene?’ she asked, slowly.
The chief constable took his own ID from a pocket and displayed it. She looked at it, then shrugged.
‘That doesn’t answer my question,’ the woman retorted. ‘That says Edinburgh. Okay, the earth might have moved for me last night, but not that much. As far as I know, this is still Strathclyde.’
Payne took half a pace forward. ‘Cool it, Lottie. This is Chief Constable Bob Skinner, and you know who I am.’
She frowned at him. ‘Sure, I know who you are. You’re a DCI and you’re in strategy. I’m serious crimes, which this as sure as hell is, from what I was told and what I saw outside. That puts me in command of this crime scene.’ She nodded sideways, in Skinner’s general direction. ‘As for our friend here . . .’
‘Sir,’ Payne sighed, ‘I must apologise to you, on behalf of the Strathclyde force. My colleague here, DI Charlotte Mann, she’s got a reputation for being blunt, and sometimes she takes it to the point of rudeness.
Lottie, get off your high horse. We know what’s happened here . . .’
‘I don’t,’ she snapped back. ‘I know there’s a dead cop outside in Killermont Street, and two other gunshot victims, but I don’t know how they got there. I don’t know who’s under that jacket . . .’
‘You’d better take a look, then,’ Skinner told her.
‘You speak when you’re spoken to . . . sir. And don’t be trying to tell me my job.’ She stepped across to the body.
‘Be careful over there,’ the blue-suited Dorward warned, but she ignored him as she lifted the jacket from the prone form.
‘Bloody hell!’ she exclaimed as she observed the shattered head. She peered a little closer, then looked over her shoulder, at Payne. ‘Lowell,’ she murmured ‘is this . . . ?’
He nodded.
‘And the two men outside?’
He nodded again. ‘The shooters.’
‘So you see, Inspector,’ Skinner said. ‘We do know what’s happened here.’
The DI glared at him. ‘You might, chum, but the procurator fiscal doesn’t, and it’s my job to investigate these incidents and report to her. So you can shove your Edinburgh warrant card as far as it’ll go. It means nothing to me. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just another witness, and for all I know you might even be a suspect. My team should all be here within the next few minutes. Do not go anywhere; they will be wanting to interview you.’
‘Aw, Jesus!’ Payne laughed, out loud. ‘I’ve had enough of this.’ He glanced at Skinner. ‘May I, sir?’
‘You’d better,’ the chief conceded. He moved aside, letting the DCI step up to his CID colleague and whisper, urgently and fiercely in her ear, then catching her eye as she looked towards him, nodding gently, in answer to her surprise.
She walked towards him. ‘They didn’t waste any time filling the chair,’ she said.
‘They . . . they being the First Minister and the Police Authority chair . . . felt that they didn’t have a choice. I was asked and I accepted: end of story. It’ll be formalised on Monday, but as of now you take orders from me and anyone else I tell you to.’ He paused. ‘Now, Inspector, tell me. How are your traffic management skills?’
Lottie Mann held his gaze, unflinching. ‘The traffic will do what I fucking tell it, sir,’ she replied, ‘if it knows what’s good for it. But wouldn’t that be a bit of a waste?’
Skinner’s eyes softened, then he smiled. ‘Yes, it would,’ he agreed, ‘and one I don’t plan to have happen. I know about you, Lottie. ACC Allan told us all about you, at a chief officers’ dinner a while back.’
For the first time, her expression grew a little less fierce. ‘What did he say?’ she asked.
‘He said you were barking mad, a complete loose cannon, and that you were under orders never to speak to the press or let yourself be filmed for TV. He told us a story about you, ten years ago, when you had just made DC, demanding to box in an interdivisional smoker that some of your male CID colleagues had organised, and knocking out your male opponent inside a minute. But he also said you were the best detective on the force and that he put up with you in spite of it all. I like Max, and I rate him, so I’ll take all of that as a recommendation.’
Mann nodded. ‘Thank you, sir. Actually it was inside thirty seconds. Can I take your statement now . . . yours and the guy I was told you arrived with?’
The chief grinned again. ‘Mine, sure, in good time. My colleague, no. His name won’t appear in your report and he won’t be a witness at any inquiry.’
‘Spook?’
‘Spook. That reminds me.’ He turned to Payne. ‘Lowell, there is bound to be at least one CCTV camera covering the Killermont Street entrance. I want you to locate it, them if there are others, and confiscate all the footage from this afternoon. When we have it, it goes nowhere without my say-so.’
‘Yes, sir.’
As the DCI left, Skinner led Mann away from the floodlight beam and signalled to Dorward that he and his people could begin their work. He stopped at an auditorium doorway, beneath a green exit sign and an emergency lamp.
‘Lottie, this is the scenario,’ he said. ‘On the face of it, a contract hit has taken place here. I can tell you there have been rumours in the intelligence community of a terrorist attempt on a British political figure. So, it’s being suggested there’s a possibility Chief Constable Field was mistaken for the real target: my wife, Aileen de Marco, the Scottish Labour leader. Aileen usually wears red to public functions. This evening she didn’t, but Toni Field did.’
‘That suggestion’s bollocks,’ she blurted out. ‘Sir.’
His eyebrows rose. ‘Why?’
‘A couple of reasons. First, and with respect . . .’
The chief grinned. ‘I didn’t think you had any of that.’
‘I do where it’s deserved. I know about you too. And I know about your wife. She’s my constituency MSP, and she’s a big name in Glasgow, even in Scotland. But not beyond. So, killing her, it’s hardly going to strike a major blow for Islam, is it?’
‘Go on.’
‘Okay. You say this is a contract hit. So, let’s assume that the two guys outside weren’t amateurs, however dead they might be now.’
‘Far from it. They were South African mercenaries, both of them.’
‘Right. That being the case, they’re going to have seen photographs of their target. Your wife is about five eight and blonde. Toni Field was five feet five with her shoes on and she had brown hair. But even more important, Aileen de Marco is white, and Chief Constable Field was dark-skinned. These people knew exactly who they were here to kill, and they didn’t make a mistake. That’s my professional opinion. Sir.’
Skinner gazed at the floor, then up, engaging her once again. ‘And mine too, Detective Inspector,’ he murmured. ‘But let’s keep it to ourselves for now. The media can run with whatever theories they like. We won’t confirm or knock down any of them. Tell me,’ he added, ‘what did you think of Toni Field?’
‘Honestly?’
‘I don’t believe you could tell it any other way.’
‘On the face of it, she was a role model for all female police officers. In reality, she was a careerist, an opportunist and another few words ending in “ist”, none of them very complimentary.
‘I liked DCC Theakston, but she had him out the door as fast as she could. I more than like ACC Allan, he’s the man I’ve always looked up to in the force, and she had her knife out for him as well. She might have been a good police officer herself, but she didn’t know one when she saw one. I have a feeling that you might.’
‘I believe I’m looking at one.’ He pushed the door open. ‘Come on. You’re with me.’
‘Where? I’m supposed to be in command here.’
‘Mmm. True,’ he conceded. ‘Okay, get your team together, and give them dispositions. You need to search the building for anything the shooters left behind. The weapon they used was a Heckler and Koch, standard police issue, so the assumption is, they must have worn uniforms to get in.
‘Tell your people to find those, and then find out whether they’re authentic. If so, we need to establish whose they were, because we’re looking for those owners. Beyond that the work here’s for Dorward and his people. Once you’ve got your people moving, I have to do a press conference, and I want you with me.’
‘Me?’
‘Absolutely. I think Max was wrong to hide you away. You’re a gem, Lottie; the Glasgow press deserve you. Just mind the language, okay?’
Three
‘Can I get you coffee?’ the Lord Provost of Glasgow asked.
Bob Skinner smiled. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he replied, ‘but given that it’s nine o’clock on a Saturday evening, if we accepted you’d either have to make it yourself or nip out to Starbucks. No, the use of your office for this short meeting is generosity enough. Now, if you’ll . . .’
Dominic Hanlon took the hint. ‘Come on, Willie,’ he murmured. ‘This is operational; it�
�s not for us.’
‘Oh. Oh, aye.’ The two councillors withdrew.
The Lord Provost was still wearing his heavy gold chain of office. Skinner wondered if he slept in it.
‘Right,’ he said, as the door closed. ‘We’ll keep this brief, but I wanted a round-up before we all left.’ He looked to his right, at Lottie Mann, and to his left, at Lowell Payne, who had joined them as the press briefing had closed.
The conference had been a frenzied affair. It had been chaired by the Strathclyde force’s PR manager, but most of the questions had been directed at Skinner, once his presence had been explained.
‘Can you confirm the identity of the victims, sir?’ the BBC national news correspondent had asked. She was new in the country, and new to him, sent up from London to make her name, he suspected.
‘Sorry, no,’ he had replied, ‘for the usual next-of-kin reasons, not operational. However,’ he had added, halting the renewed clamour, ‘I can tell you that the First Minister is unharmed, as is the Scottish Labour leader, Aileen de Marco, who was also present.’
‘Joey Morocco says the victim inside the hall was female, and that she was sitting next to the First Minister.’
‘Joey Morocco was there. I wasn’t. I’m not going to argue with him.’
‘Why isn’t the First Minister here?’
‘Because he was advised not to be.’
‘By you, sir?’
‘By his own protection staff.’
‘Does that mean there’s a continuing threat?’
‘It means they’re being suitably cautious.’
‘There are two men lying in Killermont Street, apparently dead. It’s been suggested that they were the killers. Can you comment?’
‘Yes they were, and they are both as dead as they appear to be.’ Skinner had winced inwardly at the brutality of that reply, but nobody had picked up on it. ‘As is the police officer they murdered as they left the hall,’ he had continued. ‘His colleague is in surgery as we speak.’
‘Are you looking for anybody else?’
‘You’re asking the wrong person. I’m here by accident, remember. That’s a question for Detective Inspector Mann of Strathclyde. She’s the officer in charge of the investigation.’
Pray for the Dying Page 3