Pray for the Dying

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Who was that little guy?’ Clyde Houseman asked, as he settled into the chair that Skinner offered him. ‘He wasn’t the sort you expect to see on the command floor of the second largest police force in Britain.’

  ‘Just a technician,’ the chief replied. ‘I had a wee problem, but he sorted it out for me.’

  ‘Computer?’

  He shrugged. ‘You know IT consultants, they live in a different world from the rest of us. Some of them turn up and they’re dressed like you, others, they’re like him. I know which ones I trust more. I’m not a big fan of dressing to impress.’

  The younger man winced and his eyes seemed to flicker for a moment. ‘I do . . .’

  Skinner laughed. ‘Don’t take it personally. I wasn’t getting at you. You’re ex-military, an ex-officer; you’ve had years of training in taking a pride in your appearance. Plus, you’re not a computer consultant; you’re a spook. Whatever, you look a hell of a lot better than you did as a gang-banger in Edinburgh half a lifetime ago.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘Me, now? I’ve never changed. I joined the police force because I felt a vocational calling, and I followed it even though I knew that my old man had always hoped I would take over the family law firm eventually. I think he died hoping that. I never let myself be swayed, though. I applied to join the Edinburgh force, they saw my shiny new degree and they accepted me. And you know what? The first time I put on the uniform, I realised that I hated it. The thing was ugly and uncomfortable and when I looked in the mirror I didn’t recognise the bloke inside it.

  ‘It didn’t kill my pride in the job, but it did make me want to get into CID as fast as I could. Look at me now; I’m a chief constable, but my uniform is hanging in my wardrobe next door. I’m only wearing a suit because I feel a wee bit obliged to do that, at least until I get settled in here.

  ‘The real me might dress a wee bit sharper than the guy you passed at the lift, but it would still be pretty casual. So what you see here, to an extent it’s a phoney. Old George Michael got it right; sometimes clothes do not make the man.

  ‘But yours, though, they do. They mark you out, they define you. The military defined you. It made you; you became it. Before that you were no more than eighty kilos of clay waiting to be given proper form.

  ‘I could see that when I came across you in that shithole of a scheme in Edinburgh. That’s why I gave you my card that day: I thought you might see the light and get in touch. You didn’t, but you still went in the right direction. If you had . . . you’d still be the man you are, but you’d just look a bit different, that’s all.’

  Houseman laughed. ‘Scruffy at weekends, you mean? How do you know I’m not?’

  ‘I know, because I’ve met plenty of soldiers in my time and quite a few were officers who rose through the ranks, like you. I’ll bet you don’t have a pair of jeans in your wardrobe. Am I right?’

  ‘You are, as a matter of fact. Is that a bad thing?’

  ‘In a soldier, no. In a lawyer, no. In an actuary, for sure no. When I hang out in Spain I see these fat blokes on the beach in gaudy shirts and ridiculous shorts, with gold Rolexes on their wrists and all of them looking miserable because their wives have dragged them there and they’re starting to panic because they don’t know who anyone else is and, worse, nobody knows what they are. My golf club’s full of people who’ve never worn denim in their fucking lives, and that’s okay, because if they did they’d be pretending to be something they’re not.’

  ‘Exactly. So what are you saying?’

  ‘I’m trying to tell you,’ Skinner said, ‘that conformity is fine for normal people. But you, Clyde, you’re not a normal person, you’re a spook. You’re a good-looking bloke, of mixed race, so you have an inbuilt tendency to be memorable. The way you dress, the way you present yourself, makes you unforgettable, and in your line of work, my friend, that is the very last thing you want to be. If they didn’t teach you that when you joined up at Millbank, then they failed you.’

  Houseman’s eyebrows formed a single line. ‘Point taken, sir. Any suggestions?’

  ‘Nothing radical; the obvious mostly. Vary your dress, and when you go casual, don’t wear stuff with big logos or pop stars on the front. Shop in Marks and Spencer rather than Austin Reed. Let your hair grow a bit shaggy. Don’t shave every day. Wear sunglasses when it’s appropriate, the kind that people will remember rather than the person behind them. Choose what you drive carefully.’

  He smiled. ‘That day you and I met, back in the last century, I was driving my BMW. That was an accident; normally I’d have been in my battered old Land Rover. If I had, you and your gang wouldn’t have given it a second glance, and I wouldn’t have had to warn you off.’

  ‘Then whatever caused that accident, I’m grateful for it. You gave me the impetus to get out of there. Otherwise I might not have. I might have stayed a stereotype and wound up in jail.’

  ‘Nah, I think you’d have made it. You were a smart kid. You’d have worked it out for yourself, eventually.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He pulled himself a little more upright. ‘However, I’m sure you didn’t call me here to give me fashion advice.’

  ‘No,’ Skinner agreed, ‘that’s true. I felt I should give you an update on the investigation, since you were in at the death, so to speak.’

  ‘Thanks, sir. I appreciate that. How’s it going?’

  ‘It’s not,’ the chief sighed. ‘It’s stalled. All our lines of inquiry have dried up. There is no link between Beram Cohen and the person or organisation who sponsored the hit. We know how it was done, and even if it points in a certain direction, the witnesses are all dead. That’s probably my fault,’ he added. ‘You had no choice but to take down Smit, but if I was a better shot I’d have been able to stop Botha without killing him.’

  ‘There will be no further inquiries about our part in that?’ Houseman asked.

  ‘None. Everything is closed.’

  Skinner rose to his feet, and his visitor followed suit. He moved towards the door, then stopped. ‘I’m aware,’ he said, ‘that in Toni Field’s time MI5 policy was to keep our counter-terrorism unit at a distance. It’s okay, I’m not asking you to comment. Toni may not even have been aware of it, but I know it was the case. I just want you to know that while I’m here, I won’t tolerate that. You can keep secrets from anyone else, but if they affect my operational area, not from me. Understood?’

  Houseman nodded. ‘Understood, sir.’

  They walked together to the lift. The chief constable watched the doors close then went back the way he had come, but walked past his own room, stopping instead at the one he had commandeered for Lowell Payne. He knocked on the door then opened it halfway and looked in.

  ‘Come on along,’ he said.

  Marina Deschamps put down her magazine, stood and followed him. ‘This is all very surprising,’ she murmured, with a smile. ‘Even a little mysterious. By the way, did you solve the mystery of the safe?’

  He nodded. ‘This very afternoon. I’ve still to check its contents, but if there’s anything personal in there I’ll let you have it. As for the rest, you’re right, but now I can show you what this visit’s all about.’

  He sat behind his desk and touched the space bar on his computer keyboard to waken it from sleep.

  ‘This room has a couple of little bonuses,’ he began. ‘Having worked next door, you’re probably aware that there’s a security system. There’s a wee camera in the corner of the ceiling and when the system is set, anyone who comes in here is automatically filmed, without ever knowing it.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Some evenings I would be last out of here, and so I had to be shown how to set it.’

  ‘Yes, I imagine so. But did Toni tell you that it’s more than an alarm?’

  ‘No, she never did. It is? In what way?’

  ‘It can also be used to record meetings. Clearly, if that happens, all the participants should be made aware of it, but if they weren�
��t they’d never know.’ He used his mouse to open a program then select a file. He beckoned to her. ‘Come here and take a look at this.’

  As she walked round behind him he clicked an icon, to start a video. There was no sound, but the image that she could see was clear and in colour. The chief constable with his back to the camera and facing him a sharply dressed, immaculately groomed man, whose skin tone was almost identical to her own.

  ‘Ever seen him before?’ Skinner asked, hearing an intake of breath from over his shoulder.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘That’s Don Sturgeon. What’s he doing here?’

  Fifty-Two

  ‘What d’you think of the beer?’ Neil McIlhenney asked.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Lowell Payne conceded. ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Chiswick Bitter. I don’t drink much, not any more, but when I do it’s the one I go for.’

  ‘That’s because it doesn’t take the top of your head off,’ one of their companions remarked, ‘unlike that ESB stuff. Bloody ferocious that is. I’ve seen tourists staggering out of here after a couple of pints of that stuff. Not like you Jocks, though. You’d drink aviation fuel and never feel it.’

  ‘I used to,’ the DCS chuckled. ‘Me and my mate. In those days we used to say that English beer was half the strength of a Scotsman’s piss, but since I came down here I’ve developed an occasional taste for it. Travelling to work on the tube has its compensations.’

  The other Londoner glanced at him. ‘Where do you live?’

  McIlhenney raised an eyebrow. ‘Was that a professional inquiry? I’ve heard about you guys; you’re never off duty.’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Richmond, actually.’

  The man had his glass to his lips, he spluttered. ‘You what? On a copper’s pay? Maybe it should have been a professional question.’

  ‘My wife’s owned the place for years. When we lived in Edinburgh it was rented out. We used her flat in St John’s Wood if we ever came down.’

  ‘You’re shitting us.’

  ‘Oh no he’s not,’ Payne laughed. ‘Ask him who his wife is.’

  As he spoke, the phone in the pocket of his shirt vibrated against his chest. He knew who the caller would be without looking at it. He excused himself as he took it out, and stepped out into the street.

  ‘Where are you now?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘I’m in a pub called the Red Lion, in Whitehall, with Neil McIlhenney and two guys he says are part of the Prime Minister’s protection team. This might be a good night to have a go at him.’

  ‘Given what happened on Saturday,’ the chief pointed out, ‘that’s not very funny. Have you got a hotel?’

  ‘Yes, the Met fixed me up with one near Victoria Station.’

  ‘Good. I want you to meet me tomorrow morning. Victoria will do fine. I’ll be coming up from Gatwick, same flight as you caught today.’

  ‘I’ll see you there. Where are we going?’

  ‘I have a meeting, and given where it is and what’s on the agenda, I’m not going in there unaccompanied.’

  ‘Sounds heavy. Where?’

  ‘Security Service, Millbank. I’m just off the phone with my friend Amanda Dennis, the deputy director. She’s expecting us.’

  Payne gasped. ‘Jesus Christ, boss. Why are we going there? What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing that I can slam on the table, point at and say “He did it”, but enough for me to fly some kites and see how they react. I can see a chain of events and facts that lead to a certain hypothesis, but I can’t see anything that resembles a motive. Still, what we’ve got is enough for some cage-rattling. I’m good at that.’

  ‘I think I know that.’

  ‘Then you can sit back and learn.’

  ‘At my age I don’t want to.’

  ‘You’re a year older than me, Lowell,’ Skinner chuckled, ‘that’s all. One thing I want you to do in preparation for the meeting. When you call Jean, as I’m sure you will, tell her where you’re going. I’ll be doing the same with Sarah. I know, I said that Amanda’s a friend, and she is, but in that place, friendship only goes so far.’

  Fifty-Three

  ‘Are you going to work in Glasgow for good, Dad?’ Skinner’s elder son asked, ranging over three octaves in that single sentence.

  Mark McGrath, the boy Skinner and Sarah had adopted as an orphan, was at the outset of adolescence, and the breaking of his voice was not passing over easily or quickly. James Andrew, his younger brother, laughed at his lack of control, until he was silenced by a frown from his mother.

  ‘I dunno, mate,’ Bob confessed. ‘Last week I’d never have imagined being there. On Sunday, when I agreed to take over, the answer would still have been no. But with every day that passes, I’m just a little less certain. But remember, even if I did apply for the job, so would other people. There’s no saying I’d be chosen.’

  Both of his sons looked at him as if he had told them Motherwell would win the Champions League.

  ‘No kidding,’ he insisted. ‘There are many very good cops out there, and most of them are younger than me. I won’t see fifty again, lads.’

  ‘You’ll get it, Dad.’ James Andrew spoke with certainty, his father’s certainty, Sarah realised, as she heard him. ‘Will we have to move to Glasgow?’

  ‘Never!’ The reply was instant, and vehement.

  ‘Come on, guys,’ Sarah interrupted. ‘It’s past nine, time you headed upstairs. And don’t disturb your sister if she’s asleep.’

  ‘She won’t be,’ Mark squeaked. ‘She’ll be practising her reading.’

  ‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration surely,’ Bob chuckled. ‘She might be looking at the pictures.’

  ‘No, Dad. She’s learning words as well; I’ve been teaching her. There’s a computer program and I’ve been using it.’

  Skinner watched them as they left, and was still gazing at the door long after it was closed. Sarah settled down beside him on the sofa, tugging his arm to claim his attention. ‘Hey,’ she murmured, ‘come back from wherever you are. Whassup, anyway?’

  ‘Ach, I was just thinking what a crap dad I’ve been. I should be teaching my daughter to read, not subcontracting the job to Mark. Last week I was all motivated, pumped up to do that and more. We had a great morning on the beach on Saturday, the kids and I, then I had a phone call, the shit hit the fan and I had to go rushing off, didn’t I, and get it splattered all over me. Now I’m thinking seriously about taking on the biggest job in Scotland, when I’ve already got a job that’s far more important than that.’

  She turned his face to her, and kissed him. ‘Bob,’ she said, ‘I love you, and it’s good to see you taking your kids so seriously. But you always have done. You’ve been great with the boys all along, and you’ve never neglected Seonaid. It’s taken you a while to realise that she isn’t a baby any more, that’s all. Me living in America didn’t help, since that meant you missed a big chunk of her infancy, but I’m back now, and we can help her grow together.’ She put a hand on his chest. ‘That does not mean I expect you to become a house husband, because you couldn’t. There’s too much happening, too much at stake just now, and if you don’t get involved in it, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.

  ‘You can’t walk away anyway, it’s not in your nature. This thing tomorrow, this high-stakes meeting at MI5 that you’re so worked up about, even if you’re not saying so, you don’t have to go there, do you? But you want to, you feel you have to. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘I set it up,’ he admitted. ‘Yes, it is a bit of a fishing trip, and there are other ways I could have played it. For example, I could just write a report, a straight factual account of the things that we know, and suggest certain possibilities. Then I could give that report to the Lord Advocate, who’s my ultimate boss as a criminal investigator in Scotland, with a copy to the First Minister.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘Because they’d burn it. If I told them what I know to b
e fact and what I see as a possibility, they’d be scared stiff. If they acted on it, it could provoke a major conflict between them and the Westminster government. All in all, it’s best that I keep it from them, and that I go and have a full and frank discussion with Amanda.’

  ‘Bob,’ Sarah ventured, ‘are you suggesting that MI5 had something to do with Toni Field’s murder?’

  ‘No, I’m not, because the evidence doesn’t take me there. Even if I thought they were capable of doing that, I can’t see why they would. But I do know that they created the conditions for it to happen, and that they’ve been doing what they can to cover up. There’s a piece of that I still don’t understand, but I never will because they’ve been too good at it.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Here’s what I think you should do. See this thing through to its conclusion, and let it go, however unsatisfactory the conclusion may be. Then apply for the Strathclyde job. You’ll get it; even the boys know that. And once you’re there, be everything you can be. Build your support staff so that you can delegate and not have to change every light bulb. Work the hours a normal man does, and be the father that a normal man is expected to be.’

  He grinned. ‘And the husband?’

  ‘Nah,’ she laughed in return. ‘You were always lousy at that; we’re fine as we are.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll go with that.’

  ‘Would you like a drink? I put some Corona in the fridge for you. I take it it’s still your favourite beer.’

  ‘Absolutely, but I’ll give it a miss tonight. Early start tomorrow. Hey,’ he added, ‘you realise that from now on I’ll be able to tell whether you’ve got another bloke just by checking the fridge?’

  ‘Yes, but how will you know I don’t have another fridge somewhere, one with a combination lock just in case you do find it?’

  Her joke triggered a memory. ‘Bugger,’ he exclaimed. ‘I finally got into my own safe this afternoon, in the office. I haven’t had a chance to check the papers that were in it. They’re in my briefcase; mind if I go through them now?’