Pray for the Dying

by Quintin Jardine

  Her trepidation turned to undisguised fear as she acknowledged the truth in what he said.

  ‘Who are you now?’

  His question took her by surprise. ‘My new identity, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have a Jamaican passport, in the name of Marina Friedman. My father obtained it for me, in case we both needed to move on in a hurry.’

  ‘What was your next move? Your plan for life after Papa?’

  ‘His will is with his lawyer in Jersey. It names me as his sole heir. He told me to go there, with the death certificate and my passport, to claim my inheritance.’

  ‘That won’t be happening now,’ Skinner said.

  ‘No, I realise that. So, what will you do with me? Will you save the expense of your abortive prosecution by handing me straight over to Amanda Dennis?’

  He took a breath and blew out his cheeks. ‘Like she would thank me for that,’ he exclaimed. ‘It would be better all round if I just shot you myself and buried you somewhere on this big island.’

  She backed away, staring at him in sudden naked terror.

  ‘Hey!’ he exclaimed. ‘Calm down. Better all round, but I’m not one of them, Marina. Besides,’ he added, with a half smile and a nod in Payne’s direction, ‘there are witnesses, and your man Rudolf will be back from Oban soon. So,’ he told her, ‘here’s what you do. You take whatever you can pack quickly, and as much as you can in the way of cash and valuables, you get in that car and you drive it straight on to the ferry. When you get to Oban, keep on driving, in any direction you can and in any direction as long as it is out of the jurisdiction of any Scottish police force.’

  ‘But not Jersey, I take it.’

  ‘No; there’ll be nothing there by the time you get there. Whatever fortune your father’s left isn’t for you, it’s for the people he swindled, even if some of them will be dead themselves by now.’ He gazed at her. ‘This is what’s happened,’ he said. ‘Lowell and I arrived to arrest him, following my discovery of some papers in Toni’s safe. Sadly, we were too late. You were never here. When Rudolf gets back and asks, “Where’s Marina?” I will say, “Marina who?” That’s the outcome. We get Papa, you get lost. We will be fucking heroes, Lowell and me, in Australia most of all. As for you, you will be alive.’

  She looked at him, still doubting, until he nodded, to reassure her.

  ‘You’re a resourceful lady. You’ll get by for a couple of years, and after that you can probably go back to Mauritius and become yourself again, because nobody will be looking for you. But don’t ever show up here again, for I will know about it. You’re getting away with murder, because that’s what suits everybody best. But don’t you ever forget it.’

  PostScript

  ‘Why did you decide to quit as leader? Were there knives out for you because of the Joey incident?’

  Aileen snorted across the lunch table in a restaurant next to Edinburgh Castle. They had gone there after finalising their divorce, in the Court of Session, further down the Royal Mile.

  ‘They wouldn’t have been nearly sharp enough. No, to be frank I resigned because we are going to get absolutely slaughtered at the next Holyrood election and I don’t want that on my CV. That twerp Felix Brahms will inherit it, now that I’ve endorsed him.’

  ‘Foresighted as ever,’ Bob chuckled.

  ‘Of course, and there’s this. I won’t be a candidate in Scotland next time. One of our guys in a safe seat on Tyneside is about to retire early on health grounds. I’ve called in some favours; it’s mine.’

  ‘The divorce won’t be a problem for you, will it?’

  ‘I don’t see it. We’ve settled on unreasonable behaviour as the grounds, not adultery. As for the Daily News pictures, they’re old, cold news by now. Besides, it’s a safe seat, like I said. The Lib Dems don’t count there and as for the Tories, they’re really too nice to use those sort of tactics.’

  ‘Will Joey put in an appearance for you?’

  ‘As if I’d ask him. Look, Joey and me, it’s a thing from way back. I suppose I can confess now, there were other times while we were married, not just that one. Sorry if it dents your male ego, but there were.’

  ‘I know,’ he admitted. ‘Toni Field had a file on you. It’s long since gone into the shredder. Mind you, she did hint that there was somebody else, apart from Joey.’

  Aileen’s eyes widened. ‘She did what? Any name mentioned?’

  ‘No, and I’m sure I don’t want to know.’

  ‘Oh but you do. Who knows? It might come in useful to you one day. The US government ran a big hospitality shindig a couple of years back in the Turnberry Hotel. All the party leaders were there, and the champagne was fairly flowing. As usual, I had a wee bit too much, and God knows how it happened, but I woke up next morning with Clive Graham. So there you are. My deep dark secret, and Clive’s, except . . . somewhere there may be CCTV footage of the two of us going into his room, and probably of me leaving. Find it and it could buy you a lot of influence.’

  He sighed. ‘My predecessor did that sort of thing, and it got her fucking killed.’

  ‘What? She tried to blackmail Colombian drug lords?’

  ‘Not quite. That was the official version. The true story’s a lot different, but I’m not sharing, as the spooks say.’

  She shrugged. ‘Be like that. Here,’ she went on, ‘the way you said “My predecessor” there, it sounded as if you’ve made a decision.’

  ‘I have. I’ve decided that I can’t go back to Edinburgh. Mario and Maggie are getting on fine without me. They don’t need me any more; if I went back I’d be a spare wheel. So my application for Strathclyde, permanently, is in the hat with the rest.’

  ‘And you will get it, especially after all those headlines you got when you found that Australian fraudster.’

  Bob laughed. ‘You ain’t kidding. The day I moved into Pitt Street, I inherited an invitation to address an Australian Police Federation conference. Since then I’ve had twenty-two more, from other organisations down under. Yes, I know I’ll probably be confirmed in post. If not, I’ll do something else. I might even retire and buy a boat.’

  ‘And sail away, with Sarah and the kids?’

  ‘They’re all too young, and she’s not ready.’

  ‘It’s cool, though? You and her?’

  ‘Honestly? It is, for the first time really. We’ve discovered that being nice to each other, all the time, is all it takes.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll try that, next time.’

  ‘Some chance of that,’ he scoffed. ‘You’re a politician. By the way,’ he added, ‘the Turnberry tape did exist, kept carelessly by Toni in a plain envelope that I found deep in the desk that is currently mine. It does not exist any longer.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘To be honest, I was really worried about that, and not for Mrs Graham’s sake.’

  ‘It’s nothing to be concerned about any more,’ he replied, ‘but this is.’ He took an envelope from a slim document case that he had brought with him.

  She took it from him and her face paled, as she studied its contents: two photographs of her, with two other women, in a ladies’ toilet.

  ‘What are . . . Bob, I think I know when those were taken, but . . .’

  ‘You have to give up the booze, Aileen,’ he said. ‘You must. I didn’t realise you had a problem, maybe because whenever we had a drink at home, you went straight to sleep, or else you got amorous and I put it down to my fatal attraction. But that’s twice you’ve courted potential disaster, not counting the Morocco fiasco.’

  ‘How did you get these?’

  He smiled. ‘The strangest thing happened a few weeks back. Amanda Dennis called all her Scottish team down to London for a two-day performance review. While they were gone, somebody broke into their office, and opened the safe. I don’t think they even know it happened, not yet. All that was taken were those photos, and the master tape. It’s in there too. Somehow they found their way into my possession.’


  She gazed at him. ‘You know, I could fall in love with you.’

  ‘Nah, you didn’t before, so how could you now?’

  She laughed. ‘Okay. Then how about a farewell shag? We could get a room.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m sworn to be faithful. You should try it too. Besides, someone would be bound to photograph us. For example . . .’

  He took another, larger envelope from the document case. ‘These are my parting gifts to you, Aileen, and my greatest. Where you’re going to be after your by-election, these will represent your ticket straight to the front bench, and a fast track to the shadow Cabinet. In this package you will see Toni Field doing what she did best. You’ll also recognise the bloke she’s doing it to, and I think you will find that you know his wife too. The stupid bloody woman actually believed I wouldn’t make copies! That same lady had you set up by those two scrubbers, who are, incidentally, no longer Security Service staff, and tried to use your moment of weakness to club me into submission and silence.’

  He lifted his glass and drank a toast, to her, to them, to their past, and to their separate futures.

  ‘Use them wisely, choose your moment, and when you do, make certain sure that the damage to Emily Repton is terminal. “Provincial copper” indeed. Doesn’t she bloody know that we’re a nation?’

  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

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  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.’