Pray for the Dying

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Toni’s mother,’ Skinner volunteered. ‘She got knocked up and went home to Mum.’

  The sergeant sniggered. ‘Makes a change from goin’ tae yer auntie’s for a few months, like lassies used tae do in the days before legal abortions. Ah wonder why she didnae have one herself, given that she was such a career woman. Her clock must have been tickin’ Ah suppose.’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘I spoke to the ward sister. She said she remembered her. She said that a woman came to visit her when she was in, but no husband. There was one man came to visit her, though; much older, about seventy. The sister heard Sofia call him “Grandpa”. She said his face was familiar, like somebody she’d seen in the papers, but that whoever he was he was pretty high-powered, because the consultant was on his best behaviour when he was there, and Antonia had a room tae herself.’

  ‘Then I guess that could have been her father. Marina told me he was a bigwig in government, and Sofia was his mistress. So what about the birth registration, Dan?’ the chief asked. ‘That’s what I’m really interested in.’

  ‘Then you’re no’ goin’ tae like this. Mauritius is more modern than ye’d think. All the latest records are stored on computer. The doctor who attends the birth gives the parents a form tae say that it’s happened, but that’s the only written record, apart from the official birth certificate that the parents are given when they register it. And you have tae do that; it’s the law. The government guy Ah spoke to checked the whole period that she was out there after the twenty-third of May, and there is no record of a birth bein’ registered. He’s in no doubt about that.’

  ‘Bugger!’

  The DS held up a hand: it occurred to Skinner that one day he would make an excellent lollipop man. ‘However,’ he declared, ‘he did say that he’d found an anomaly. On the thirtieth of May, a week later, there were forty-six births notified, but when he looked at the computer, he noticed that number seven two six four is followed by seven two six six. There’s a number missing; he had his computer folk look at it. They said it had been hacked. How about that then, boss? D’ye think Grandpa was powerful enough to have the record removed?’

  ‘I doubt it, Dan,’ Skinner replied. ‘But I know someone who is.’

  Forty-Six

  ‘So much for the tour of the capital,’ Lowell Payne grumbled.

  ‘We drove past the Tower of London, didn’t we?’ Neil McIlhenney pointed out. ‘And if you went up on the roof here and found the right spot, you’d be able to see the top of Big Ben. Not only that, you’ve seen the home of the mighty Arsenal Football Club. All for free too, in the most expensive city I know.’ He grinned. ‘Tell you what. You check in with the King in the North and I’ll take you for a pint and a sandwich. It’s getting on past lunchtime and I’m a bit peckish myself.’

  ‘I’ve been trying but he’s not in his office, and his mobile’s switched off.’

  ‘Maybe he’s still doing that interview you told me about.’

  ‘If he is and the bloke hasn’t been charged yet, he’ll be entitled to get up and walk out.’

  ‘He’s probably still hiding under the table. Big Bob doesn’t like bent cops, even ex ones. Try him again, go on.’

  The DCI took out his phone and pressed the contact entry for Skinner’s direct line. He let it ring six times, and was about to hang up when it was answered.

  ‘Lowell?’

  ‘Yes, Chief.’

  ‘How’s it going down there? Got anything useful?’

  ‘Some, but don’t get excited. We’ve worked out how an Israeli ex-paratrooper and disgraced spook hit man came to get a job as a jewellery buyer with a London mail order company. His late father-in-law was Mossad, once upon a time.’

  ‘Surprise me,’ Skinner drawled, with heavy sarcasm. ‘How did you find that out?’

  ‘We decided to be forthcoming with his mother-in-law. She was equally frank in return; she told us.’

  He chuckled. ‘Giving the guy a job, that’s one thing; marrying your daughter off to him might be taking it a bit too far.’

  ‘You’d think so, but the impression we’re getting is of a popular, charming bloke. The wife’s devastated. It was just starting to hit home when we left.’

  ‘How about the mother-in-law? How did she take it?’

  ‘Calmly. She was upset, of course, but it didn’t come as a bombshell to find out that poor Byron had a second line of business. Before we left, she told us she hoped he was better at that than he was at the jewellery buying.’

  ‘Did you get anything else from your visit, apart from a compendium of Jewish mother-in-law jokes? Did you take his computer?’

  ‘No, and that’s the real news I have for you. Somebody beat us to it; Rondar Mail Order had a break-in last Friday night. A few small items were taken, but the main haul was Byron Millbank’s computer. I’m sorry about that, boss, but this trip’s been pretty much a waste of time.’

  ‘Like hell it has,’ the chief retorted. ‘There are three possibilities here, Lowell. One, the break-in was exactly that, a routine office burglary. Two, it was an inside job, staged to hide something incriminating from the sharp eyes of the VAT inspectors. Three, someone who knew about Byron’s background, and the fact that he was no longer in the land of the living, decided to make sure that nothing embarrassing had been left behind him. I know which of those my money’s on. You’ve had a result, of sorts, Lowell. What was only a suspicion until now, it’s confirmed in my book. The cleaners have been in, and not just in London.’

  ‘But what have they been covering up?’

  ‘Work it out for yourself. It’s too hot for any phone line, especially a mobile that can be easily monitored. The thing that’s getting to me is that they’ve been too damn good at it. If I’m right, I know what the big secret is, but I can’t even come close to proving it, and the bugger is that I don’t believe I ever will. Our investigation into Toni Field’s murder is dead in the water, as dead as she is.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Payne asked.

  ‘I don’t believe in miracles, brother.’

  ‘What do you want me to do, then?’

  ‘You might as well come home. Get yourself on to an evening flight. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  As the DCI ended the call, he realised that McIlhenney was gazing at him. ‘How did he take it?’ he asked.

  ‘He reckons that’s it. We’re stuffed. He’s going to close the inquiry. He sounded pretty pissed off. I know he hates to lose.’

  The chief superintendent shook his heard. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t know. He refuses to lose. You wait and see. He’s not finished yet.’

  ‘He says he doesn’t believe in miracles.’

  ‘Then he’s lying. When he’s around they happen all the time.’

  Forty-Seven

  ‘Bastards!’ Skinner exclaimed. The room was empty but there was real vehemence in his voice. ‘It’s like someone’s farted in a busy pub. You’re pretty sure who it was but you’ve got no chance of proving it and the more time passes, the more the evidence dissipates.’

  Frustrated, he reached for his in-tray and began to examine the pile of correspondence, submissions and reports that his support team had deemed worthy of his attention. He had planned that it would go to Lowell for further filtering but his absence had landed it all on his desk.

  ‘Commonwealth Games, policing priorities,’ he read, from the top sheet on the pile. ‘One, counter-terrorism,’ he murmured. ‘Two, counter-terrorism, three counter-terrorism, four, stop the Neds from mugging the punters.’ He laid the paper to one side for consideration later, probably at Sarah’s, and picked up the next item, a letter.

  It was addressed to Chief Constable Antonia Field, from the Australian Federal Police Association, inviting her to address its annual conference, to be held in Sydney, the following December.

  He scribbled a note, ‘Call the sender, tell them about Toni’s death. If he asks me to do it, decline with regret on the ground that I have no ide
a where I’ll be in December,’ clipped it to the letter and dropped it into his out-tray.

  He worked on for ten minutes, finding it more and more difficult to maintain his concentration. He felt his eyes grow heavy and realised for the first time that he had missed lunch. A week before he would have poured himself a mug of high-octane coffee, but Sarah had made him promise to give up, and he had promised himself that he would never cheat on her again, in any way. Instead, he took a king-size Mars Bar from his desk drawer and consumed it in four bites.

  As he waited for the energy boost to hit his system, he picked up his direct telephone, found a number and dialled it.

  He hoped that it would be Marina who answered rather than Sofia; and so it was.

  ‘Bob Skinner,’ he announced.

  ‘Good afternoon. This is a pleasant surprise . . . do you have something to tell us about Antonia’s death?’

  ‘No, sorry. In fact I have something to ask you. When were you going to get round to telling me about Toni’s child?’

  He counted the silence; one second, two seconds, three . . .

  ‘Ah, so you know about that.’

  ‘Of course. You must have realised that the post-mortem was bound to reveal it.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I did. Maman and I hoped you wouldn’t regard it as relevant. It isn’t really, is it?’

  ‘Probably not,’ he agreed, ‘but when we set out to create a picture of someone’s life, it has to be complete. We can’t leave things out, arbitrarily, for personal, or even for diplomatic, reasons.’

  ‘No, I accept that now. We should have volunteered it.’

  ‘What happened to the child?’

  ‘She’s here, with us. When you visited us the other day, she was upstairs, playing in the nursery that Antonia made for her there. She was born in Mauritius, two years ago. Her name is Lucille; she’s such a pretty little thing. Normally she lives in London, with Maman, in a house that Antonia’s father bought for them. He is widowed now, and when he heard of the child he was overwhelmed. He had never recognised my sister as his daughter, not formally, not until then.’

  ‘Does he know she’s dead?’

  ‘Oh yes. Maman called him, straight away. She said he was very upset. So he should have been. I don’t care for the man, even though I’ve never met him.’

  ‘Who’s Lucille’s father?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Marina confessed. ‘Antonia never told me, and she never told Maman. But she registered the birth herself, in Mauritius. You should be able to find out there.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he agreed, ‘we should.’ We should, he thought, but some bugger doesn’t want us to.

  ‘When you do, will you let me know, please. Maman and I have been looking for Lucille’s birth certificate among Antonia’s papers, but we can’t find it.’

  ‘Sure, will do. But until then we’re guessing. Those men friends you told me about, her lovers: she never gave you any clue to their names?’

  ‘No, not really. She gave one or two of them nicknames. The DAC in the Met, for example, she called him “Bullshit”, for whatever unimaginable reason. The mandarin she called “Chairman Mao”, and the QC was always “Howling Mad”. Other than that, she never let anything slip.’

  ‘You mentioned five men in her life,’ the chief said, ‘but when we met you said she’d had six relationships in the time you lived with her. Was the sixth Michael Thomas?’

  She laughed. ‘Him?’ she exclaimed. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘The whole bloody force seems to know about that. He was seen leaving the flat she was renting, far too late for it to have been a work visit.’

  ‘Then that was careless of her, and not typical. It was very definitely a one-night stand. It was also the only time that she ever had a man when she and I were under the same roof. Actually, I found it quite embarrassing,’ she confessed. ‘The walls were thin.’ He heard what might have been a giggle. ‘It’s very off-putting to hear your sister faking it. Next morning I complained. She laughed and said not to worry, that it had been what she described as “tactical sex” and wouldn’t happen again.

  ‘No,’ she continued, ‘her most recent relationship was still going on, and had been for at least three months. I’m more than a little surprised that I haven’t heard from the poor man; he must be distraught, for they were close. For the first time I sensed that there was no motive behind the relationship, nothing “tactical” about it.’

  ‘I don’t suppose she told you his name, either.’

  ‘Ah, but this time she did,’ Marina exclaimed. ‘That’s why I believe it was serious. She told me he is called Don Sturgeon, and that he works as an IT consultant. She never brought him home and she never introduced us, but I saw him once when he came to pick her up. He is very attractive: clean-cut, well-dressed, almost military looking.’

  Skinner felt his right eyebrow twitch. ‘Indeed?’ he murmured. ‘Anything else that you can recall about him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied at once. ‘His skin tone; it’s almost the same as mine. It made me wonder if he was Mauritian too, and that’s what she saw in him.’

  ‘In this life,’ the chief observed, ‘anything is possible. Marina,’ he exclaimed as a picture formed in his mind, ‘are you doing anything, right now?’

  ‘No. Maman is with Lucille, so I’m free.’

  ‘Then I’d like you to come into the office, quick as you can.’

  Forty-Eight

  Lowell Payne had seen the interior of Westminster Abbey several times, but only on television, when it had been bedecked for royal weddings or draped in black for funerals, and packed with celebrants or mourners. As he stepped inside the great church for the first time, he found himself humming ‘Candle in the Wind’ without quite recalling why.

  It was the sheer age of the place that took hold of him, the realisation when he read the guide that its origins were as old as England itself, and that the building in which he stood went back eight centuries.

  He knew as little of architecture as he did of history, but he appreciated at once that the abbey was not simply a place of worship, but also of celebration, a great theatre created for the crowning of kings and, occasionally, of queens.

  In common with most first-time visitors, he paused at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, wondering for a moment whether the occupant’s nearest and dearest had been told secretly of the honour that had been done him. ‘Somebody must have known,’ he whispered as he looked down, drawing an uncomprehending smile and a nod from a Japanese lady tourist by his side.

  He moved on and found a memorial stone, commemorating sixteen poets of the First World War, recognising not a single name. Charles Dickens he knew, though, and the Brontë sisters, and Rabbie Burns, and Clement Attlee. Stanley Baldwin was lost on him, but somewhere the name Geoffrey Chaucer rang a bell.

  His mobile did not ring, but it vibrated in his pocket. He took it out, feeling as if he was committing a form of sacrilege, until he realised that half of the tourists in the place were using smart-phones as cameras.

  He read the screen and took the call. ‘Chief,’ he said, keeping his voice as low as he could, and moving away from the throng of which he had become a part.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ Skinner asked. ‘You at the station already?’

  ‘No, I’ve got time to kill, so I’m doing the tourist thing. Does the name Stanley Baldwin mean anything to you?’

  ‘Of course. He was a Tory prime minister between the wars, and even less use than most of them. He took a hard line on Mrs Simpson and made the King abdicate, but he didn’t mind Hitler nearly as much. Bloody hell, Lowell, what did you do at school? You’ll be asking me who Attlee was next.’

  ‘No, I know about him. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Cancel your return flight. I’d like you to stay down there overnight. Can you do that?’

  ‘Sure. Has there been a development?’

  ‘Maybe. I’m not sure. But if something plays
out . . .’ His voice drifted off with his thoughts for a few seconds. ‘I’ll know in a couple of hours, but meantime you just hang on down there. I’ll be back in touch.’

  The conversation ended with as little ceremony as it had begun, leaving Payne staring at his phone. ‘If you say so, Bob,’ he murmured. ‘I wonder if I can put a West End show on expenses.’

  Forty-Nine

  Skinner smiled as he gazed at the ceiling. Stanley Baldwin, he thought. He guessed where Payne had been when he had reached him. The abbey was one of his favourite stopping-off places when he was in London.

  London. For all that the prospect of an independently governed Scotland was looming, the great monolith in the south remained the centre of power. He had decided that he would vote ‘Yes!’ with his heart in the referendum, but he had no illusions over the difficulty his country faced in extricating itself from the British state, if that was what the majority chose.

  Scotland might become a nation, fully self-governing, a member of both the European Union and the UN, but it would still share a head of state and an island with its English neighbours and their common problems of security would remain. He knew better than most what that would mean. MI5 would continue to operate north of what would have become a national border.

  Even if a future first minister had access to its work and to those of its secrets that affected his interests, he would have a very small voice in decisions that affected its remit and its funding, and no control at all over its activities. Strings would continue to be pulled in secret, by secret people, like his friend Amanda Dennis and her immediate boss, Sir Hubert Lowery, the director of the service.

  It would be up to the new Scotland to come to terms with the need to have its own counter-espionage service, to protect itself against potential threats from wherever they came, even if that was Westminster. He had discussed this with Clive Graham, at a meeting so private that he had kept it from Aileen. Whatever their differences on the unification of the police forces, the two men were agreed that if the time came, their country would need its own secret service. There was also an understanding over the man who would head it.