22
When the intercom phone on his desk buzzed, Bob Skinner was lost in thought. He was replaying his dinner-table conversation with his wife, and reflecting on the things she had said, admiring the way that, with a few words, she had helped, even more than Jim Gainer, to cut his personal demons down to size and restore his sense of balance.
‘You should have specialised in psychology, not pathology, my darling,’ he murmured aloud. But at the same time he recognised that her attention to his problems had diverted both of them from facing their joint crisis. He had hoped that it would stay behind them in America, but it had boarded the plane like an extra piece of baggage. It was an issue, all right, and one that would have to be faced, sooner or later, not least because of some other disturbing and very private thoughts he had been having over the past twenty-four hours.
He started, in spite of himself, when the buzzer sounded, feeling a twitch in his chest, just below his left collarbone; it happened sometimes when the muscles tensed and disturbed his pacemaker. Bringing himself back to the present, he reached out and picked up the handset.
‘Superintendent McGuire, sir,’ Jack McGurk announced. ‘He’s arrived.’
The DCC smiled, glad of the distraction. ‘Send him in,’ he said. ‘Will we be needing coffee, do you think? My filter machine’s empty.’
‘Looking at him, I’d say so, sir. I’ll get you some from the kitchen.’
Skinner stood up, went to the door and opened it, to find Mario McGuire outside, almost in the act of knocking. The big detective was dressed in jeans and a creased jacket, his shirt was open at the neck, he looked several hours overdue for a shave, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. ‘Jesus,’ the DCC laughed, ‘you look at your best. Come in and sit down before you fall down. Anybody’d think you just came off a transatlantic flight.’
‘You wanted me here right away, boss; what you see is what you get. However,’ he added, ‘out of deference to the command corridor, I did give myself a squirt with the deodorant before I came out.’
‘That’s big of you. No, don’t sit at the desk: grab a comfy seat by the coffee table.’ He followed and lowered himself on to one of the two couches, which formed an L in the corner of his office.
‘So how was New York? What was the weather like, for a start?’
‘Hot when we arrived; cold when we left.’
‘And the city?’
‘I love that place,’ McGuire admitted. ‘I’d have taken some holiday there, had I not been bringing Colin Mawhinney back with me. Maybe we’ll go back next spring. I might even persuade my mother to meet us there. She’d love the art galleries. That Frick collection’s something else.’
‘It is, if you can stand the thought of one person having all that wealth. What did you think of NYPD?’
‘It’s an excellent force, no doubt about it. But it’s the sheer size of the thing. I don’t know how it’s manageable.’
‘Me neither,’ Skinner admitted, ‘especially with so much power in the hands of the mayor. I tell you this: if Jimmy and I had to report directly to the Lord Provost of Edinburgh, I’d be off. The joint board can be bad enough.’
He paused at the sound of a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ he called out, and Maisie, the dining-room waitress, appeared with coffee and biscuits on a tray. ‘Thanks,’ he said, as she laid them on the table. ‘I’ll sign for them at lunch-time. Our visitor,’ Skinner continued, ‘what sort of guy is he?’
‘Let me put it this way,’ McGuire replied. ‘If there was an ACC post going, I’d suggest you offered it to him. Colin Mawhinney’s a potential police chief. I only spent a few days with him and I could see that. I learned a lot in New York, but to be honest, I can’t think of a bloody thing we can teach him.’
‘Neither can I. That’s why I’m going to show him how Greater Edinburgh works while he’s here, rather than stick him in a patrol car and send him round Muirhouse. Jack’s put together a programme for him that’ll give him a flavour of how our city works. He’ll meet the senior officers tomorrow, and I’ll give him a presentation on the type of work we do.’
‘You’ll do that yourself?’
‘It’s either me or Haggerty; he’d need an interpreter for some of Willie’s Glaswegian, so it’s down to me. After that Brian Mackie will talk him through the planning for next week’s papal visit; when that takes place I’m going to slot him in beside Mackie as a close observer. He might even get to meet the Pope.’
‘He’ll love that,’ McGuire exclaimed. ‘He’s a Catholic. He was going to take Paula and me to mass at St Patrick’s on Sunday, but she bottled out.’
Skinner raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m not surprised. The roof might have fallen in on you.’
‘That’s what I thought too, between you and me.’
‘Aye, best be on the safe side. That apart,’ the DCC continued, ‘the rest of his visit’s going to be spent meeting people.’
‘Movers and shakers, and the like?’
‘That’s them, and that’s how he’ll spend the early part of next week. He meets the Justice Minister on Monday morning, then in the afternoon he’s got a session with the Chamber of Commerce. Neil will pick him up and take him to those meetings. In the evening, the chief’s having a reception for him here, with a guest list that’s made up of professionals . . . accountants, lawyers, bankers and the like. Tuesday and Wednesday, ACC Haggerty will tour him round the various divisional commanders, showing him the scenic variety of our patch, in contrast to his. Before that, of course, there’s the weekend; that’ll be informal, but since he’s a single guy I’m not just going to leave him on his own. I’m going to invite him to dine with Sarah and me at the golf club on Saturday evening, but unless you’ve had enough of each other, I was going to ask you to take care of him for the rest of that free time. I’ve got you tickets for Tynecastle . . . Hearts are playing Aberdeen . . . on Saturday afternoon, and for the rugby international on Sunday. Of course I’d like you and Paula to join us for dinner at the club.’
McGuire was taken aback. ‘Do you mean that, boss? Paula as well?’
‘Of course I fucking mean it. She’s your regular partner, isn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, enough said.’
McGuire was touched by Skinner’s rough and ready blessing on his new relationship. He was about to say so, when the DCC moved on. ‘Since we’ve started talking about you, that brings me to the real reason I wanted to see you today. Tell me, do you love the Borders? Has your territory carved out an indelible place in your heart?’
‘Are you taking the piss, sir?’
‘That’s what I thought you’d say. You’ve done a good job down there, Mario, carrying on what Dan Pringle started in bringing that division into this century, after all those years under dear old John McGrigor. But you’re a city copper; I know that. So to cut to the chase, there’s some stuff happening at a senior level, movement.’
‘Dan Pringle?’
Skinner smiled and shook his head. ‘I know there’s been speculation about him retiring, but it’s not that. He’s going to soldier on till sixty. No, it’s Manny English, the uniformed commander of western division, who’s taking early retirement. And that’s led to some healthy debate between Willie Haggerty and me. He’s been looking round for a while for Manny’s successor. He’s identified half a dozen candidates, but I’ve pulled rank and made the final choice . . .’ He saw the superintendent’s sudden frown. ‘. . . and it’s not you, so you can get that worried look off your face. You’d be no more comfortable in a uniform than I am.’
He shook his head. ‘No, the new commander in Torphichen Place will be Chief Superintendent . . . Margaret Rose.’
McGuire smiled, then suddenly his frown returned, deeper still. ‘You’re not . . .’
Skinner laughed out loud. ‘Of course I’m bloody not! I couldn’t possibly move you into her job. I don’t care how amicable your separation is, I’m not going to test it. No, I’m transfe
rring you to command CID in the coastal division, based in Leith. Your territory will stretch from South Queensferry all the way to Portobello. You fancy it?’
Mario could not hide his delight. ‘Too right I do, boss. I’ll even be able to walk to work.’
‘Only if you keep the streets safe,’ Skinner grunted.
‘Can I take Sammy with me?’
‘DS Pye? I reckon so. It’ll do you no harm to have someone familiar around, and besides, my secretary, his wife, would kill me if I left him down there.’
‘What about Greg Jay? Is he going to Western Division?’
‘No, Greg needs a bigger shift that that. He’s going to East and Midlothian, Alastair Grant’s moving from there to Borders and Mary Chambers is moving from the Drugs Squad into Maggie’s job, on promotion.’
‘Two women commanders in the same station? That’ll be a f irst.’
‘Sure, and it’ll be a good example to set.’
‘As long as it works.’
‘It will, don’t you worry. They get on, and just as important they’re two of the most professional senior officers I have.’ The DCC paused. ‘I won’t kid you, Mario. Willie Haggerty wanted to move Brian Mackie in there, but I overruled him. The reason I gave was that Brian’s too new in his present post, and ideally suited for it as well. I’m right on both counts, but it’s not the whole truth. Strictly between the two of us, I wanted to position Maggie as a candidate to succeed Haggerty when he moves on . . . as he will, to be a chief constable somewhere . . . but also I wanted to avoid the prospect of having you two as rivals for Pringle’s job when he does go. I’m thinking of myself, you see. It’ll make that decision easier. Not that I’m saying you’ll get that job, you understand: Grant’s a strong runner, so is Lowe in Central Division, and Mary Chambers might well force her way into the picture too. I’m watching all of you from now on.’ He hesitated again. ‘That’s always assuming, of course, that you’re still committed to the force and that you’re not going off to run the Viareggio family businesses with Paula.’
McGuire shook his head. ‘Clearly, sir,’ he said, ‘your daughter does not discuss her business with you. Paula and I are in the process of restructuring the family trust. We’re looking at incorporating: turning it into a limited company with shareholders instead of beneficiaries. That would let me back off. Your Alex is doing all the legal work for us.’
Pride showed through in Skinner’s grin. ‘You’re right, she is tight-lipped. She’s turned into a real lawyer, God help me. I’m glad to hear you’re doing that, though. It might well make things easier for me in the future.’
‘I thought it might. How about McIlhenney?’ McGuire asked him suddenly.
‘Neil’s staying in Special Branch. He’s too valuable to me in that job to move, and anyway he’s got a promotion to chief inspector coming up, plus Lou’s pregnancy to occupy his mind.’
‘When do the changes take effect?’
‘Manny retires tomorrow. I want you all in post on Monday, hence the need for this meeting.’ He rose to his feet, smiling. ‘With that in mind, Superintendent, I suggest that you bugger off home, and catch up on your sleep.’
McGuire’s head was spinning as a panda car drove him away from the headquarters building. By moving him and promoting Maggie, Skinner had satisfied the top two items on his professional wish list. More than that, he had painted a picture of a future that, if it was not his for the taking, then at least was there to be won.
Fifteen minutes later, as he undressed, throwing his clothes into a corner of the bedroom, and slipped under the duvet beside the quietly snoring Paula . . . his note lay undisturbed on the table . . . he thought that he would never find sleep as he pondered the future. Less than two minutes later, he was proved completely wrong.
23
Stevie Steele ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Jeez,’ he murmured, ‘this is my day for surprises.’ He was taken aback yet again, when he realised that his voice had been loud enough to carry across the desk.
‘Oh, yes? What others have you had?’
He thought quickly: being kissed by the DCC’s wife was not something he cared to discuss. It had gone no further than that, but at another time . . . Sarah had been right, there could be no more pretending, and he was like any other man in that his libido could overcome his common sense. George Regan would have put it another way, but he would have meant the same thing.
‘Whetstone’s dislocated shoulder. The homicide theory being put back on the table. I wasn’t expecting that.’
‘Maybe it hasn’t been,’ said Rose. ‘It’s not like Sarah to go headlong after one side of an argument, but . . . Since you called me, I’ve been thinking about it. Just suppose Whetstone had decided to top himself. Let’s say he saw the fog and he decided that it was the perfect opportunity to go away and do himself in, undisturbed. Who knows why people choose the methods they do when they’re in that state of mind? Let’s just say he buys his belt, he nicks a wee ladder from the office and he heads off into the night. He’s chosen his spot and everything. When he gets there, he gets up on the steps, makes the noose and ties the other end of the belt to the branch of the tree. And then he slips. Simple as that; he’s nervous, probably shaking with cold and fear, the ground is frosty and he slips, comes off the step-ladder and lands on his shoulder, dislocating it. Sarah’s right, in that he couldn’t have secured the belt one-handed, but suppose he’d done it before the dislocation happened. He could have climbed back up the steps, albeit in great pain, slipped the noose over his head with his one usable hand then kicked his support out from under him. Yes?’
‘Yes, but what about the cut that Sarah found on his wrist?’
‘That could have been caused in the same fall, couldn’t it? Right shoulder, right wrist?’
‘I’ll grant you all of that,’ the inspector conceded. ‘What does the scene-of-crime report say? Is that consistent with your theory?’
‘Dorward’s report doesn’t rule anything out. Even after its trip to the Wee Black Dug and back, there were traces of soil and grass on the shoulder of the coat. There were marks on the ground beneath the body that were consistent with a small step-ladder having been placed there, and weight applied.’
‘Footprints?’
‘The only ones they could identify were those made by the trainers you took from Moash Glazier when he was lifted. Everything that might have been made the night before was obliterated by the fall and the freezing of the morning dew. In other words there’s no evidence that anyone else was there other than the victim and Glazier. What have we done with that little bugger, by the way?’
‘Let him go. We might need him as a witness at some point. It sticks in my throat, but we’ll get him for something else, that’s if Malky Gladsmuir doesn’t do what he was threatening and chuck him in the Water of Leith.’
‘Do you believe Gladsmuir’s story about the coat? That he took it as security against a debt?’
‘It suits me to believe it. Gladsmuir’s on Mario’s new patch, and by all accounts he’s helpful. We got the coat back, so I’m not going to give him grief.’
‘Yes, agreed. I take it we checked Glazier’s whereabouts on Tuesday night, didn’t we? Not that I think he’s smart enough to cover his tracks by coming back to the scene of his own crime in the morning, but the fiscal will want to know.’
‘He was in Jenny Ha’s pub, with his Lochview girl-friend. The manager knows them both; she confirmed it. I wish we could find that bloody step-ladder, but he’s hardly going to have made that up. But even without it, “keep an open mind, Stevie” . . . that’s what you’re saying, is it?’
‘Exactly. You’ll have a new boss to impress next week. You won’t do it by chasing false trails.’
‘What’s she like?’ Steele asked. ‘I’ve never worked with her.’
‘Mary Chambers? She’s a first-rate officer and she’ll make a damn good commander. George Regan will have to watch himself, not least because Mary’s gay and
he’s an unreconstructed male chauvinist. But you’ll get on well with her, not least because you won’t go out of your way to try to impress her . . . just as you never have with me.’
‘I thought I had.’
‘Not you, Stevie, and you know it. You just do your job the way you think it should be done, and you’re usually right.’
‘Not with Whetstone, though. I don’t know which side of the fence to land on there.’
‘Just keep sat on it, then, till it all becomes clear. Maybe our meeting at the Scottish Farmers Bank will give us a better idea.’
‘You’re still coming to that?’
‘I’m still in post till close of play tomorrow, and I made the appointment personally. I think I should.’
‘Suits me.’ He looked at her across her desk. ‘I’m going to miss you, Mags,’ he said.
‘Why?’ She chuckled. ‘Won’t you find me attractive in uniform? I’ll be in an office just down the corridor, remember. Or are you going to cut me out of your social life? Is it getting too crowded?’
There was a quick tension about his eyes, momentary, but it registered with her. ‘There’ll always be room for you,’ he replied.
‘Okay. In that case, celebrate my promotion with me. Tomorrow evening will be a wash-out because of Manny’s farewell do . . . it’ll be mine too, I suppose . . . but let’s have dinner on Saturday.’
‘Sounds good. Where do you fancy?’
‘My place. Just you and me, shoes off, no job talk; I’ll cook, you bring the wine . . . and no rubbish, mind. Deal?’
‘Deal.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘What time are we due at the bank?’
‘Two thirty. We’d better be off. I’ll drive; I’ve booked a space in their car park.’
They left the CID commander’s small room, and walked out to her car, beside the back door of the West End police office. The fog had gone completely, chased by a cold east wind, but a persistent drizzle had replaced it. Rose took a circuitous but quick route, using the Western Approach Road to reach the financial centre, where a security guard admitted them to the bank’s car park and directed them to their reserved space.
14 - Stay of Execution Page 13