14 - Stay of Execution

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Bob?’ Even in the way she said his name, there was something different about her voice; an excitement that he had not noticed before. ‘I have some news for you. It’s going to be breaking soon, within the next hour in fact, and you’re one of the people I wanted to tell in advance. My boss, Crichton Griffiths, the Justice Minister, has resigned. He’s been diagnosed with a form of leukaemia, and begins chemotherapy this week. The First Minister has asked me to take his place.’

  Skinner took a second or two to let the news sink in. He knew Crichton Griffiths professionally, and had always found him polite and courteous. However, he had also regarded him as Tommy Murtagh’s lackey, a bit too much his master’s voice rather than his own man. ‘Congratulations, Aileen,’ he said. ‘It’s a big job you’re taking on, but you’re up to it. The Association of Chief Police Officers will welcome your appointment; I can assure you of that.’

  ‘It’s nice of you to say so. Crichton’s always described them as a forbidding, argumentative lot, so I’m a bit apprehensive about facing them.’

  ‘Hey, I’m one, remember, and I do my best not to be forbidding. I don’t always succeed, I know, but I try . . .’ he gave a soft laugh ‘. . . unless, of course, I come up against someone I really want to intimidate.’

  ‘He said that too. You don’t like the First Minister a lot, do you?’

  ‘He talks too much. The first time I catch him listening I might start to respect him.’

  ‘I’ll have to bear that in mind.’

  ‘You’re different, don’t worry. This phone call alone is evidence of that. You’ll be a breath of fresh air at the cabinet table. I’m in no doubt about that.’

  ‘Thanks for your confidence, Bob. I have to admit that, right now, I’m struggling to share it.’

  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘I do, as it happens, but I’m under no illusions. I’m wildly inexperienced for the job . . .’

  ‘It’s still a new legislature,’ Skinner pointed out. ‘You can say that about every one of your colleagues.’

  ‘Fine, but this is me I’m talking about, my insecurity. I’m responsible for the administration of the courts, for the prison service, the probation service, the fire service and the police. I’m going to need help and advice.’

  ‘You’ve got a small army of civil servants to help and advise you.’

  There was a pause. ‘Exactly.’ They both laughed. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I told Lena not to listen in. It’s part of the private secretary’s routine, you know; hold the mute button and listen in on the minister’s calls.’

  ‘I know. But in the main, you can trust your civil service. Some of them might be a bit self-important, but they’re conscientious . . . and they are experienced.’

  ‘I appreciate that, but I’m not going to accept everything they say and recommend. I want to have other input available when I need it. I’d like to have a private group of advisers, in each of the areas I’m responsible for, and I was wondering . . . Can I count on you? Can I use you as a sounding board when I need one? You’re your own man, the last person to tell me what you think I want to hear.’

  ‘What makes you so sure of that?’

  ‘You fell out with the Secretary of State, when you were his official adviser; everybody knows that. More recently, though, you told Crichton Griffiths to piss off when he offered you command of the Scottish Drug Enforcement Agency.’

  Skinner chuckled. ‘That wasn’t quite what I said.’

  ‘That’s a fair summary of how he described your conversation to me.’

  ‘It’s true that we discussed the job. I told him that I had reservations about a national body that’s focused on a single issue. If we’re talking about fighting serious crime in general, that would be another matter, but Crichton didn’t see it that way, or rather his boss didn’t. As usual, he let the Scottish media set his agenda, so we got the SDEA. At that point your predecessor did try to lean on me to take the job; he suggested that it might be my only shot at chief constable rank. I didn’t tell him to piss off, though; I told him to tell Tommy Murtagh to shove it up his arse, and not even to dream about threatening me again.’

  ‘I doubt very much if he passed that on.’

  ‘I doubt it too,’ he laughed, ‘but it might make you consider, Aileen, whether you really want me as an adviser, informal or not.’

  ‘It makes me dead certain that I do. Consider it, please.’

  ‘I don’t need to. I’ll do it. If you’re going to be a listening minister, I’d be bloody stupid to pass up the chance to tell you what I think.’

  She gave a small sound of pleasure. ‘Thanks, Bob, thanks very much.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. So what do you want to pick my brains about first?’

  ‘How about the SDEA? What should I do about that?’

  ‘You don’t have any choice. You have to give it your full backing. My view on that is irrelevant; your administration set it up and gave it a job to do. There are dozens of good officers out there now, working hard at it, and I will never do or say anything, in public or in private, to undermine them. My argument with Murtagh was strategic. I do not subscribe to the view that all serious crime in Scotland goes back to the drugs trade, simple as that.’

  ‘We’ll have a longer discussion about that,’ said de Marco, ‘and soon. Before I go though; you’ve got contacts, could you help me build up my advisory network?’

  ‘I’ll think about it, but I can give you a couple of names right now: Mitchell Laidlaw and Lenny Plenderleith.’

  ‘I’ve heard of Laidlaw,’ the minister murmured, ‘but not Lenny Plenderleith. Should I?’

  ‘As of today you should have. You’ve got him locked up for murder. Lenny was a gangster, and I put him away, but he’s a very bright guy, and in a strange way he and I have become friends. His motivation has changed, and so has his outlook on life. He knows more about the prison service than most of the guys who run it. If you really want to understand what happens inside, he’s the guy to put you right.’

  ‘I’ll read his file. Let’s meet, Bob, privately; the evening would be best.’

  Skinner hesitated. ‘I can’t do it before Monday,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘That suits me. We’ll confirm arrangements later. I have to make some more calls now.’

  He laughed. ‘Not least to your brother. You can tell him he’s back on the platform at Murrayfield.’

  25

  ‘What did you think of that?’ Rose and Steele had driven away in silence from Lothian Road; neither had spoken until they were through Tollcross, when the inspector could contain himself no longer.

  ‘Just be thankful you don’t have anyone like Aurelia in your team,’ the superintendent replied. ‘We get that type in the police from time to time, but they don’t usually get rewarded for it. She will, though; maybe not right away, but in a few weeks, when Whetstone’s death has faded into the background, poor wee Vernon will get the early retirement package and Ms Middlemass will move into his office. And if the chief executive of SFB has any bloody sense, he’ll watch his back from that moment on.’

  ‘I wonder what Mr Middlemass is like.’

  ‘I don’t think he is Mr Middlemass. I did some checking up on the key players at SFB in advance of the meeting. They’re listed in the last Insider magazine banking survey. It said that she’s married to a Spanish academic, who’s on the staff of Heriot-Watt University. Maybe she’s a pussycat at home, though, Stevie. A lot of people change personalities when they step through the office door.’

  ‘As long as she, or anyone like her, never steps through mine.’ He paused as a thought struck him. ‘Mary Chambers isn’t like her, is she?’

  Rose laughed. ‘A greater contrast you could not find.’

  She drove on, in silence once more, until once again they reached the Whetstone house at the Grange. This time, Steele had phoned ahead to announce their visit, although he had not said what they wanted to discuss.

  The door was
opened by a woman they had never met; she was middle-aged, she wore black, and her puffy eyes showed signs of recent crying. ‘You must be the police,’ she decided, before Rose had a chance to speak. ‘I’m Aisling Reynolds, Ivor’s sister. Virginia told me she was expecting you. She’s upstairs, resting; she’s had precious little sleep, poor thing. If you’d like to wait in the drawing room, I’ll tell her you’re here.’

  Blue, the Siberian husky, was in his usual place in front of the fire as they went into the bay-windowed room. Steele walked round the couch and knelt beside him, ruffling his thick fur. ‘How’re you doing, boy?’

  ‘Missing his dad, I’m afraid,’ said a voice from the door. Virginia Whetstone seemed to have shrunk in twenty-four hours, but as she moved into the room they saw that she was wearing sheepskin moccasins, with virtually no heel. She was dressed in black jeans and a crew-necked sweater, and her hair was tied back in a pony-tail. Like her sister-in-law, her grief showed around her eyes. ‘I took him for a walk this morning, though; or rather, he took me. Did Aisling offer you tea?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Rose answered, ‘but we’re fine, thanks.’

  The widow nodded, and sat in the chair beside the dog. The superintendent took a seat close to her on the couch, and Steele joined her.

  ‘How are your investigations proceeding?’ Mrs Whetstone’s voice seemed stronger as she turned to business.

  ‘We have reached a conclusion,’ Maggie Rose told her. ‘We’re going to report to the procurator fiscal that your husband probably took his own life. There was a slight doubt cast on that by the post mortem, but on balance that’s how it looks.’

  The woman drew in a breath and gazed directly into the detective’s eyes. ‘I see,’ she said evenly. ‘And if I choose to contest that?’

  ‘I should tell you to consult your solicitor about that, but . . . You could ask the fiscal to hold an inquiry into your husband’s death under the 1977 Act. He has the discretion to do that, and it would allow you to have all the circumstances examined in open court, before the Sheriff. You could have legal representation; you’d hear evidence in open court, and be able to cross-examine witnesses. Also you’d be able to give evidence about your husband’s state of mind, and maybe even introduce other people who knew him.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I should do that?’

  ‘It’s not for me to make such a suggestion; I’m only telling you that it’s a possibility. But before you go down that avenue, there are some things we have to discuss with you. Did you know that your husband was ill?’

  Mrs Whetstone’s look of blank astonishment answered for her.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Rose continued. ‘He had lung cancer, sufficiently advanced for the pathologist to take the view that it would have proved fatal.’

  ‘My God,’ the woman whispered, ‘poor Ivor.’ She looked at the detectives. ‘But even so, my husband was a man of some determination. I don’t believe he would just have given up . . . if he knew about it.’ She shook her head. ‘He was never very good at keeping secrets from me, you know.’

  ‘The pathologist did say that he might not have known about it.’

  ‘Then what makes you so sure he killed himself?’

  ‘That’s the other thing we have to tell you; it relates to your husband’s job.’

  ‘Well? As they say . . . shoot.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of the Bonspiel Partnership?’ asked the superintendent.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Bonspiel Partnership; it’s one of your husband’s clients. Did he ever mention it to you?’

  ‘Never. I’m quite certain of that. It’s hardly a name one would forget. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because the Bonspiel Partnership does not exist: yet it appears that your husband approved lending facilities of up to a million pounds and that the full amount was transferred to an offshore bank account.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘It’s true, I’m afraid. It was revealed by an internal investigation at SFB. The offshore account was in the name of Victoria Murray. The money’s moved on since then, and the bank’s view is that it will probably be untraceable.’

  Mrs Whetstone gasped. ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ She held up the document case she had brought from the car. ‘All the papers are in here. I have to ask you again, Mrs Whetstone . . .’

  ‘I won’t listen to any more!’ the woman shouted; her eyes were blazing.

  Rose waited for her to subside. ‘I have to, I’m afraid. To be honest, I’d be justified in making this a formal interview, given the information I’ve seen, but I’m bending over backwards not to do that. I just need you to answer this question. Did you know, or did you have any reason to believe, that your husband might have been defrauding his company?’

  ‘No, I did not,’ she replied stiffly. ‘You can show me all the evidence you like, and I still won’t believe it.’

  ‘I’m not going to do that. I’ll report to the fiscal, and he’ll make the decision on how to dispose of the case. I’m sorry, but I cannot justify taking this investigation any further.’

  ‘What would you expect him to do?’

  ‘I can’t say; it’s his decision.’

  ‘But based on your experience . . .’

  ‘Each case is different, Mrs Whetstone; but informally, between you and me, I’d expect him to close the file. On the basis of the information that I’ll put before him, I’d expect him to write it off as suicide under pressure of imminent incrimination.’

  ‘Without an inquiry?’

  ‘Your husband wasn’t in his workplace, and he wasn’t in custody; therefore an FAI is discretionary, not mandatory.’

  ‘But if I pressed for one?’

  ‘He might order it. Bear this in mind, though: at an inquiry before the Sheriff, your husband would effectively be in the dock. All the evidence against him would be led. On top of that, the Sheriff would probably ask you to give evidence about Ivor’s demeanour in the days before his death; that would lay you open to aggressive cross-examination, should the bank instruct counsel. Before you do anything, think about the box you’d be opening.’

  ‘Besmirching Ivor’s memory, you mean? That’s a box he’d throw open himself.’

  ‘And your son? How would he feel about it?’

  Virginia Whetstone pursed her lips. ‘That is another matter. I have still to speak to Murphy, I’m afraid. When Bert called him at the distillery he was told that he and a couple of colleagues have time off, and that they’ve gone into the mountains. They’re not due back until today. The company know what’s happened; they’ll make sure he calls me as soon as possible, but I don’t expect to see him before Saturday. Monday won’t be too late for me to speak to this fiscal man, will it?’

  ‘Not at all. I won’t be making my report until tomorrow.’

  ‘I could consult my solicitor, couldn’t I?’

  Rose nodded. ‘That would be a sensible thing to do. If he wants to speak to us, and he probably will, tell him to ask for DI Steele.’

  ‘Not for you?’

  ‘I’m going to be busy tomorrow, I’m afraid. I have an in-tray to empty before five.’

  26

  The DCC was tidying his desk, and thinking about the road home, when there was a knock at his door. The status light outside had been set to red, ‘busy’, but he pushed a button in his desk and turned it to green, ‘come in’.

  His visitor was the head of CID. ‘Red lights mean nothing to you, do they, Dan?’ said Skinner, amiably.

  ‘Depends where they are. Traffic lights I generally take note of, but houses down in Leith I avoid like the plague.’

  ‘I wish all our officers could say that.’

  A smile seemed to ruffle Pringle’s heavy moustache. ‘Are you suggesting that some of our colleagues might not be above accepting sexual favours, Bob?’

  ‘I know of at least one who has done in days gone by, but he knows I do, so it won’t happen a
gain.’ He grunted. ‘Anyway, he’s probably fucking past it by now . . . or words to that effect. What have you got for me, Dan? Whatever it is, it had better not take long.’

  ‘It won’t. It’s about the swinging banker; you asked me to keep you in touch, remember.’

  ‘Aye, what about him?’

  ‘I’ve just had Maggie on the phone. She and Stevie have wrapped it up; they’re reporting it to the fiscal in the morning as a probable suicide.’

  Skinner frowned. ‘I’m not sure the pathologist will be too happy about that. Sarah came in to see me at lunchtime. She said she’d found injuries that offered another explanation.’

  ‘I know,’ said Pringle. ‘Rose told me that. But she came up with a theory of her own, and I think it fits.’ He explained the scenario that had been outlined to him by the outgoing divisional commander.

  When he finished, Skinner sighed, and nodded. ‘I can see that one,’ he admitted. ‘And I reckon the fiscal would buy it too. It’s not like my wife to go out on a limb like that, and be wrong. In fact, I’ve never known it before. I’ll need to be careful around the dinner table tonight.’

  ‘There’s merit in what she said, though, boss. It’s just that when Maggie and Steele went to the bank this afternoon, they were given a folder that showed that the bloke had been at it. Almost certainly he’d have been rumbled. On the evidence it seems pretty clear-cut.’

  ‘I suppose it does,’ the DCC agreed. ‘Weird, but clean-cut. Are you happy?’

  ‘I have to be. We all have to be; that’s what the evidence tells us.’

  ‘Tell that to the ghost of Timothy Evans, my friend.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘An accused of fifty years ago. The evidence said he was guilty too, and they hanged him . . . a lot more neatly than this chap, by all accounts. But . . . cases like that are rarities. If you lot are prepared to report, I’m not going to rock the boat.’

  27

  ‘It gives me great pleasure to welcome you to Edinburgh, Inspector Mawhinney,’ said Sir James Proud. He shook his guest’s hand, holding it long enough for the five photographers to frame and take their photographs. Both men were in uniform; the chief’s was heavy with silver braid, but the New Yorker’s, bright with the ribbons of service medals, and with its badges of rank, was just as sharp and impressive.