Lethal Intent (15 page)

'Should I chuck this job?' he mused aloud, as he poured the tea into two chunky mugs and added a dash of milk, no sugar, to each, not noticing that Jen had come to stand behind him.

'Why would you do that?' she asked.

He turned, surprised, spilling a little tea from one of the mugs as he picked them up. He kept that as his own and gave the other to his wife. 'Sorry, love,' he said. 'I was just talking to myself.'

'Sure, but when you do that it usually means something. Are you thinking of chucking the police?'

'If I did, maybe we'd get a life.'

'We've got a life, George. It's been torn apart for the moment, but you and I remain. We could even have another child.' Her chin seemed to quiver for a second. 'I'm not too old.'

'As the minister pointed out to us so directly, and so tactlessly. The way I see it, Jen, the loss of one child is the worst possible reason for conceiving another. We'd be making comparisons from the cradle, especially if it was a boy. Let's discuss that in six months, if you want, but please, not now. As for me and the police, I don't suppose this is the time for me to be making career decisions either. I'll let that sit on the shelf for a while too. I've got things to do in the meantime.'

'Things?' Jen sipped her tea. 'What things?'

He leaned back against the work surface. 'I've got to do something, love. I know that Mary and Stevie and the lads have done everything they can, and for the last couple of days I've sat back and let them get on with it, as the book says I should. But no way am I going to sit back and let our son's death be signed off as accidental without doing everything I can, myself, to find out for sure what happened to him.'

'How will you do that?'

'I don't know yet, but big Tarvil's bringing me a copy of the completed report this afternoon. Once I've seen it, and seen exactly what they've done, I'll have a better idea.'

'You're not saying they've been lax, are you?'

'Not for a second. Think of me as an outside consultant, brought in to run a fresh eye over things. I won't see anything they should have done that they haven't, but there may be some things I can do differently.'

Twenty-five

Deputy Chief Constable Andy Martin was waiting for them in the hotel foyer. Skinner looked at him and saw a change; for the first time he noticed the network of lines around his friend's vivid green eyes, and the streaks of curly hair around his temples that had made the short transition from blond to silver.

He was dressed casually, in black slacks and a very conservative sports jacket, worn over a pale grey roll-necked sweater. 'Welcome to Kinross,' he said, as he shook hands with both of the newcomers.

McIlhenney looked around their comfortable surroundings. 'The inspector in charge of the local nick must have a nice life,' he commented.

'He doesn't complain about it, that's for sure,' Martin agreed. 'There are worse places I could send him. You wouldn't be after an inter-force transfer, would you, Neil?' He paused. 'Ah, but you're a chief inspector, aren't you?'

'There's a few would take a drop in rank for that posting.'

'Where do we go?' Skinner asked, as if he was impatient to get down to business.

'I've booked a small meeting room, with a coffee and sandwich lunch for the three of us.' He caught McIlhenney's wince. 'What's up?'

'I don't eat bread,' the DCI told him. 'And I don't drink coffee.'

Andy Martin laughed out loud. 'Jesus,' he said, 'you used to start the day with three bacon rolls and a pint of Nescafe. What's happened to you?'

'I used to be three stone heavier and a bag of twitching nerves too.'

'Fair enough. Ham salad and fizzy water okay?'

'Fine.'

'I'll fix it. Bob's paying anyway; I got the impression that this wasn't something I could put on my force's tab, or on yours, and since he called the meeting…'

'If you'd told me that,' Skinner growled, 'we'd be having more than bloody sandwiches. Where's this room, then?'

'Just a minute.' Martin walked across to the reception desk and spoke to a young man behind it. He came out and led them through the hotel to a light, airy room with a conference table that could have seated up to a dozen.

'I'll serve lunch now, shall I, gentlemen?' the manager asked. Skinner nodded, and the man left.

The two visitors looked out of the window across the hotel's attractive gardens. They were in winter mode, befitting the approach of Christmas: the day had dawned crisp and clear and had stayed that way, although it had grown colder through the morning. Kinross was in for a hard frost that night, and maybe snow was not too far away. McIlhenney felt himself shiver.

As Skinner surveyed the grounds his eye fell on a woman pushing a pram or, rather, a modern multi-position device designed for the carriage of small children. 'Hey,' he exclaimed, 'is that Karen out there?'

'Yes,' said Martin, with a sudden dazzling smile and a look in his eyes that McIlhenney had never seen before in him but which he recognised as the pride of the new parent. 'I decided that I'd take the day off and bring her and Danielle down with me. When you two have gone we're going to have a swim in the hotel pool.'

'How's she liking being up here?' asked McIlhenney.

'Ah, she's loving it.'

'Do I detect from your tone that you might not be?' Skinner murmured.

'I'm enjoying my job very much, Bob.'

'That's not an answer.'

'It's the best one I can give you.'

'You know that the chief constable job in Dumfries and Galloway's coming up?'

'I don't have the experience,' said Martin, quickly. 'Why don't you apply for it?'

'That'll be bloody right!'

'There you are, then.'

'Okay,' Skinner admitted. 'I know that job's not for you, but there'll be fall-out from the appointment when it's made… and it could be made soon, for reasons I'll explain shortly. When it's advertised, I'll bet you that a certain stocky Glaswegian ACC, whose office is only a few yards from my own, will be among the applicants.'

'Interesting,' Martin agreed. 'And if Willie gets it there will be a vacancy at Fettes. That's what you're hinting, is it?'

'It's more of a forecast than a hint. Willie's been told to apply for the job, by the outgoing chief, no less.'

'But if he left, you'd promote from within, wouldn't you?'

'Who fills the bill?'

'Brian Mackie?'

'Too new in his present job.'

'Maggie?'

'Likewise; and within these walls I don't fancy any of our other chief supers moving into the Command Corridor. So if and when the vacancy arises, there will be an outside appointment. You want it, you got it, son; it's as simple as that.'

'Food for thought,' Martin mused. He glanced out of the window at his wife and baby daughter. 'I'll keep it to myself for now, though.'

There was a knock on the door; it opened and a waiter appeared pushing a trolley, laden with a large plate of sandwiches, an attractive salad topped with several slices of thick ham, a pot of coffee and two large bottles of mineral water.

As he left, slightly enriched by a tip from Skinner, the three men took places at the table. At first they concentrated on lunch, since they were all hungry, but eventually Martin pushed his plate to one side. 'So, Bob, what's this about?'

'I'm worried,' Skinner replied. 'I think we have something nasty and potentially very dangerous to our service on our hands. What's the respective role of chief constable, board and ministers, in the simplest form?'

'Chiefs are responsible for policing,' Martin shot back, instantly, 'the board for equipping, and the Secretary of State, or First Minister now, for enabling.'

'Perfect. That's how it's always been and how it should be. The problem is that we have a First Minister who wants to change all that: he wants to emasculate the boards and take control for himself. He wants to approve every appointment at our rank, and have the power to fire us, personally, at will.'

'He can't do that!'

'Oh, no? The bill's already drafted. He's sweet-talked his coalition partners into going along with it on the basis that the powers it gives him are for use in extreme cases only. It's as bad in its own way as the Americans' Patriot Act: the law that gives the US Attorney General the right to decide who's a terrorist and who isn't. I suspect that our beloved leader Mr Murtagh might just be a bit of a Fascist, but in rose-red clothing.'

'Have you seen this bill?'

'No, but a friend of mine has and described it to me in detail.'

'What about the new Justice Minister, de Marco? I thought she was supposed to be pro-police. She made her feelings plain on Monday about those people being packed off to Cuba.'

Skinner looked at him and picked up another sandwich. 'She's the friend,' he replied, and took a bite. He let the silence linger until he was finished, reading all the questions in his friend's eyes as he did. 'Aileen didn't make her feelings plain directly; I did it for her. Now she's been coerced by Murtagh into appearing to go along with it, and we've agreed that she should acquiesce for now. The guy thinks he's got me by the balls too, and I plan to let him go on thinking that.'

'So are you going to sit on your hands and let the bastard get on with it?' Martin demanded, as angrily as he could ever sound.

'I'm going to appear to do that. He'll be watching me like a hawk or, rather, his newly appointed Himmler will.'

'Who?'

Skinner raised his eyebrows. 'You haven't heard that Jock Govan's been booted as security adviser? Jimmy Proud told me he'd let all the other chiefs know.'

'It's news to me, but Graham Morton was away yesterday and Monday. I haven't seen him this week. Who's the new guy?'

'Greg Jay.'

Martin gasped. 'You have to be joking.'

'Am I smiling?' Skinner retorted. 'Officially he retired from us last week, but unofficially he's been working for wee Tommy for a while. He's even been checking up on Aileen and me… not that there was anything for him to check up on, in the sense you're thinking.' He caught a flicker of McIlhenney's right eyebrow, but no more.

'He's made his presence felt with other people too. I spoke with Niall Foy, the Chief Inspector of Constabulary this morning. He's absolutely livid, because apparently Jay's been saying that he'll be allowed to conduct private investigations into individual officers and report directly to his boss about them. Again, Murtagh's saying that it would only be in the most sensitive and exceptional circumstances, but if you believe that…'

'This is appalling,' Martin exclaimed. 'What do you think, Neil?'

The chief inspector smiled. 'Just between you and me, Andy? Personally, I think Jay should have been sent home to his garden a while back, when he crossed my friend McGuire, but I wouldn't have dared say it to the boss, would I?'

Skinner grumbled, 'No, but maybe Dan Pringle should have.' He paused. 'Is there anything you wouldn't dare tell me about him?'

'As head of CID,' McIlhenney replied, 'Dan was a man for his time. Now that time's nearly up. There's other things I could say as well, but I'm not going to dig that up.'

'No, best not to. Anyway, back to the pressing matter. I wanted to see you guys today because I want to ask you to put your careers on the line. I want to get that little bastard Murtagh and I want you to help me do it. He is just too bloody slimy to have no skeletons in his closet. I want to find out whose they are, or what they are, and I want to make their bones rattle until they drive him out of office.'

He looked at Martin once again. 'Murtagh may be Edinburgh-based now, but he has a Dundonian background. I want to know all about it. I want to know who his pals were when he was here, whether he preferred women to sheep, where he worked before he gave it up and became a politician. I want schoolfriend anecdotes, office gossip… did he ever feel the typists' bums, that sort of stuff… any weapon you can find me, and as many of them as you can.'

He turned to McIlhenney. 'Neil, I want you to do a vetting operation on him in Edinburgh. I've already had a conversation with Amanda Dennis. She understands what's at stake and she'll help you in any way she can. I know I'm piling a lot of responsibility on your shoulders, with the other thing on the go, but I have to assume that I'm being watched myself. I won't forget it, don't worry.'

'I never have,' said McIlhenney. 'What about Jay?'

'Jay is a minion.' Skinner spat the word out contemptuously. 'If you think about it, you and I both know already how we can bring him into line. But I will choose my moment. Who knows? Maybe I can turn him into our best weapon against Murtagh.'

He winked at his colleagues, at his friends, and picked up yet another sandwich.

Twenty-six

'I like this pub,' said Maggie, as she looked around the old tavern, strategically placed beside the railway station on the five-pointed Haymarket junction. 'I came here when I was little more than a girl, and it's barely changed since.'

'Unlike too many of them,' Stevie Steele commented. 'I don't like designer boozers, converted banking halls, that sort of thing, but I really hate it when places like this are revamped and modernised just for the sake of it, when a coat of varnish is all they really need.'

'This one's survived, at least'

'But for how much longer?'

'As long as it makes a nice profit.'

He laughed. 'And serves a nice pie.' He looked at her as he sprinkled vinegar on his chips. 'So, love, what's so important or enticing that couldn't wait till tonight?'

Maggie slipped her arms out of her overcoat and let it fall behind her over the back of her chair. She still wore her white uniform shirt, but she had removed the black and white checked cravat and epaulettes. Police uniforms always drew stares in pubs; without the telltale neckerchief, she might have been a bank clerk.

'I had a letter from my lawyer in the mail this morning,' she said. 'He's agreed the financial settlement with Mario's solicitor and it's ready for us both to sign. I'm getting the house free and clear, as Mario promised, and everything in it.'