Pray for the Dying (17 page)

Twenty-Eight

‘I’m fine, Bob, honestly. I lost it for a second or two in there, but that’s enough when the red lights are on the cameras. I’m simply calling to apologise for what I said about you. It was unforgivable; if you want, I’ll put out a statement through my press office retracting it and saying that I was provoked.’

‘Let it be, Aileen. I’m not worried about it. What you said is bloody true, anyway, so I won’t ask you to lie for me.’

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I appreciate that. You couldn’t do something about that Hatton woman, could you?’

‘No need. She’s done it to herself. I’ve just taken yet another call from her editor, made no doubt on the advice of his lawyer. This time he was grovelling over what she called me. He’s ordered her back to London this afternoon, even offered to sack her if I insisted on it. I said I didn’t want that, but that he should tell her, so she can see that I have a magnanimous side after all.’

‘But if she ever comes back to Glasgow, she’d better not have any drugs in her handbag?’

He laughed. ‘You said that, I didn’t. Now, I must go; I’ve got people outside waiting to brief me on the Toni Field investigation, and I cannot get off the fucking phone.’

‘Then I won’t keep you. How’s it going, by the way? I gather from Alf . . . I’m with him just now; we’re hiding out in the Postman’s Knock, the bistro down the road . . . that they’ve determined that she was the target.’

‘That’s right. My turn to apologise; you should have heard that from us, not him. I’ll know more when I’ve seen the team, but we have several lines of inquiry. Not least, we want to know what the hell a dead Glasgow gangster was doing in the boot of the shooters’ getaway car.’

‘My God!’ she exclaimed.

‘Indeed, and you should be pleased to hear it. Lottie Mann was going to break that news at her press briefing. It should deflect some of the coverage of yours. By the way, you’d better call Clive Graham. He practically blew the wax out of my ears a few minutes ago, in the ludicrously mistaken belief that I’ve got any influence over you.’

‘Oh, sorry again,’ Aileen said. ‘I was planning to do that anyway. Bob, will you keep me up to date on the inquiry?’

‘Eh?’ he exclaimed. ‘Why should I do that?’

‘Well,’ she murmured, ‘I do have a personal interest in knowing why I’ve had to throw away a very expensive evening dress.’

‘There is that,’ he admitted. ‘Yes, I suppose we could. I’ll be briefing the First Minister, so I could persuade myself that I should do the same for the leader of the Opposition, given that the election’s coming up.’

‘Thanks, you’re a love.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m chief constable and you’re a constituency MSP on my patch. When are you seeing Joey again?’ he asked.

‘Maybe next time we’re in the same city, maybe not, maybe never.’ His question took her by surprise; she returned the challenge. ‘When are you seeing Sarah?’

His reply took one second longer than it should have. ‘Next time I pick up the kids.’

‘Sure,’ she sniggered, ‘sure. Bob, I didn’t get where I am by being stupid.’ She let her words sink in, realising that her shot in the dark had found a target. ‘But don’t worry about it, I don’t care. Whatever works for you, that’s fine by me. As for her, just you be certain that getting even with me isn’t her main aim.’

‘It isn’t,’ he said, ‘but let’s not discuss it further. Now please, let me speak to my team. I promise I’ll keep you informed, as far as I can.’

‘Thanks, I appreciate that.’ He thought the conversation was at an end, but, ‘Bob, one more thing. I don’t want to have to go back to Gullane again, ever. I’d like you to pack up everything I have there, clothes, jewellery, books, music, personal papers, everything that’s mine, and have it couriered through to my flat. Would you do that for me?’ She laughed, without humour. ‘What am I talking about? Would you do it for us? I imagine you don’t want me there again either.’

‘Of course I’ll do that. I’ll deliver them myself.’

‘Thanks for the offer, but no, let’s keep it impersonal.’

‘If that’s what you want, fine; I’ll do it as soon as I can.’

He hung up, then dialled Lowell Payne’s extension number, ignoring the ‘call waiting’ light that continued to flash on his console. ‘I’m clear,’ he told his exec as he answered. ‘Ask Mann and Provan to join me. Have the sandwiches I ordered arrived yet?’

‘Yes, they’re on a trolley outside your door; and tea in a Thermos.’

‘Good. Listen, I want you to get on to the switchboard and tell them that from now on nobody gets through to me without being filtered through you; not the First Minister, not the Prime Minister, not even the monarch. Most of them won’t get through; whenever you can, please refer them to Bridie Gorman or, where it’s his area, to Thomson. Also I’ve changed my mind about having an office mobile through here; I don’t want one. You’ve got my personal phone number. If anything’s urgent and I’m not in the office, you can use that.’

‘Yes, Chief.’

Skinner headed for the side door to retrieve the sandwich trolley; Lottie Mann and Dan Provan were entering through his anteroom as he returned. ‘Welcome,’ he greeted them. ‘Sit at the table.’

He pulled the trolley alongside them, then poured three mugs of tea. ‘Help yourself to sandwiches,’ he said. ‘Sincere apologies for keeping you waiting so long, when you have other more important things to do. Bloody phone! Bloody journalists! Bloody politicians! The least I can do is feed you.’

Provan grunted something that might have been thanks followed by a grudging ‘Sir’. The chief looked at him, pondering the notion that if he judged a book by its cover, the scruffy little DS would be heading for the remainder store.

‘How long have you been in the force, Sergeant?’ he asked.

‘Thirty-two long years, sir.’

‘It’s a bind, is it?’

‘Absolutely, sir. Ah have to drag ma sorry arse out o’ bed every morning.’

‘So why are you doing it, for what . . . fourteen or fifteen grand a year, less tax and national insurance? That’s all you’re getting for it in real terms. With your service, you must be in the old pension scheme, the better one, and you’ll have maxed out. It’ll never get any bigger than it is now as a percentage of final salary. You could retire tomorrow on two-thirds of your current pay level. Tell me,’ he continued, ‘where do you live?’

‘Cambuslang, sir.’

‘How do you get to work?’

Provan reached out and took a handful of sandwiches. ‘Train usually, but sometimes Ah bring the car.’

‘But no free parking in your station, eh?’

‘No, sir.’

‘No. So retire and that travel cost is no more. Are you married?’

‘Technically, but no’ so’s you’d notice. She’s long gone.’

‘Kids?’

‘Jamie and Lulu. He’s twenty-six, she’s twenty-four. He’s a fireman, she’s a teacher.’

‘That means they’re off your hands financially. So why do you do it, why do you drag your shabby arse out of bed every morning for those extra few quid?’ He laughed. ‘Jesus, Sergeant, if you stayed at home and gave up smoking you’d probably be better off financially. You’re more or less a charity worker, man. You’re streetwise, so you’ll have worked this out for yourself. So tell me, straight up, why do you do it?’

‘Because I’m fuckin’ stupid . . . sir. Will that do as an answer?’

‘It will if you want to go back into uniform, as a station sergeant. Somewhere nice. How about Shotts?’

‘Okay,’ Provan snapped. ‘I do it because it’s what I am. Ma wife left me eight years ago because of it, before Ah’d filled up the pension pot, when Lulu was still a student and needin’ helped through uni. Sure, Ah could chuck it. Like you say, I’d have more than enough to live on. Except I’d give myself six months and ma head would be in the oven, even though it’s electric, no’ gas. The picture you’re paintin’s ma worst nightmare, Chief.’

He paused and for the briefest instant Skinner thought he saw a smile. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘the big yin here would be lost without me. Ah’m actually pretty fuckin’ good at what Ah do. But why should Ah go and advertise the fact?’

‘The suit’s a disguise, is it?’

‘No,’ Lottie Mann intervened. ‘Dan wears clothes, any clothes, worse than any human being I have ever met. Even when he was in uniform they used to call him Fungus the Bogeyman.’ She dug him in the ribs with a large elbow. ‘Isn’t that right?’

The DS gave in to a full-on grin. ‘It got me intae CID though.’ Then it faded as he looked the chief constable in the eye. ‘What you see is what you get, Mr Skinner. No’ everybody’s like you or even Lottie here, cut out to play the Lone Ranger . . . although too many think they are. Ah don’t. Every masked man on a white horse needs a faithful Indian companion, and that’s me, fuckin’ Tonto.’

The chief picked up a sandwich, looked at it, decided that the egg looked a little past its best, and put it back on the plate.

‘Nice analogy, Dan,’ he murmured, ‘but it doesn’t quite work for me. I speak a wee bit of Spanish, just restaurant Spanish, you understand, but enough to know that “Tonto” means “Stupid”, and that, Detective Sergeant, you are not. I’m not a uniform guy myself, as the entire police community must know by now, so the wrapping doesn’t bother me too much as long as it doesn’t frighten kids and old ladies, but what’s inside does.

‘I took a shine to you yesterday, but to be sure you weren’t just the office comedian, I pulled your personnel file and the first thing I did when I got here today was to read it. As far as I can see the only reason you’re still a DS is because that’s what you want to be. You’ve never applied for promotion to inspector, correct?’

‘Correct, and you’re right, sir. Ah’m happy where I am. It’s no’ that I’m scared of responsibility, I just believe Ah’ve found my level,’ he paused, ‘Kemo Sabe.’

Skinner chuckled. ‘In which case, Dan, I’ll value you for as long as I’m here. So, how much of the trail have you two sniffed out?’

‘Thanks to you, Chief,’ Mann replied, as soon as she had finished the last sandwich, the one that he had rejected, ‘we now know that the man who rented the Peugeot was the planner of the operation, Beram Cohen, the guy you’ve got in the mortuary through in Edinburgh.

‘We’ve established through HMRC that under the name Byron Millbank he’s lived and worked in London for the last six years, for a mail order company called Rondar. It operates one of those teleshopping channels on satellite telly. Three years ago he married a woman called Golda Radnor, the boss’s daughter, we’re guessing, going by the fact that her name’s the company’s reversed, and eighteen months later they had a wee boy, named Leon Jesse. According to the General Register Office, Byron was born in Eastbourne thirty-two years ago, father unknown, mother named Caroline Anne Millbank, died on the last day of the last century.’

‘Pity,’ Provan muttered. ‘She missed the fireworks.’

‘I doubt if she was ever alive to see them,’ Skinner countered.

‘Do you think those records are faked, sir?’ Mann asked.

He nodded. ‘And clumsily, by somebody with a knowledge of poetic history. I studied it as an option in my degree. Look at the names: Byron Millbank, out of Caroline Anne. Lord Byron the poet, and two of his most famous women, Lady Caroline Lamb and her cousin Annabella, the one he wound up marrying.’

‘Where does Millbank come from?’

‘That was Annabella’s family name, only it was spelled differently, as I recall.’ He laughed. ‘I don’t know where all that came from. I must be turning into Andy Martin; he’s got a photographic memory for everything. However,’ he continued, ‘there’s a second context, and one that’s more likely to be connected. It used to be a secret, but now one of the most famous buildings in London is Thames House, on Millbank: it’s the MI5 headquarters. Whoever set up Cohen’s identity practically signed their name.’

‘Aye, sir, but,’ Provan interposed, ‘how do you know that Cohen’s no’ the alias?’

‘I know because I’d never heard of him until Five told me who he was, and told me about his career in the Israeli military and then its secret service. I guess,’ he continued, ‘that Mr Millbank had a driving licence.’

Mann nodded.

‘And a passport?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Neither of them more than six years old?’

The DI opened the folder she had brought with her, searched through her notes, then looked up. ‘That’s right. Both issued a couple of months before he shows up on the payroll of Rondar, and on the same day.’

‘To make absolutely sure,’ Skinner instructed, ‘I want you to go to the DSS and see if his records go any further back with them. My dollar says they don’t. Before then Cohen was in Mossad, until he was caught up in an illegal operation and got thrown out.’

‘But what does it mean, sir?’ Dan Provan asked.

‘Probably nothing at all, as far as our investigation’s concerned. My reading is that British intelligence did the Israelis a favour by looking after one of theirs. They gave him a legitimate front and if he continued to take on black ops under his old identity, that was all right with them. They told me about one where he had used Smit and Botha; that was American-sponsored, in Somalia. I suppose he was what the spooks call an asset, but now it looks as if he wasn’t fussy who he worked for.’

The sergeant blew out his cheeks. ‘This is a’ new stuff for us, gaffer. How do we go about investigatin’ MI5, for Christ’s sake?’

‘You don’t,’ the chief told him. ‘Yes, Byron Millbank, he’ll need to be followed up, but I’ll take care of that. I want you two and your team to focus on Bazza Brown. Am I right in believing that the media haven’t made any connection between his murder and the Field assassination?’

‘So far they haven’t. As far as they know, Ronnie Edgar from Townhead’s the SIO on that case, and they’ve only just found out it’s Bazza that’s dead. They’ve been told we’re still tryin’ to identify the victim.’

‘Good. From what I’ve heard of Brown’s history, now that we have released his name, the first thing the press will do will speculate that it’s gang wars. That’ll be fine by me. Let them chase that hare as long as they can. Meantime, you need to look at his family and his associates. Do you know them?’

‘I know the main one; that would be Cecil, his brother,’ Lottie Mann replied. ‘Younger by two years, but they were as inseparable as twins.’