Pray for the Dying (38 page)

One

‘I put Paula in harm’s way, Mario,’ Bob Skinner murmured, as he gazed at his colleague, their faces pale in the glare of the freestanding spotlights that had been set up to illuminate the scene. ‘I am desperately sorry.’

Never before had Detective Chief Superintendent McGuire seen his boss looking apprehensive, and yet he was, there could be no mistaking it.

‘How exactly did you do that, sir?’ he replied, stiffly. ‘Your wife invited my wife to chum her to a charity concert. Given that Aileen is a former and possibly future First Minister of our country, most people would regard that as something of an honour.’

‘Someone tried to kill her,’ Skinner hissed. ‘There was intelligence that a hit was being planned. You know that; I knew it. I was asleep at the fucking wheel, or I’d have considered that as a possibility.’

‘Then it was Paula that saved her life, Bob,’ McGuire pointed out, more gently. ‘If she hadn’t told Aileen that she was wearing a red outfit, on account of her being so pregnant it was the only thing that would fit, then Aileen would have worn her usual colour.’

The chief constable frowned. ‘But Paula isn’t wearing red.’

‘No, she found something else. Thank your lucky stars again that she didn’t think to tell Aileen about it. Stop beating yourself up, man. Nobody’s going to blame you for anything, least of all me. Paula’s all right, she’s off the scene, and that’s an end of it.’

Skinner nodded towards the splayed body, a few yards away from where they stood, in front of the auditorium stage of Glasgow’s splendid concert arena. ‘She would blame me, if she could.’ He put a hand to an ear. ‘If I listen hard enough I reckon I’ll hear her. Five minutes, that’s all it would have taken. If we’d got to our informant five minutes earlier . . .’

‘You’d probably have been caught in traffic,’ his colleague countered, ‘and got here no quicker. Okay, if the Strathclyde communications centre hadn’t been on weekend mode, you might have got the word to ACC Allan and prevented the hit . . . but they were and you didn’t.’

‘Speaking of old Max,’ Skinner murmured, ‘how is he? I didn’t have time to talk to him when he met us at the entrance. “She’s dead,” he said. That was all. I assumed it was Aileen. I didn’t wait to hear any more. I just charged inside and left him there.’

‘He’s wasted; complete collapse. When I got there he was sitting on the steps in the foyer with his face in his hands. He had blood on them; it was all over his face, in his hair. He was a mess.’ He paused. ‘The guy you were with, the fellow who took Paula and Aileen away. I only caught a glimpse of him. Who is he?’

‘His name’s Clyde Houseman. Security Service; Glasgow regional office.’

‘He’s sound?’

‘Oh yes.’ Skinner’s eyes flashed. ‘Do you think for a minute I’d entrust our wives’ safety to him if I wasn’t sure of that? I told him to take them to the high security police station in Govan and to keep them there till he heard from me. And before you ask, there’s a doctor on the way there to check Paula out, given that she’s over eight months gone.’

‘But she was fine, as far as you could see?’ McGuire asked, anxiously.

‘Yes, like I said. Obviously, she got a fright at the time . . . not even Paula’s going to have the woman in the seat next to her shot through the head without batting an eyelid . . . but when I got to her she was calm and in control. Far more concerned about Toni Field than about herself.’

‘Did she see . . .’

‘Not much. Even when the emergency lighting came on, it wasn’t far short of pitch dark, and Clive Graham got between her and the body, and made his protection officers rush her and Aileen out of there, into the anteroom where I found them. Aileen screamed bloody murder, of course.’

‘Was she in shock?’

‘Hell no. It wasn’t from fright. She just didn’t want to leave. I’m a cynic where politicians are concerned, and my wife’s no different from any of them, maybe worse than most. She wanted to be seen here alongside Clive Graham, who appears to have been a complete fucking hero. He’ll get the headlines and Aileen was livid that she’ll be seen as a weak wee woman, hiding behind her husband. I wasn’t fucking wearing that, mate. I told Houseman to get them out of there, regardless of what she wanted, and I sent Graham’s people back to do their job.’ He grunted. ‘You know that actor guy, Joey Morocco? Didn’t he turn up on the bloody scene while all this was going on, demanding to know that Aileen was all right!’

‘Morocco? The movie star? What’s his interest in Aileen?’

‘The very question I put to him, but she said they were old friends. News to me, but they were all over each other. I might as well not have been here. He offered to take the girls to his place, but I told him that unless it was bomb-proof like the Govan nick, that wouldn’t be a starter. Then I told him to clear out, with the rest of the civilians.’

‘How long are you going to keep them there?’

The chief constable’s eyebrows rose. ‘Christ, Mario, I haven’t thought that far ahead. I’ve been here for twenty-five minutes, that’s all, trying to keep this crime scene secure till the forensic team arrive. Anyway, this isn’t our patch. That’s an operational decision for . . .’

‘Indeed.’

Both police officers turned towards the newcomer. McGuire, irked by the interruption, frowned, but Skinner knew the voice well enough. ‘Clive,’ he murmured in greeting, as the First Minister stepped into the silver light, with his two personal protection officers no more than a yard behind him. He was tartan-clad, waistcoat and trousers, but no jacket. The chief constable guessed that garment was draped over the body of Toni Field.

The woman had been his arch-enemy. She had been a surprise choice as head of the Strathclyde force, a job for which he had declined to apply, in spite of the entreaties of his wife and of the retiring chief. Most Scots assumed, therefore, that she had been appointed by default, but Skinner recognised the quality of her CV, and even more important its breadth, with success in the Met and England’s Serious Crimes Agency added to relevant experience as chief constable of the West Midlands.

She and Skinner had been on a collision course from their first meeting, when it had become clear that Field was in support of the unified Scottish police force advocated by Clive Graham’s government, and that she expected to be appointed to lead it, regardless of his own ambitions.

As it happened, those no more included heading Graham’s proposed force than they had inclined him towards Strathclyde. Skinner was firmly against the idea, on principle. He had shunned the Glasgow job because he felt that a force that covered half of Scotland’s land mass and most of its population was itself too large.

He had always believed that policing had to be as locally responsible as possible, and when he had discovered a few days earlier that his wife, the First Minister’s chief political rival as leader of the Scottish Labour Party, intended to back unification and help rush it through the Holyrood parliament, their marriage had exploded. Aileen had moved back to her flat, ostensibly for a few days, but they knew, both of them, that it was for good.

‘How are you?’ he asked the First Minister. He had no personal issues with him. His position and that of his party had been clear from the start; his wife’s, he was convinced, was based on political expediency, pure and simple.

‘In need of another very stiff drink,’ Graham replied. ‘Yes, I’ve already had one, but I suspect I’m going to get the shakes pretty soon. What happened . . . it hasn’t quite sunk in yet. Please brief me, on everything. I can’t get any sense out of the locals, and my protection boys don’t know any more than I do.’

Both Skinner and McGuire realised that he was making a determined effort not to look at the thing on the floor.

‘Are the ladies safe?’ he continued.

‘Yes,’ Skinner replied.

‘The pregnant one? She’s . . .’

‘My wife,’ McGuire whispered.

The First Minister stared at him.

‘This is DCS McGuire,’ Skinner explained. ‘My head of CID. I had promised my kids some attention today, so Aileen invited Paula to use the other ticket.’ Not a lie, not the whole truth. ‘And yes, thank you. She’s okay. Obviously Mario here will be keeping her in cotton wool from now on, but she’ll be fine, I’m sure.’

‘That’s good to hear. Now, do you believe there’s a continuing threat?’

‘No, I don’t, but we shouldn’t take any chances.’

‘What happened? None of us really knows, Bob. Who was it? Did they get away?’

‘It was a professional hit team. Originally there were three, but one of them, the planner, died a few days ago, unexpectedly, of natural causes. The body was dumped in Edinburgh. The other two didn’t think for a minute we’d identify him, but we did, and as soon as we knew who he was, we knew as well that something was up. We guessed the venue, but we got the target wrong. We thought they were after the pianist, the guy who was supposed to be playing at this thing.’

‘Theo Fabrizzi?’

‘Yes. For all his name, he’s Lebanese, and he’s a hate figure for the Israelis. We didn’t find out any of this until the last minute. When we did, we got him out of here. You were probably told he’d been taken ill, but that was bollocks. The guy’s a fanatic, a martyr with a piano; he wouldn’t back off, so we arrested him and took him away, spitting feathers, but safe.’

‘My God,’ the First Minister exclaimed. ‘Why wasn’t I told this at the time?’

‘We were too busy sorting the situation out,’ Skinner shot back, irritably. ‘Or so we thought. And there was another reason,’ he added. ‘I shouldn’t have to tell you that your devolved powers do not include counter-terrorism. That’s reserved for Westminster.

‘As soon as we identified Cohen, the planner, MI5 got involved, with the Home Secretary pulling the strings. There had been intelligence that a hit was planned in the UK, but no details. With Cohen and his team in Scotland, assumptions were made, and we all bought into the piano player as the target. Then the Home Secretary got brave . . . God save us all from courageous politicians in fucking bunkers in Whitehall, Clive . . . and decided that she wanted her people to catch the rest of the team. She declared that it was a Five operation, and that the police shouldn’t be alerted, in case of crossed wires.’

‘So how did you get involved?’

‘I was in play by that time, having asked them for help in identifying Cohen.’

Graham’s face was creased into a frown that made him unrecognisable as the beaming man on the election posters. ‘But if . . .’ he growled.

Skinner nodded. ‘There was someone else involved, the man who supplied the weapons. My MI5 colleague and I got to him,’ he paused and checked his watch, ‘less than ninety minutes ago. We interrogated him and he told us that from a remark by one of the shooters, when they collected the guns last night, the target was definitely female.

‘Obviously that changed everything. At that point . . .’ he paused, ‘. . . well, frankly, it was fuck the Home Secretary’s orders. We headed straight through here. I tried to stop the event, but in all this mighty police force, Clive, I could not find anyone willing to take responsibility, until it was too late. You know what happened then.’

‘What about the terrorists? Did they escape in all the confusion? Nobody can tell me, or will.’

‘They’re dead. They were making their escape when we arrived. They’d just shot the two cops manning the door.’ He sighed, shuddered for a second, and shook his head. ‘Fortunately my Five sidekick was armed or we’d have been in trouble. We didn’t negotiate. Captain Houseman killed one. I took down the other one as he tried to run off. But don’t be calling these guys terrorists, Clive. They weren’t. No, they were . . .’

He broke off as his personal mobile phone . . . he carried two . . .  sounded in his pocket. He took it out and peered at the screen, ready to reject the call if it was Aileen spoiling for a renewed fight, but it was someone else. ‘Excuse me,’ he told the First Minister. ‘I have to take this.’

Graham nodded. ‘Of course.’

He slid the arrow to accept, and put the phone to his ear, moving a few paces away from the group, skirting Toni Field’s body as he did so.

‘Hi, Sarah,’ he murmured.

‘Bob!’ she exclaimed. Skinner’s ex-wife was cool and not given to panic, but the anxiety in her voice was undeniable.

‘Where are you? Are you okay? What’s happened? I’ve just had a call from Mark. He told me he heard a news flash on radio about a shooting in Glasgow, at an event with the First Minister and Aileen. That’s the event that she and Paula were going to this evening, isn’t it? He says someone’s dead and that your name was mentioned. Honey, what is it? Is it Aileen?’

‘Shit,’ he hissed. ‘So soon. They’re not saying that, are they, that it’s Aileen?’

‘I’m not sure what they said but Mark was left wondering if it might be. He’s scared, Bob, and most of all he’s scared for you.’

‘In that case, love, please call him back and calm him down. Yes, I am at the scene, yes, there is a casualty here, and others outside, but none of them are Aileen or anyone else he knows. And it’s certainly not Paula. They’re both safe.’

‘But how about you?’ Her voice was strident.

‘You can hear me, can’t you? I’m okay too. I might not be in the morning, when it all sinks in, but I am fine now, and in control of myself.’ As if to demonstrate, he paused then lowered his voice as he continued. ‘Are you alone?’ he asked. ‘Are you at home?’

‘Yes, of course, to both.’

‘Good. In that case, I need you to do a couple of things. Call Trish,’ their children had a full-time carer; their sons had reached an age at which they refused to allow her to be called a nanny, ‘and have her take the kids to your place. As soon as you’ve done that, get hold of my grown-up daughter. I’m guessing she hasn’t heard about this yet, or she’d have called me, but Alex being Alex, she’s bound to find out soon. She may be at home; if not, try her mobile . . . do you have the number?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fine, if you can’t raise her on either of those, try Andy’s place. Tell her what I’ve told you. I don’t have time to do it myself; the fan’s pretty much clogged up with shit here.’