Pray for the Dying (50 page)

Twenty-Three

‘
When it arrives, have them forward it to my email,’ Skinner told Lowell Payne, raising his voice slightly as his car overtook three lorries that were travelling in convoy along the busy motorway that links Scotland’s capital with its largest city. ‘I’d like to see it as soon as I get to the office, although I’m not sure when that will be. I’m not looking forward to my next visit, although it’s one I have to make.’

‘I’ll do that, Chief. I was planning to attend the press briefing. Should I do that?’

‘Mmm.’ He considered the question for a few seconds, as he held his phone to his ear. His Strathclyde driver was new to him; Bluetooth was not an option. ‘Maybe not. The media will be aware by now of your role as my exec, and I’ve been dodging the buggers since last night. But tell DI Mann she should make it clear that we now know for sure that Field was the target. She doesn’t need to say how, but she should rule out any other possibility one hundred per cent. Do we video these events ourselves?’

‘I don’t know,’ Payne admitted. ‘I’ve never been involved in one as formal as this.’

‘Then find out. If they don’t, make sure it happens. I’ve always done it in Edinburgh. I like my own record of events.’

‘Understood. I’ll tell Malcolm Nopper.’

‘Thanks. Something else I’d like you to do. The force area is massive, as we all know; I don’t plan or expect to set foot in every police station on a three-month appointment, but nonetheless I imagine I’m going to be travelling quite a bit. I want to be in complete touch at all times, so I’d like you to fix me up with a tablet computer.’

‘An iPad?’

‘That or equivalent, as long as it gets me internet access everywhere I go and has a big enough screen for me to read. With one of those I’ll be able to read emails at once, wherever I am.’

‘You’ll have one before the day’s out.’

‘Thanks.’ As he spoke, his driver signalled then eased to the left, leaving the motorway. Skinner knew where they were, well enough; Lanarkshire had been his territory until he was into his twenties, even if it had changed since his departure.

‘Why the hell do they call this Motherwell Food Park?’ he mused aloud.

‘No idea, sir,’ his driver replied, believing that an answer had been required. ‘Why would they not?’

‘Because it’s in bloody Bellshill, Constable; it’s miles away from Motherwell.’

‘Is that right, sir?’

‘Trust me on it; I was born in Motherwell, and my grandparents, my father’s folks, they lived in Bellshill. Where are you from, Constable Cole? What’s your first name, by the way?’

‘David, sir; Davie. I’m from Partick; that’s in Glasgow, sir.’

Skinner laughed. ‘I know that well enough. I did some sinning there or thereabouts in my youth. Used to hang out in a pub called the Rubaiyat, in Byres Road.’

‘That’s not quite Partick, sir, but I know where you are. It’s still there.’

‘But not as it was; it was gutted, or “refurbished” to use the polite term for architectural vandalism, back in the eighties. It had a lounge bar . . . where you could take your girlfriend; never to the public bar, mind, men only there . . . called “The Bowl of Night”. Very few of the punters had a clue where the name came from, but it was famous nonetheless. There was never any trouble there, either.’

Careful, Bob
, he told himself.
Steer well clear of memory lane, or you could get to like this bloody place all over again.

‘Were you Chief Constable Field’s driver, Davie?’ he asked.

In the rear-view mirror, he saw the young man’s eyes tense. ‘Yes, sir. I wasn’t on duty on Saturday, though. She told me she was being collected by the First Minister’s car. I think she was quite chuffed about that.’

‘So you’ve been to her home before?’

‘Oh yes, sir, often. We’re not far from it now.’

They were moving down a steep incline that led to a complex motorway interchange. To his left, he saw a series of fantastic twisted shapes, the highest of them a wheel. ‘What the hell’s that?’ he asked.

‘Theme park, sir,’ his driver informed him. ‘They call it M and D’s.’

‘My younger son would love it,’ he chuckled. ‘He’s the family action man. The older one would turn his nose right up; he’s our computer whizz kid.’

‘That whole area’s called Strathclyde Park, sir,’ Constable Davie went on.

‘Oh, I know that,’ Skinner murmured. ‘It used to be wilderness. In fact, the Motherwell burgh rubbish tip was there, right next to a football ground that used to be covered in broken glass and all sorts of crap. It was all taken away when the park was created and they diverted the River Clyde to make the loch. I was a kid when they did it, but I remember it happening.’

Nostalgia, nostalgia, nostalgia. Stop it, Skinner!
And yet, he reminded himself, none of those he thought of as his second family, Mark, James Andrew and Seonaid, had ever set foot in the town that had raised him.

He shook the thoughts from his head as Davie drove through the interchange and off by an exit marked ‘Bothwell’. Almost immediately he took a left, then made a few more turns, the last taking them into a leafy avenue called Maule Road. ‘This is it, sir,’ he said, drawing to a halt outside a big red sandstone villa, built, Skinner estimated, in the early twentieth century.

‘Pretty substantial,’ he remarked. ‘When did Chief Constable Field move in here?’ he asked his driver. ‘Given that she was only in post for five months.’

‘Three months ago, sir. For the first few weeks she and her sister lived in an executive flat on the Glasgow Riverside.’

‘Right.’ He stepped out of the car, then leaned over, beside the driver’s window; it slid open. ‘I can’t say for sure how long I’ll be,’ he murmured. ‘If I’m any longer than half an hour, I want you to toot the horn. I’ll pretend it’s a signal that I’ve had an urgent message.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll never ask you to lie for me, Davie, but it’s always good to have an escape plan.’

‘I understand, sir.’ Constable Cole frowned, as if wanting to say more, but hesitant.

The chief read the signal. ‘Out with it,’ he said.

‘Thank you, sir. It’s presumptuous of me, but I wonder if you’d express my sympathies to Marina and her mother.’

‘Of course I will. You’ve met them both?’

‘Yes, sir. I saw Marina pretty much every day, with her working so close to the chief, and I met Miss Deschamps when she stayed with them a couple of months ago. I think she came up to see the new house,’ he added.

‘What are they like?’ Skinner asked. ‘Mark my card, Davie.’

‘They’re both very nice ladies. Marina’s younger than the chief by a few years and not all that like her physically, or in personality, come to that. Miss Deschamps . . . she’s very particular about that, by the way, sir. Marina’s a Ms but her mother is definitely Miss . . . Miss Deschamps is quiet, doesn’t say much, but she was always very polite to me. She tried to tip me when we got here.’ He grinned at the memory. ‘The chief did her nut, but she just smiled and shook my hand instead.’

‘Thanks.’ The chief constable stood straight, walked through the villa’s open gateway and up to the vestibule. He rang the bell and waited.

He was about to press the button again when the front door opened. A tall, slim woman stood there; her hair was honey-coloured, and her skin tone almost matched it. The overall effect, Skinner mused, had the potential to cause traffic accidents.

She looked up at him, but not by much. ‘Yes?’ she said.

‘Bob Skinner,’ he told her. ‘I believe you’re expecting me. My aide called yesterday, yes?’

Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Of course,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s just . . .’ She broke off, looking at his suit.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured. ‘I should have thought this through. It’s my habit to leave my uniform in the office and travel in civvies. Please don’t feel slighted.’

‘I don’t, honestly,’ the woman assured him. ‘I always thought my sister overdid the uniform bit.’ She extended her hand. ‘I’m Marina Deschamps,’ she said, as they shook. ‘Come in, my mother is through in the garden room.’

She led the way and he followed, through a hallway, then along a corridor. He guessed at her age as they walked. A few years younger than her sister, Davie had said. Toni had been thirty-eight, so Skinner placed Marina early thirties, somewhere in age between her sister and his own daughter.

The corridor led them into a small sitting room that might have been a study at some time in the life of the old house, before what most people would have called a conservatory was added. As far as the chief could see it was unoccupied.

‘Mother,’ Marina called out, ‘our visitor is here.’

Sofia Deschamps had been seated in a high-backed wicker armchair, one of a pair, looking out into a garden that was entirely paved and filled with potted plants of various sizes, from flowers to small trees. She rose and stepped into view. She was almost as tall as her younger daughter; indeed they were very much alike, twins with a thirty-year age difference.

‘Mr Skinner,’ she said, as she approached him. ‘Thank you for calling on us.’ Her accent had strong French overtones, and she held her hand out in front of her, as if she expected him to kiss it, in the Gallic manner. Instead, he took it in his.

‘I wish I didn’t have to,’ he replied. ‘I wish that Saturday had never happened, that Toni was still in Pitt Street and I was still in Fettes, in my office in Edinburgh. My condolences to you both.’

‘Thank you.’

It occurred to him, for the first time, that both women were wearing black; inwardly he cursed himself for his pale blue tie. Sofia’s face was drawn, and her eyes were a little red, but there was an impressive dignity about her, about both of them, for that matter. ‘It’s still fairly early,’ she murmured, ‘but please, allow me to fetch us some coffee.’

‘No, no, ma’am,’ he protested, ‘that isn’t necessary.’

‘I insist.’ She stood her ground; refusal would have been impolite.

‘In that case, thank you very much, but if I may I’ll have water, sparkling if you have it, rather than coffee. My . . .’ He paused; he had been about to describe Sarah as ‘My wife’. ‘. . . medical adviser says I drink far too much of the stuff, and she’s made me promise to give it up.’

‘A pity,’ Miss Deschamps murmured, with a hint of a smile. ‘We should allow ourselves the occasional vice.’

‘My medical adviser is my vice.’ He said it without a pause for thought. ‘That’s to say,’ he added, searching for an escape route, ‘she’s my former wife, and I’ve learned that it’s too much trouble to disobey her.’

‘In that case I will not press you further. Excuse me, I will not be long.’

His eyes followed her as she headed for the door. She might have left sixty behind her, but she had lost no style or elegance; even at that early hour she was dressed in an ankle-length skirt and high heels.

Marina was less formal, in black trousers and a satin blouse. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘sit down.’

Skinner listened for French in her accent; there was some but less than in her mother.

‘Maman is being discreet,’ she continued. ‘She knows I want to ask you about my employment situation, and she doesn’t want it to appear as if we’re ganging up on you.’

‘That’s very decent of her,’ the chief said, as he sat, facing her, on a couch that matched the armchairs, ‘but there’s no rush to consider that. I know that you acted as Toni’s personal assistant. My assumption has been that you wouldn’t want to continue in that role with her successor, but that’s a decision you can take in your own time.

‘I’ve already given instructions that you can have all the time you feel you need. My temporary appointment is for three months; if you want to take all that time to decide what you want to do, or at least until a permanent successor to your sister is selected, that’ll be fine by me.’

Marina shook her head. ‘There’s no need, sir,’ she replied. ‘I have a job, and I’d like to carry on doing it.’

Skinner stared at her, unable to keep his surprise from showing. ‘You want to work for me?’ he exclaimed.

She nodded.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I have to be frank about this. You know your sister and I were not exactly the best of friends.’

Marina smiled, then nodded. ‘Oh yes. She was very clear about that. But that was more political than anything else. You had different views on certain things, but that didn’t affect what she thought of you as a police officer. We both know she was a big supporter of a unified Scottish force.’

‘Sure, she made that clear enough in ACPOS, and I made my opposition equally plain. We had some robust discussions, to say the least.’

‘Oh she told me. But what you probably do not know is, her big fear was that she would talk you round to her view. She rated you very highly as a police officer; in fact she said you were the best she’d ever met. She wanted the top job, no mistake about that, but she didn’t think she’d have a chance if you went for it.’

‘Indeed?’ Skinner murmured.

‘Indeed.’

‘So where does that take us, Ms Deschamps?’

‘I have no personal issues with you, sir,’ she replied. ‘Fate has put you in what was my sister’s office. I’m a top-class secretary with personnel management qualifications, and I like to work with the best. Therefore . . .’ She held his eyes with hers.

‘Let me think about it,’ he said. ‘I like to have a serving officer as my assistant, and I’ve already appointed someone to that position, pro tem. To be frank, I’ll need to get to know the job before I can judge whether there will be enough work left for you. But first things first; you and your mother have a funeral to organise, albeit with all the help that the force can give you. Once that’s over, we can talk. Fair enough?’

‘Fair enough,’ she agreed.

Out of nowhere, Skinner remembered a problem. ‘There is one thing, though. Do you have the combination of the safe in the chief’s office?’

Marina sighed. ‘I did,’ she replied. ‘It was seven three eight two seven six. But Antonia always changed it at the end of the week. It was usually the last thing she did on a Friday; sometimes she’d tell me the new number there and then, but if she didn’t have a chance it would wait until Monday. Last Friday she didn’t tell me. You can try the old number, just in case she forgot to make the change, but if it doesn’t work, I fear I can’t help you.’