Pray for the Dying (6 page)

Seven

He looks tired and tense
, Paula Viareggio thought.
But he also looks more alive than I’ve seen him in a couple of years
.

‘I am perfectly fine, Bob,’ she assured him. ‘Honestly. The police doctor checked me out last night and he said exactly that. He checked both of us out in fact. The baby’s good too. For a while afterwards I did wonder if he’d stick his head out to find out what all the fuss was about, but it seems he’s keeping to his timetable.’

‘You’re some woman, Paula,’ Skinner chuckled. They were sitting around a table on the deck of the prospective parents’ duplex. The sun was high enough to catch the highlights in his steel-grey hair.

‘No, I’m just like all the rest. I had my few moments of sheer terror, and I know I’m never going to lose the memory, of the noise more than anything else, the sound of the bullets hitting the poor woman.’

‘Hey, enough,’ her husband said quietly.

‘No, Mario, it’s all right; I yelled my head off at the time, because I was afraid . . . I was scared for two, as well. But once something’s happened, it’s happened. You can’t go back, you can’t change it, but the danger’s over and talking about what happened won’t bring it back. So no worries, big fella; I won’t be waking up screaming in the night.’

‘I’m glad you feel that way,’ the chief constable said, ‘because there is a formal murder investigation going on in Glasgow and it would be useful if you could give my DI a statement, for the record.’

‘I won’t have to go through there, will I? I couldn’t be arsed with that.’

‘No, of course not. You don’t need to leave home. Knock it out on your computer, print it, sign it with Mario as witness, then scan it and send it to DI Charlotte Mann.’ He dug a card from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Her email address is on that.’

‘Will do. Is Aileen having to do the same?’ She paused. ‘That is the one thing that gets to me, Bob: the idea that she was the real target.’

‘Then don’t dwell on it,’ he told her. ‘Because I don’t believe she was, and neither does Lottie Mann.’ He looked at his colleague. ‘How about you, Mario?’

The swarthy detective shook his head. ‘Probably not.’

‘But what does Aileen think?’ Paula asked.

‘I’ve never been good at working that out,’ Skinner replied, ‘but whatever she believes, she won’t mind having people think she was. There’s more votes in it.’

She stared at him, shocked. ‘Bob, that’s not worthy of you. The poor woman was terrified last night.’

‘Maybe, but she was spitting tin tacks when I spoke to her last at the thought of Clive Graham taking credit from it.’

‘Get away with you, you’re doing her an injustice.’

‘I wish I was, but I’m not.’ His expression changed, became quizzical. ‘Did she tell you anything last night about the two of us?’

Paula hesitated. ‘No, she didn’t say anything specific; but looking back, there was something about her, something different.’

‘We’re bust,’ he said. ‘Sorry to be blunt, but it’s over. The press will catch on eventually. When they do, we’ll call it “irreconcilable differences”. That’ll be true, as well.’

‘The police unification issue? Mario told me you were at loggerheads about it.’

He nodded. ‘That’s part of it, but not all. She was planning to turn me into a backroom politician. Aileen has ambitions beyond Scotland that I knew nothing about. She had this daft idea that I would help her fulfil them.’ He snorted. ‘As if.’

He stood, straightened his back, and smoothed his uniform jacket. ‘Now I must go. Wouldn’t do if I was late for my unveiling.’ He turned to Mario once again. ‘Okay, ACC McGuire. I have no idea when I’ll see you again, but I’m glad the promotion’s come through. It probably won’t make any operational difference to you, as you’ll still be head of CID under the new structure, but you’ll be doing the job from the command corridor, where you’ve belonged for a while now.’

A smile lit up McGuire’s face. ‘Thanks, boss.’

‘You’re out of date. Maggie’s the boss, for the next three months. She’ll need support though; be sure to give her all you can. And have your people do something for me too.’

‘Of course.’

‘Freddy Welsh. The armourer, the man that young Houseman and I arrested yesterday. The man who supplied the weapons for the concert hall hit and God knows how many others. Clyde and I didn’t have time to ask him all the questions we needed to, but they’re still relevant. Technically, it’s part of Lottie Mann’s investigation, but he’s in your hands, so your people should handle the interrogation.

‘I want to know who placed the order for the weapons. Was it Cohen, the man who put the operation together, or was it someone else? Somebody sent that team after Toni Field . . . yes, Paula, fact is we’re certain she was the target . . . and we must find out who it was and why they did it.’

‘I’ll handle it myself,’ the new ACC said. ‘But it’s a pound to a pinch of pig shit, Bob; his lawyer will have advised him by now to keep his mouth shut.’

‘Then keep his lawyer out of it. Welsh is going away for years for illegal possession of firearms, and conspiracy to supply. We don’t need to charge him over his involvement in Field’s assassination, so you can interview him as a potential witness, not a suspect.’

‘Okay, but I’ll bet you he still won’t talk. His customers aren’t the sort you inform on.’

Skinner smiled. ‘If that’s how it is, you give him a message from me. If he holds out on us, I won’t hesitate to hand him over to MI5, and Clyde Houseman. My young friend made quite an impression on Freddy at their first meeting. I don’t think Mr Welsh will be too keen on another session. Now, I really am off.’

McGuire saw him to the door. ‘Well,’ he said as he rejoined his wife in the sunshine. ‘Is this our morning for surprises? The big man enticed to Strathclyde, not to mention him and Aileen being down the road.’

‘Indeed,’ Paula laughed. ‘And maybe get yourself ready for another. When she saw that Joey Morocco last night, before the concert, and it was all going off . . . mmm, that was interesting.’

Mario looked at her, intrigued, reading her meaning. ‘She looked like she wanted to eat him, did she?’

‘Oh, I think she has, in the past. In fact I know so, ’cos she told me. And I’m pretty certain she fancies another helping.’

Eight

‘God, but you’re hot stuff when you’re angry, Aileen de Marco,’ Joey Morocco gasped.

She smiled, looking down on him as she straddled him. ‘Then look forward to mediocrity, my boy, because I won’t stay mad for ever . . .  unless you can come up with ways of winding me up.’

‘What if I told you I’m a Tory?’

‘Hah! That might have worked once, but now I’d just feel sorry for you, ’cos you’re an endangered species in Scotland.’ She raised an eyebrow, reached behind and underneath her and took his scrotum in her right hand, massaging him, gently. ‘You’re not, are you?’ she asked.

‘Absolutely not! Absolutely not!’

‘Just as well,’ she laughed, releasing him.

‘You don’t need to stop that, though.’

‘Yes, I do. I’m knackered.’ She pushed herself to her feet, bounced on the mattress as if it was a trampoline, and jumped sideways off the bed. ‘Besides, have you seen what time it is?’

‘No; a gentleman removes his Tory Rolex, remember.’

‘And this lady keeps on her nice socialist Citizen. For your information it’s gone half past twelve.’

‘Missed breakfast, then,’ he observed, with a cheerful grin. ‘Have we still got fairies at the bottom of the garden?’

‘My unwanted guardians, you mean?’ She crossed to the window and looked outside, taking hold of a curtain and drawing it across her body. ‘Yup. They’re parked across your driveway too; that’s a clear sign to anyone that there’s something going on here. I thought the protection people were supposed to be subtle. Here,’ she added, ‘do you ever have paparazzi hanging around?’

‘Yes,’ he exclaimed, sitting upright, suddenly alarmed, ‘so get your face away from the window.’

She stayed where she was, looking back over her shoulder, and letting go of the curtain. ‘Why? Would I be bad for your image? Would your fans not approve of you with an older woman?’

‘I’m not worried about my image, Aileen,’ he protested. ‘I’m concerned about yours. You’re married to a bloody chief constable, remember, and you’re a top politician. You can’t afford scandal.’

She left the window and winked at him. ‘Not to “a chief constable”, Joey; to “The Chief Constable”. Bob’s taking over the Strathclyde job; it’s an emergency appointment. There was nobody else there anyway.’

Her reassurance was wasted on him. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, ‘so these guys outside, they report to him?’

She shrugged. ‘I suppose they do. But can you see them being brave enough to go to him and say, “By the way, sir, your wife’s shagging Joey Morocco”? Somehow I don’t. But even if they did, frankly I would not give the tiniest monkey’s. I wouldn’t lose my party job over this, for I’m divorcing Chief Constable Skinner just as fast as I can, or he’s divorcing me, if he gets in first.’ She read his concern. ‘Don’t worry, Joey. You won’t be caught in the middle. The split between Bob and me, it’s not about sex, it’s about ambitions that could not be further apart. You and me? We’re just a bit of fun, right?’

He hesitated, then nodded.

‘That’s how it was when you were starting out on that soap on BBC Scotland, fun. Now you’re in big-budget movies, moved upmarket, and I’m free and soon to be single again, but it’s still just fun, convenient uncomplicated nookie, no more than that. You’re a sexy guy and I’m a crackin’ ride, as my coarser male constituents would say, so let’s just enjoy it without either of us worrying about the other. Deal?’

His second nod was more convincing. ‘Deal.’

‘Good, now what do you do for Sunday lunch these days?’

‘Usually I go out for it. Today, maybe not; I’ll see what’s in the fridge.’

‘Do that, and I’ll get showered and dressed. No rush, though. I’d like to lie low here for the rest of the day, if I can.’

‘Of course. We might even manage breakfast tomorrow?’

‘Sounds like a plan. Thanks. You’re a sweetheart. It really is good to have somewhere to hide out just now. Actually, I’m a chancer,’ she admitted. ‘I brought enough clothes with me for two nights.’ She shuddered. ‘God, was I glad to get out of that dress, with the bloodstains. I felt like Jackie Kennedy.’

He winced at the comparison as she went into his bathroom. She had left her phone there the night before, after brushing her teeth. She switched it on, then checked her voicemail.

There were over a dozen calls. One was from her constituency secretary, one from Alf Old, the Scottish Labour Party’s chief executive, another from her deputy leader . . . 
Probably cursing that the bastard missed me
, she thought . . . several from other parliamentary colleagues, not all of her party, and three from journalists who were trusted with her number. She had expected nothing from her husband.

As soon as she was showered and dressed she called the secretary, an officious older woman with a tendency to fuss. ‘Aileen, where are you?’ she demanded, as soon as she answered. ‘I’ve tried your flat, I’ve tried your house in Gullane. I got no reply from either.’

‘Never you mind where I am,’ she retorted sharply. ‘It would have been nice of you to ask how I was, but I’m okay and I’m safe. Anybody calls inquiring about me, you can tell them that. I may call into the office tomorrow, or I may not. I’ll let you know.’

No reply from Gullane?
she mused as she ended the call, but had no time to dwell on the information as her phone rang immediately. She checked the screen and saw that it was the party CEO, trying again. ‘Alf,’ she said as she answered.

‘Aileen,’ he exclaimed, ‘thank God I’ve got through. How are you?’

‘I’m fine, thanks. I’m safe, and I’m with a friend. I’m sorry I didn’t call you last night, but things were crazy. The security people got me off the scene, by force, more or less. Even now I have protection officers parked outside, like it or not. The First Minister insisted.’

‘Good for him. Now . . .’

‘I know what you’re going to say. Silence breeds rumours.’

‘Exactly. I’ve had several calls asking where you are, and whether you might have been wounded.’

‘Then issue a statement. Have they confirmed yet that it’s Toni Field who’s dead?’

‘Yes. Strathclyde police announced it a wee while ago.’

‘In that case we should offer condolences . . . I’ll leave it to you to choose the adjectives, but praise her all the way to heaven’s gate . . .  then add that I’m unharmed, and that I’ve simply been taking some private time to come to terms with what’s happened. I suppose you’d better say something nice about Clive Graham as well, but not too nice, mind you, nothing that he can quote in his next election manifesto.’

‘Mmm,’ Old remarked. ‘I can tell you’re okay.’

‘I’ll be fine as long as I keep myself busy,’ she told him. ‘I’m sorry if I seem a bit brutal, but even without what happened last night there’s a lot going on in my life.’

‘Do you want to take some more time out? Everyone would understand.’

‘They might,’ she agreed, ‘but in different ways. There are plenty within the party who’d think I was showing weakness. I don’t have to tell you, Alf, as soon as a woman politician does that the jackals fall on her. I’ve handled stress before; I’m good at it.’ She paused. ‘I’ll be back in business tomorrow; I have to be. The First Minister will come out of this looking like fucking Braveheart, so we have to keep pace. We need to come out with something positive. You know that Clive and I were planning a joint announcement on unifying the Scottish police forces?’

‘Yes, you told me.’

‘Well, I want to jump the gun. Have our people develop the proposition that what happened in the concert hall illustrates the need for it, that it was a result of intelligence delayed by artificial barriers within our police service that need to be broken down. Then set up a press conference for midday tomorrow. We don’t have to say what it’s about. They’ll be all over me anyway about last night. But I want to be ready to roll with that policy announcement.’

‘Will do,’ Old said, ‘but Aileen, what about your personal security? I know the police don’t believe there’s any continuing threat to you, because I spoke to the DI in charge this morning, but they can’t rule it out completely.’

‘I told you,’ she snapped, ‘I’ve got bodyguards. But so what? If people want to believe there is someone out to get me, let them. Remember Thatcher at Brighton? The same day that bomb went off she was on her feet, on global telly, making her conference speech and saying “Bring it on”. That’s the precedent, Alf. I either follow it or I run away and hide. Now get to work, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

As Old went off to follow orders, Aileen thought about returning some of the other calls but decided against it. Instead she trotted downstairs. ‘Joey?’ she called as she went.

‘I’m in the kitchen. Telly’s on: you should see this.’

She had had no time to learn the layout of the house when she had arrived late the night before, but she traced his voice to its location. The room looked out on to a large rear garden surrounded by a high wall, topped with spikes. ‘No place for the photographers to hide here,’ she remarked.

‘No. I had the fencing added on when I bought the place. It does the job.’

‘So what’s on the box that I should see?’

He turned from the work surface where he was putting a salad together and nodded towards a wall-mounted set. It was on, and a BT commercial was running. ‘Sky News,’ he replied. ‘They’ve been trailing a Glasgow press conference and somebody’s name was mentioned. In fact . . .’

As he spoke, the programme banner ran, then the programme went straight to what appeared to be a live location: a table, and two men, one of them in uniform.

‘Is that who I think it is?’ Joey asked. ‘I spoke to him last night; didn’t have a clue who he was. No wonder he got frosty when I asked about you.’

She smiled, but without humour or affection. ‘That’s him. I told you earlier what this is about. Observe and be amazed, for it’s one of the biggest U-turns you will ever see in your life. Here, I’ll do the lunch.’

As she took over the salad preparation, Joey Morocco watched the bulletin as Dominic Hanlon introduced himself to a roomful of journalists and camera operators. There was a nervous tremor in the councillor’s voice, a sure tell that the event was well beyond his comfort zone. He began by paying a fulsome tribute to the dead Antonia Field, and then explained the difficult circumstances in which the Strathclyde force had found itself.

‘However,’ he concluded, ‘I am pleased to announce that with the approval of his Police Authority in Edinburgh, Chief Constable Robert Morgan Skinner has agreed to take temporary command of the force for a period of three months, to allow the orderly appointment of a successor to the late Chief Constable Field. Mr Skinner, would you like to say a few words?’ He looked at his companion, happy to hand over.

‘In the circumstances,’ Skinner replied, ‘it’s probably best that we go straight to questions.’

A forest of hands went up, and a clamour of voices arose, but he nodded to a familiar face in the front row, John Fox, the BBC Scotland Home Affairs editor.

‘Bob,’ the reporter began, ‘you weren’t a candidate for this job last time it was vacant. Are you prepared to say why not?’

The chief constable shrugged. ‘I didn’t want it.’

‘Why do you want it now?’

‘I don’t, John. Believe me, I would much rather still be arguing with Toni Field in ACPOS over the principles of policing, as she and I did, long and loud. But Toni’s been taken from us, at a time when Strathclyde could least afford to lose its leader, given the absence of a deputy.

‘When I was asked to take over . . . temporarily; I will keep hammering that word home . . . by Councillor Hanlon’s authority, on the basis that its members believe me to be qualified, as a police officer I felt that I couldn’t refuse. It wouldn’t have been right.’

Fox was about to put a supplementary, but another journalist cut in. ‘Couldn’t ACC Allan have taken over?’

‘Given his seniority, if he was well, yes, but he isn’t. He’s on sick leave.’

‘What about ACC Thomas, or ACC Gorman?’

‘Fine officers as they are, neither of them meets the criteria for permanent appointment,’ he replied, ‘and so the authority took the view that wouldn’t have been appropriate.’

‘Did you consult your wife before accepting the appointment, Mr Skinner?’ The questioning voice was female, its accent cultured and very definitely English. Aileen was in the act of chopping Chinese leaves; she stopped and if she had looked down instead of round at the screen she would have seen that she came within a centimetre of slicing a finger open.

She saw Bob’s gaze turn slowly towards the source, who was seated at the side of the room. ‘And why should I do that, Miss . . .’

‘Ms Marguerite Hatton,
Daily News
political correspondent. She is the Scottish Labour leader, as I understand it. Surely you discuss important matters with her.’

‘You’re either very smart or very stupid or just plain ignorant, lady,’ Aileen murmured. ‘You’ve just lit a fuse.’

A very short one, as was proved a second later. ‘What the hell has her position got to do with this?’ her estranged husband barked. ‘I’m a senior police officer, as senior as you can get in this country. Are you asking, seriously, whether I seek political approval before I take a career decision, or even an operational decision?’

‘Oh, really!’ the journalist scoffed. ‘That’s a dinosaur answer. I meant did you consult her as your wife, not as a politician.’

On the screen Skinner stared at her, then laughed. ‘You are indeed from the deep south, Ms Hatton, so I’ll forgive your lack of local knowledge. I suggest that you ask some of your Scottish colleagues, those who really know Aileen de Marco. They’ll tell you that there isn’t a waking moment when she isn’t a politician. And I can tell you she even talks politics in her sleep!’

‘Jesus!’ Aileen shouted. ‘Joey, switch that fucking thing off!’

‘Relax,’ he said, ‘it’s not true.’

The woman from the
Daily News
was undeterred. ‘In that case,’ she persisted, ‘how will she feel about you taking the job?’