Quintin Jardine - Dead And Buried

The moment when he would have no choice but to retire would come soon enough, in a little more than a year, in fact. Christmas was on the way: he would have, potentially, one more of them in post, but by the Easter after that, he would have to be gone. What more could he achieve, he asked himself, between now and then?

Nothing, he answered.

Nothing, other than his most cherished wish: to see Bob Skinner appointed his successor. Normally a deputy would never succeed in his own force, but Proud’s diplomacy had overcome that hurdle years before, by having Skinner’s spell as security adviser to the Secretary of State recognised officially as outside experience.

So what had kept him in the job? Paradoxically, it was Skinner himself, and his ambivalence, his refusal to commit himself to applying for the position. For a while it seemed that he had decided firmly against it, but a wise counsellor had persuaded him to consider where his duty really lay. But still, Proud could not be sure whether, when he did give up the baton, his anointed successor would pick it up.

And now here was Kevin O’Malley, throwing a spanner into the works. Sabbatical leave, indeed; he respected O’Malley, and he saw the merit in his proposal, but the timing was just plain wrong. It was an open secret that the name of Willie Haggerty, his assistant chief constable, was pencilled in for the newly announced vacancy in Dumfries. When that happened a successor would have to be appointed, and he would want to consult his deputy about the candidates. Then there was the unexpected vacancy in the head of CID’s office, brought about by Dan Pringle’s retirement. That would accelerate an intended shake-up of the divisional CID commanders, and Bob would want to be around for that. Indeed, he had already mentioned turning down the London assignment, but Proud had been able to persuade him that it was too important.

He looked at Chrissie’s photograph on his desk. ‘Sorry, love,’ he whispered.

He had just turned back to his morning’s workload when Gerry Crossley, his secretary, buzzed him. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Sir James,’ the young man began. ‘I have a caller on the line who’s asking if she can speak to you, personally.’

‘Police or civilian?’

‘Civilian, sir. She says her name is Trudi Friend, and that it’s a highly sensitive personal matter.’

The chief constable gasped. ‘I’ve never heard of the woman. She’s asking for me personally, you say?’

‘Yes, sir. I asked her if she could give me a little more detail, but she declined. She says that because of the nature of her request she can only explain it to you.’

‘Tell her to explain it in writing, in that case: if it’s a complaint against one of my officers it has to be handled formally.’

‘I’ve told her that already. She assures me that it isn’t; she says that the matter is private and not professional.’

‘How does she sound? Is she hysterical in any way?’

‘Not at all: she’s perfectly calm, and perfectly polite.’

Proud sighed, then looked at the pile of work before him. What was getting him down, if not the routine? ‘In that case, Gerry,’ he said, ‘I’d better be the same. Put her through.’

As he waited, he realised that he was curious. It was an unusual feeling for him. He spent his life being bombarded by briefings, reports, committee minutes, and assorted other facts. Most of the time, people told him things that he already knew. He was protected, expertly, by his secretary and others, from callers outside his circle. He tried to remember the last question he had needed to ask at work, before the three that he had just put to Gerry, and failed.

‘Mrs Friend,’ Crossley announced. He heard the usual click on the line.

‘Sir James?’ The woman’s voice sounded fresh and vigorous.

‘It is. How can I help you?’

‘It’s very complicated, but what it boils down to is this: I’m trying to find my mother.’

The chief constable felt a bristle of indignation, but he controlled it. ‘Mrs Friend,’ he said, ‘there are routine channels for reporting missing persons. You can approach them directly, and save yourself quite a bit of time.’

‘It’s not like that, I assure you; it’s not that simple. I’ve come to you because I believe that you are the person best placed to help me.’

‘How long has your mother been missing?’

‘Forty-one years.’

‘Forty-one. .’

Trudi Friend cut across his exclamation. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, but there are circumstances. Sir James, does the name Annabelle Gentle mean anything to you?’

The chief constable frowned as his mind travelled back to his teenage years. ‘Annabelle Gentle? No, I’m afraid that it doesn’t.’

‘How about Claude Bothwell?’

Claude Bothwell? he thought, and as he did, a face appeared before his mind’s eye. Claude? No, but Adolf, that’s another matter .

‘Where are you calling from, Mrs Friend?’ he asked.

‘I’m in Peebles.’

‘Can you get to Edinburgh easily?’

‘Yes. I can come up tomorrow, if necessary. Why?’

‘Because I think we should meet. I’d like to hear your story in person.’

Inspector Dorothy Shannon enjoyed being based in Leith, for all its exotic reputation. Most of that came from times past: the eighteen years of her police service had seen considerable change, with bonded warehouses being turned into designer apartments, and new homes going up on demolished factory and warehouse sites, and in the dockland areas.

She had experienced a few misgivings when she was posted there, on promotion, but she had found it a pleasant place to work after years in those parts of Edinburgh that do not figure on the tour-bus routes.

She liked her job, too, most of the time. That morning was one of the exceptions. She was standing in a bookmaker’s office, in Evesham Street, not far from Great Junction Street: the proprietor, whose name was Gareth Starr, was facing her across the counter. She had answered a call-out to an attempted robbery. It had not gone well for the thief; indeed, he had suffered a net loss in the transaction.

Dottie Shannon glared at the little, grinning man. ‘Do you find this funny?’ she asked.

Starr’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter as he looked at the object on the counter. ‘Fuckin’ hilarious, doll,’ he replied.

‘That may change soon,’ said Detective Sergeant Sammy Pye, from the doorway. ‘Tell me what happened here.’

The man pointed to the uniformed inspector. ‘I just told her.’

‘Fine, now tell me again.’

‘If you insist. I’d just opened up when this bloke comes in.’

‘You were alone?’

‘Aye. I’m not usually, but Big Ming, ma board man, was down at the corner shop getting coffee and bacon rolls for us. Anyway, this idiot comes crashin’ through the door, youngish fella, but no’ that young, late twenties, maybe. He looks around and then he pulls out a gun and waves it at me. “Ah’m armed,” he shouts. I told him that I could see that, then I asked what he wanted. I took a look at his eyes: they were all over the place. He was drugged up, for sure.’

‘Did he offer any other violence?’

‘Nah, he just pointed the gun at me and told me to hand over all the cash I had in the place. I told him that I don’t have a lot of cash at the start of business, just my float. I expect the punters to give me theirs as the day goes on. He told me to shut the fuck up and gi’e him what I had. I took another look at his eyes, then at the gun. . he was waving it all over the place. . and I opened the safe. He couldn’t see in, so I only took some of what was in there, about a grand, and put it on the counter.’