Quintin Jardine - Dead And Buried

Proud looked at him. ‘Is all this self-discovery going to change you, do you think?’

‘I’d like to believe that it’s going to make me a humbler, gentler, wiser and more considerate man. Yes, I’d like to believe that. . but I don’t know whether I’m actually capable of change.’

Proud thought of the report that still lay in his desk. ‘O’Malley’s worried that you might be approaching your breaking point,’ he said.

Skinner stared at him, and then he laughed bitterly. ‘That’s ironic, Jimmy, because I’m worried that I don’t have one. Will I tell you the conclusion that I’ve reached?’ He carried on without waiting for an answer.

‘I’m never going to do anything like this again. From now on, if someone says to me that I’m the only man for a really tough job, I’m going to ask him whether there’s any part of “Fuck off!” that he doesn’t understand.

‘I’m no longer interested in exploring my outer limits. My priorities are my family, which in time will come to include Aileen, and doing my job to the best of my ability, which means being a conventional police officer, not a fucking action man looking for every opportunity to stick his thick fucking head above the fucking parapet!’

‘Does that mean you’re ready to step into my chair?’ the chief constable asked quietly.

‘Only if I believe myself worthy of it, and I’m not sure that I am.’

‘As someone who’s sat in it for more years than most, I’m damn sure you are.’

‘Thanks, but I’ve got to convince myself.’

‘Then have some time off. That sabbatical that O’Malley recommended: six months; take it.’

‘That’s way too long, man.’

‘Three, then.’

Skinner sighed. ‘Okay, I will, but I’ll go off at the end of January, to give me time to let the smoke clear and to let the new people settle into their new jobs. How’s McGuire been so far?’

‘Commanding. That post has been waiting for someone like him since you stepped up.’

‘McIlhenney?’

‘He’s making his presence felt already; and not just felt but respected.’

‘And Willie Haggerty? How’s his situation?’

‘He’s going. The Dumfries and Galloway board met yesterday; he’ll be their new chief constable.’

‘Are you ready to confirm Brian Mackie as his successor?’

‘Once Haggerty’s appointment is announced officially, I will.’

‘Christ, that means the wee Glaswegian will outrank me.’

Proud laughed. ‘The solution to that lies with you. Go off on your leave and get your head sorted out.’

‘Okay, I will. Now, let’s change the subject to continuing investigations. Before I came in here I read that pile of papers on my desk. What have you done, in the light of your old rector’s evidence?’ Skinner asked.

‘I took Mr Goddard to see McIlhenney, of course, as senior investigating officer, and he made a formal statement. What else would I have done?’

‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing at all. What’s happened since then?’

‘Weston’s been arrested and charged with murder. When his house was searched they found ampoules, virtually empty, but still bearing traces of the drugs that were used to subdue the man Starr.’

‘The murder weapon?’

‘That hasn’t been found,’ said Proud. ‘However, they have obtained a set of knives that match those in the victim’s kitchen and they’ve had a specialist look at the missing one. She’s prepared to say, under oath, that the amputations were performed with an identical blade.’

‘How will the old man stand up in the witness box?’

‘Bob, there’s every chance that he’ll have taught the fathers of both prosecuting and defence counsel, not to mention the judge himself. He’ll cow them with a glance.’

‘Nice one.’ Skinner chuckled. ‘But, Jimmy, you keep saying “they”. It’s not: it’s “we”. It’s your force, a team, and you’re at its head. Man, while I’ve been away you’ve been leading from the front, all the way through.’

‘Even if I was a little self-indulgent over Trudi Friend’s mother?’

‘What was self-indulgent about that? If I’d been here I’d probably have farmed it out to a detective constable down in Peebles and we’d have heard no more of it. You did it your way and you uncovered a mass murderer, or what was left of him. Congratulations, Chief.’

‘I’d be grateful if you’d say all that to Chrissie: she still thinks I’m an old showboater who fell for a pretty face and went out of my way to impress her. As for your congratulations, I’m not sure I deserve them. I never did find Annabelle Gentle, and now, I never will.’

‘Oh, no? What did you find?’

‘Claude Bothwell, dead, and that was that: no trace of the women, no more leads, case closed.’

‘What did you expect to find under that shed? One dead woman, or maybe two. If that had been the case it really would have been all over. But you didn’t. You had a triangle, but not the way you expected.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Proud. ‘I’m old and tired. Walk me through this.’

‘Rubbish,’ Skinner retorted. ‘You’re an outstanding police officer, you can work it out for yourself. Jimmy, a few days ago I found myself telling a guy in the States that nothing in this world is unbelievable. Now I’m being shown the truth of that yet again. I think I know these women.’

‘They come here every day that the weather permits,’ the captain told him, as they walked at a leisurely pace up the narrow street. ‘Except for Mondays, of course, when it is market day and very busy.’ They passed cafés, a pâtisserie, boutiques and a shop offering leatherwear, before stepping out into a sun-bathed square. ‘This is it, the Plaça de la Vila, the town place, you would say in English, and this is where they will be, at a table outside the Bar Isidre.’

‘Thank you,’ said Proud. ‘And you’re sure they have no idea I’ve been asking about them?’

‘I haven’t spoken to them, nor to anyone else. I have handled this thing myself.’

‘Good.’

‘I think it’s best I leave you to wait for them. They won’t be hard to recognise. They are still very beautiful.’ The policeman gave a brief salute, then turned and walked out of the square, not by the way they had come but up another street that wound its way up towards the old church.

Proud settled into one of the plastic chairs outside Bar Isidre, his favourite spot in Torroella de Montgri. There were people around, but in January they were few, retired, mostly, from northern Europe, escaping dark winters; his ear caught German voices at the next table, English at another. He ordered a coffee and a croissant from the beaming proprietor, and settled in to wait. He knew the square well, and he loved its quirks. There was the big painted sun-dial on the south-facing aspect, three centuries old, set to Greenwich Mean Time, and ten minutes fast, whenever the sun shone. Opposite stood the restored building that was a care centre for the elderly, north-facing to keep it as naturally cool as possible in the summer months. Across the square there was the old exhibition hall with its spindly clock tower, topped by bells that rang the hour, then did it again two minutes later, in case anyone had missed them, or miscounted.

He dunked his croissant in his coffee, listening and counting as they rang twelve times. And then he saw them, two figures walking up the hill towards him, each slim, each elegant, each with silver hair piled on the top of her head.

They were chatting as they approached, the smaller of the two laughed at something, calling out a few words of Catalan: Proud could see her daughter in her face. He beckoned to the proprietor, whose name, printed on the sugar packets, was Josep. ‘Would you ask the ladies,’ he said quietly, ‘if they would care to have coffee with me?’