Quintin Jardine - Stay of Execution

Skinner looked at him. ‘Do you still box?’

‘Nah, these days I turn the other cheek. I’m not the boy I was then, any more than you are. Bob, if you want a penance from me, then here it is. Put flowers on your parents’ grave and move on from there. You have no reason for shame, and no reason to be taking your remorse out on your colleagues.’ He paused, taking a long breath. ‘Always assuming, of course, that there’s no other underlying cause for your ill-humour.’

The DCC took a long slug of his Becks. ‘And why should there be?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. But I do know this. When you spoke earlier of the pleasure that you take in family life you spoke entirely of your children. Neither then nor at any other time since we’ve been speaking did you mention your wife. I remember a time, Bob, not so long ago, when her name peppered your conversation. Maybe I’m wrong, but I see this as a significant omission.’

Skinner shifted in his seat. ‘With respect, Your Grace, it’s entirely likely that you would be wrong. In this area at least, I might know more than you.’

‘Ah, so I am right.’

‘How do you figure that?’

‘Hah!’ Gainer laughed. ‘You’ve just implied that, as a priest, I can’t be expected to understand the nuances of what happens between man and woman. Leaving aside the raw experiences of my secular youth, throughout my priesthood I’ve been exposed to those very nuances, formally in the confessional, and informally in conversations such as this. You know this perfectly well, yet you try to sidetrack me. That tells me that you can’t lie to me, yet you can’t bring yourself to admit that I’m right. If this means that you simply don’t want to get into this area, fair enough, but that’s all you had to say.’

‘What’s your view on contraception?’ Skinner asked suddenly.

‘In line with that of the Holy Father,’ Gainer replied instantly. ‘But why do you ask me that?’

‘I wanted to knock you off balance, that’s all,’ said the DCC amiably. ‘But I see that I can’t. Sarah and I have known better times, Jim. How can I put this?’ he asked himself aloud. He thought for a few seconds then reached a decision. ‘Try this. Since you’re a marriage-guidance guru as well as everything else. . you’re a veritable hypermarket of counselling services, my friend. . you’ll probably appreciate that there, as in all areas of life, communication is everything. There have been occasions when Sarah and I have been unable to communicate properly with each other. Most of the time the fault has been mine, for not listening to her and considering her needs.’

‘But not this time?’

‘Sometimes communication backfires, Jim. Sometimes you learn things you’d be better off not knowing; when you do you have to work out for yourself whether you can live with them. Myra, my first wife, was a genius when it came to selective communication. As a result, we were blissfully happy until her car hit that tree. Yes, Sarah and I have problems. But what advice can you give me, as a minister of your Church? Only, I think, that we should work hard at it and see them through together, for the sake of the children.’

‘True,’ the Archbishop conceded.

‘Then I thank you, for that’s the advice I’ve given myself. But I thank you also for reminding me that I have to work hard at keeping it away from the office.’

Vernon Easterson, the general manager of the Scottish Farmers Bank, stared across his desk. Detective Sergeant George Regan knew the look of disbelief in his eyes well enough. He and his detective constable companion, Tarvil Singh, had seen it countless times, from their earliest days in the force, when they had been sent to break the news of bereavement to the unsuspecting bereaved.

‘He’s what?’ the banker gasped, as he gazed at the photographic driving licence in his hand. It had been taken from Ivor Whetstone’s wallet.

‘He’s been found dead, sir, hanged from a tree in the Meadows.’

‘Suicide?’

‘I can’t say that, sir,’ Regan replied. ‘We’re at an early stage in our investigation. What can you tell me about Mr Whetstone?’

‘He was a most valued colleague,’ said Easterson, firmly. ‘He transferred to the business banking division a year ago from Kelso. He was our branch manager there, and I think he’d hoped that he would be able to see out his working life in the town. His main customers were landowners and farmers, and so many of his business meetings took place on the Roxburgh golf course. . he was a very keen golfer.’

The man frowned. ‘That wasn’t to be, though. Thing is, personal banking as Ivor knew it is doomed. The days of the “financial GP” are over. Many of our high-street branches have been rationalised. .’

‘You mean closed, sir?’ asked DC Singh.

‘Correct. Private customers are being directed, wherever possible, towards our new telephone and Internet banking options. I could see Ivor didn’t like it at first. It took him time to get used to the idea, but eventually he agreed to accept the job of associate director of Commercial Banking, here in Lothian Road, at our head office. I persuaded him that the primary business of the modern banker is lending money. While the personal-mortgage and hire-purchase sides are important, the main growth has to be achieved through expanding the base of business customers, financing new-start companies and helping those already established on to the next stage. Those were the marching orders handed down to me by the board, and it was up to me to find the brightest, the most experienced and the best to carry them out. Ivor was very definitely among them.’

‘He was successful?’ asked Regan.

‘Very. There were several associate directors, all reporting to our senior director of Commercial Banking, Aurelia Middlemass. She’s in her thirties; she came here from a career abroad. She’s very highly rated and there are those who say she’ll become the first female chief executive of a Scottish bank before she hits forty. A slight exaggeration, perhaps,’ Easterson murmured. ‘Aurelia’s a hard driver: she handed each of her people very steep lending targets to sort the wheat from the chaff. We had one resignation and one emotional breakdown within six months, but, within that same period, Ivor attained his lending target for the full year. Before his posting to Kelso he had done time in branches in London, Aberdeen, and Edinburgh, and he had maintained nearly all of the contacts he had made in each city. He had a ready-made network, and he put it to effective and profitable use. He was rewarded: he was made director of Commercial Banking, reporting directly to me, and he was given a raise and a better bonus scheme. He’s never looked back since. He and Virginia had even bought a bungalow down in Kelso, for his retirement when it eventually came.’

‘When did you see him last, sir?’ asked DS Regan.

‘Last night. He was still here when I left, but that wasn’t unusual. Ivor was often first in last out.’

‘Would you have known if anything was troubling him?’

‘I’m sure I would. He and I were basically old school; we’d both adapted to the modern world, that’s all.’

‘Can you tell us anything about his family background?’

‘Well, there’s Virginia, his wife, and there’s one son, Murphy. He graduated a couple of years ago; he works in the US; something with Jack Daniel’s, Ivor said.’

Regan pulled himself out of his chair; his colleague followed. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘That’s been helpful.’

‘Are you going to see Virginia now?’ the banker asked.

‘Oh no, sir. That job’s not for us: our bosses draw that short straw.’