Quintin Jardine - Stay of Execution

‘You’re exaggerating, Bob. There’s compassion in you: look at how you handled Jazz tonight.’

‘Jazz is a five-year-old in his first playground fight. I’m talking about judgement at a whole different level, and honestly I’m not certain any more that mine is up to the job that I have. Sarah, I made a promise to Alex a while back that the moment I feel that I’m burned out in the police, then I’ll pack it in and do something else. I wonder if that moment’s here.’

‘Wow!’ She whistled. ‘That’s something I never expected to hear from you.’

‘How would you feel if I retired?’ he asked.

‘Not so long ago I’d have said, “Roll on the day,” but now I think I’d dread it. You’re right about your mid-life crisis. You’re racked with self-doubt and for the first time ever you’re questioning yourself. For the moment you’re unsure and indecisive, and yet here you are, talking about making a career decision. You cannot do that in your present state of mind. If you quit now, there’s a fifty per cent chance you’d spend the rest of your life hanging about the house regretting it, and I do not think I could stand that. Tell me something. On a day-to-day basis do you still feel functional in your job?’

‘I suppose I do,’ he conceded.

‘You don’t feel insecure about the preparations for next week’s visit, for example?’

‘Not at all. That’s routine; top-end stuff, but still routine.’

‘Any other command decisions you’re having to take just now?’

‘There’s a personnel thing; a senior CID post.’

‘Any doubts about that?’

‘No. I’ve known the people involved for years.’

‘So?’

‘That’s all peripheral stuff, decisions based on training and experience. It’s what’s at the heart of me that concerns me.’

‘Bob, you’re on a guilt trip: don’t take it out on the rest of us.’

‘I’m trying not to, but it’s no trip. As far as Michael’s concerned, I am fucking guilty.’

‘Man,’ Sarah exclaimed, ‘get it through your head. You are no closer to infallibility than the rest of us. You are no angel. I’m no angel. There are no angels. Let me ask you one last thing. Are you proud of James Andrew?’

‘More than I can say,’ he answered.

‘Me too. Now let me tell you one last thing. As I said earlier, he is you, everything you are, in miniature; if you could stand back and see the two of you together you’d understand exactly what I mean. My rough-and-tumble son is a lovely guy; you can see his soul through his eyes, and every time I look at him I thank you from the bottom of my heart for making him, and the others, the way they are. They’re the most important achievements of your life, and in their light you can make allowances for everything else.’

He closed his eyes for several long seconds, as if he was trying to find words. When he opened them and looked across at her, they were filled with tears. ‘That’s another thing,’ he said, as a smile broke through. ‘I never used to get emotional either.’

‘That’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ she told him, although, in truth, she found that more disturbing than anything else.

‘I’ll keep it under control, don’t worry.’ He grinned. ‘Let’s get back to firmer ground. What have you got in your professional diary?’

‘I’m working for you tomorrow,’ she told him.

‘Uh?’ He stared at her, surprised.

‘Well, for Maggie Rose, really. I’m doing a post-mortem examination on a man who was found hanging from a tree in the Meadows this morning. The early CID view is that he may possibly have had some help, from person or persons unknown.’

Bob’s expressive eyebrows knitted together once more, and the fragile link they had woven between them was snapped. ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it,’ he growled. ‘I tell you, Chief Superintendent Pringle’s in for a kicking tomorrow!’

There was one thing about England that the drummer loved, and it was the same thing he loved about Belgium.

Once he had revelled in the universal dream of youth, of seeing the world, of following a martial life in glamorous, interesting and preferably sunny surroundings. It had been his ambition to go into private security work, not the kind that involved wearing drab uniforms and crash helmets but the upmarket type that would take him to Hollywood riding in the front seat of limos with movie stars in the back. He had made some early enquiries about possibilities, and had even registered with an agency that had promised him the sort of life he was after within a couple of years, once he had acquired the sort of experience they required.

But somewhere along the line. . not very far along either. . it had all gone wrong. It had been nothing of his making. He had simply been the wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time. A finger had been pointed at him, an order had been given, and he had obeyed. He would not have volunteered, and while he had been unsure of the consequences of refusal he had been smart enough not to invite them.

That was all it had taken: a couple of minutes out of a hot day long ago, and his life had been changed irrevocably, his dream snuffed out, his imaginary CV of ten years on crumpled metaphorically and thrown in the waste bucket. He had called himself ‘Idiot!’ many times since, but unfairly, he knew. He had been given no choice.

Since then, his life had known no more dramas. He had been looked after and he had nothing really to complain about. His existence had been comfortable, almost pampered, and the envy of many of his friends. But it had been essentially ordinary, and worse than that, it had been spent in Belgium, a pleasant country, he conceded, but one that he had always found desperately dull.

True, the band had livened things up for a while. It was not the most orthodox of hobbies, but it was one for which he was trained and it was also one that kept him in touch with old friends. There were the trips too, the annual jaunts to Spain and Germany, with hospitality laid on, as much free booze as they could drink, and the occasional fumbling congress with a friendly lady, although, as the years had passed, those pleasant encounters had become fewer and fewer.

Nothing had been said, but he sensed that for some of them this would be the last outing. He and his contemporaries were all past sixty, and the colonel himself was closer to seventy. They didn’t have the stamina for these road trips any longer. Let’s face it, he had told himself, too often, they were all fucked. He could count on at least three nocturnal pisses, uncomfortable ones at that. It was a grievous curse for a man of his passions and he suspected that a few of his friends were afflicted in the same way.

He felt the pressure again as he walked away from the bus, two fresh packs of cigarettes tucked away in his pocket. His first port of call back in the club had better be the lavatory rather than the bar. It had been a good night though. They had been welcomed by their hosts in Hull as comrades in arms, as he supposed they were in a way, ex-servicemen all, linked by a martial bond that was international.

They had marched and played their way through the town centre that afternoon, and he could say with some pride they hadn’t been too damned bad at all. If it was to be a swansong, then it would be sweet and no mistake. It had taken him a while to summon up enthusiasm for the trip, but now that it was under way he was looking forward to every moment of it.

Of course, it was the beer that had lifted up his heart, the true love of his bachelor life, and the common passion that united the ordinary Belgian and his English counterpart. It was a symbol of their nationalism, a thread in each country’s flag, even if it was expressed in very different ways.