Quintin Jardine - Stay of Execution

‘It won’t. It’s about the swinging banker; you asked me to keep you in touch, remember.’

‘Aye, what about him?’

‘I’ve just had Maggie on the phone. She and Stevie have wrapped it up; they’re reporting it to the fiscal in the morning as a probable suicide.’

Skinner frowned. ‘I’m not sure the pathologist will be too happy about that. Sarah came in to see me at lunchtime. She said she’d found injuries that offered another explanation.’

‘I know,’ said Pringle. ‘Rose told me that. But she came up with a theory of her own, and I think it fits.’ He explained the scenario that had been outlined to him by the outgoing divisional commander.

When he finished, Skinner sighed, and nodded. ‘I can see that one,’ he admitted. ‘And I reckon the fiscal would buy it too. It’s not like my wife to go out on a limb like that, and be wrong. In fact, I’ve never known it before. I’ll need to be careful around the dinner table tonight.’

‘There’s merit in what she said, though, boss. It’s just that when Maggie and Steele went to the bank this afternoon, they were given a folder that showed that the bloke had been at it. Almost certainly he’d have been rumbled. On the evidence it seems pretty clear-cut.’

‘I suppose it does,’ the DCC agreed. ‘Weird, but clean-cut. Are you happy?’

‘I have to be. We all have to be; that’s what the evidence tells us.’

‘Tell that to the ghost of Timothy Evans, my friend.’

‘Who was he?’

‘An accused of fifty years ago. The evidence said he was guilty too, and they hanged him. . a lot more neatly than this chap, by all accounts. But. . cases like that are rarities. If you lot are prepared to report, I’m not going to rock the boat.’

‘It gives me great pleasure to welcome you to Edinburgh, Inspector Mawhinney,’ said Sir James Proud. He shook his guest’s hand, holding it long enough for the five photographers to frame and take their photographs. Both men were in uniform; the chief’s was heavy with silver braid, but the New Yorker’s, bright with the ribbons of service medals, and with its badges of rank, was just as sharp and impressive.

Mawhinney’s eyes were bright and sharp too, in spite of the fact that the time change had allowed him only three hours’ sleep. He had eaten the night before with McGuire and Paula at a small restaurant close to the castle; he was still unsure whether it had been called the Secret Garden or the Witchery, but whatever, it had been very fine.

‘It gives me great pleasure to visit your city, sir,’ the American replied. ‘I’ve been asked by my commissioner to thank you formally for your force’s generous gift to our dependants’ fund. It’s greatly appreciated.’

‘Before we go any further,’ said Alan Royston, the force’s media manager, to the three reporters he had ushered into the conference room, and the camera people, as they worked, ‘a piece of housekeeping that I have to take care of. Press entry to all the events on the papal visit next week will be on a pass-only basis. If any one of you expects to attend any event but hasn’t given me a formal application, please do so before you leave here today, with photographs. I’ve got forms you can complete. Now, we have time for a few questions.’

‘Where are you staying while you are in Edinburgh, Inspector? ’ asked one of the photographers, a bearded, bespectacled freelance who was a newcomer to the press group.

‘In a fine hotel down by the docks,’ said Mawhinney.

‘The Malmaison? They’re really looking after you.’

John Hunter, the veteran reporter, threw his colleague an irritated glance. He was the senior man on the police beat and the rest usually deferred to him automatically. ‘Your rank, Inspector Mawhinney,’ he began. ‘How does it equate to our own inspectors?’

‘There are probably fewer of me than there are of them; that’s the best way I can put it. Our forces are structured in a completely different way, so it’s difficult to assess rank equivalents. In a way it’s pointless too: we’re all cops doing a job.’

‘What do you hope to learn while you’re here?’

‘As much as I can. For example, I’m looking forward to seeing at first hand how your force handles the policing of the papal visit next week.’

‘You’ll be there?’

‘I expect to be in the very midst of it. When my programme was put together, the chief constable was kind enough to suggest that I join Chief Superintendent Mackie’s team, as a close observer. It’s a great honour, and I appreciate it.’

‘Are there any other specific areas you’ll be looking at during your time in Edinburgh?’

Mawhinney nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve been asked to study the way that your uniform and detective bureaux work together.’

‘I’ve been studying that for twenty years,’ said Bob Skinner from the side. ‘I still find myself with more questions than answers.’

‘Is Maggie Rose’s promotion to uniformed chief super meant to improve that?’ asked Hunter, switching his attention to the DCC.

‘That wasn’t the reason for it, and it’s not what we’re here to discuss, but I’m sure it’ll be of benefit. Maggie’s a fine officer, and I’ve got no doubt that her CID experience will help her take a broad view of her divisional responsibilities.’

‘Is she the first woman to command a division?’ The DCC looked across at his new questioner, Sally Gordon, the Evening News reporter. He knew that the photo-call was being hijacked, and that she was after a headline; he decided to throw her one.

‘She is, but she won’t be the last. If her appointment and that of Mary Chambers send out any signal, it’s that this is an equal opportunity force. The days when the promotion ladder for female officers had snakes alongside it are well and truly over. The policy of this force, as established by Sir James, is quite clear: we appoint the best person for the job in question, regardless.’

‘Does that mean that you’re going to follow the example of the NYPD and recruit more people from ethnic minorities?’

‘I don’t believe in tokenism, Sally; we’re going to recruit the best, and that’s it. No arbitrary restriction ever works in the public interest. When I was a very young man,’ he told her, ‘there was a legend about a village in the west of Scotland, where there was no crime.’

John Hunter smiled; he had heard the story before, over several beers. The old journalist had known Bob Skinner for a long time; their relationship was entirely professional, but it was close and based on respect. He had seen a change in the DCC over the last few months. He had never asked but his impression had been that for the first time in his career, and maybe even in his life, the absolute inner certainty that made him exceptional had been shaken. Skinner was approaching the final step in his journey through the ranks of the police force; every reporter in town knew that, and all but one of them assumed that it would take him into Jimmy Proud’s office. The exception was John Hunter. He sensed Skinner’s reluctance to step across the corridor, and to put on a uniform for the rest of his professional life. When the SDEA job had come up, he had expected the Big Man to move into it, but he had not; it was then that the change Hunter perceived had begun. Yet as he listened to him expound to Sally Gordon, he sensed a new, if suppressed, excitement in him, as if a new door, one that nobody else knew about, had somehow opened up.

‘No crime at all?’ asked the woman from the News , taking the bait.

‘No reported crime,’ said Skinner. ‘If the police didn’t see it, it never happened. The thing was that virtually the whole population of that village was Catholic, and all the coppers were masons to a man. . and I mean to a man. Those were the bad old days, when a gifted woman like Maggie Rose would have had to leave the force for committing the career-ending offence of getting married. So in that village, the housebreakings, the petty thefts, the assaults went unreported, and were sorted out within the community.’