Quintin Jardine - Stay of Execution

‘Vigilantes?’

‘No, just people. The legend continues though; finally the age of enlightenment dawned and the first Catholic officers were recruited. One of them was stationed in that village as its local bobby and, hey presto, people started to talk to him. It remains probably the only time in history that a chief constable has won universal praise for presiding over a quantum leap in recorded crime.’ The laughter of the crowd made him pause for a few seconds. ‘So to come back to your question, Sally,’ he continued, when he could, ‘we’re not following anyone’s lead in our recruitment policy, not even the NYPD, we’re doing what we believe to be right. We’re recruiting from the whole community because we serve the whole community, and because every senior police officer in Scotland is determined that an instance like that village. . which could have been called Northern Ireland but wasn’t. . never arises again.’

‘Does that mean that you think freemasons shouldn’t be police off icers?’

Skinner laughed out loud, and looked over at Hunter. ‘I asked for that one, John, did I not?’

‘Aye, you did,’ the old man agreed. ‘Now answer it.’

‘Okay. If a mason wants to join this force, he won’t be excluded, any more than will a Buddhist, a Rotarian, a train-spotter, or a collector of rare and exotic orchids. If a police officer wants to join the masons, that’s fine by me, and I won’t expect the fact to be reported. It’s a hobby, an interest, and maybe even for some it’s a way of life. But my rule’s the same for it as for any other leisure pursuit. Don’t bring it to work and, especially, don’t get together with a bunch of like-minded people and try to use the police to impose your personal values on society. I’ll be your enemy if you do, and my enemies tend not to last long.’

He turned to Mawhinney. ‘Do you think that’s a fair basis for running a police force, Inspector?’

‘No sir,’ said the New Yorker. ‘I believe it’s the only basis for running a police force.’

‘A man after my own heart.’ The DCC looked back at the media. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse us, lady and gentlemen, we have to explain to our guest how we put all that into practice.’

‘What made you decide to pull the plug early, Manny?’ asked McGuire, raising his voice above the noise in the crowded Torphichen Place briefing room.

For the first time in more years than anyone could remember, the retiring chief superintendent was in shirtsleeves in the office; half an hour earlier, he had been presented with a set of golf clubs, the result of a quick collection organised throughout the division, and he had made his farewell speech. At its conclusion he had surprised his colleagues by unfastening the silver buttons on his jacket, and taking it off for what he declared would be the last time.

‘Your wife was running me ragged,’ English replied, clutching a can of Tennents lager. ‘That was a joke,’ he added quickly, and wisely, for it had passed by Mario completely. ‘I’ve never had a problem with Margaret. I’m a bit surprised that she’s moving into my job, but she’ll do very well there. She’s a very capable officer, but I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.’ The man was trying to shed his pomposity with his uniform, but it promised to be a tough task.

‘No, the truth is,’ he continued, ‘that it was my own wife who gave me a hard time. She’s been pressing me to give up for a while, ever since it was made clear to me that my face didn’t fit in the command corridor.’

McGuire considered telling him that it was his inflexibility that had held him back, but decided instead to stir the pot a little. ‘Who made that clear to you?’ he asked mischievously.

English killed his can, reached out to the table and took another. ‘Since I’m on my way through that door, I’ll tell you. The deputy chief constable did. He runs this fucking force now, and old Proud Jimmy lets him. You’re all right; you’re in his circle, you, and Margaret, and Brian Mackie, and that big pal of yours, Skinner’s hatchet-man McIlhenney. But those of us who are not favoured, we’re just filling in time.’

‘Come on, Manny. We’ve all got an important job to do, even though only one of us, every ten years or so, is going to make chief constable. You know that.’

‘I’ll tell you what I know, son.’ If there was one thing that usually triggered McGuire, it was being called ‘son’ by people like English, but he let it pass. He knew that the man had been summoned to the chief’s office for a formal farewell and, even over the lager fumes, he could tell from his breath that whisky had been on the agenda. ‘I know that I had seniority over every other superintendent in this force. I was in the rank before Skinner, or Dan Pringle, or Greg Jay or any of them. I know that there was no more meticulous officer than me on the strength, and that nobody ran a tighter division. Yet when Jim Elder decided to chuck it, and I applied for the vacancy, I was called in by the deputy and told point-blank that he could not have anyone hold command rank who didn’t have the potential to be chief constable. And then he went ahead and appointed that roughneck from Glasgow, that man over there, that Willie Haggerty. And what a time I’ve had with him. Do you know, he actually questioned my judgement on occasion?’

The ex-commander’s indignation was almost comic to watch, but McGuire kept his face straight. ‘I’m sure that Margaret will get on better with him than I did; she’ll be under the great man’s protection, for a start. But you tell her to watch her back all the same.’ He snorted. ‘I notice the DCC hasn’t deigned to join me this evening.’ That fact had occurred to McGuire already. He knew that Skinner would not be intentionally ungracious, and wondered what had taken him elsewhere. ‘I suppose I could call that the final snub.’

‘Personally, I wouldn’t,’ said the younger man, ‘but if you choose to, that’s down to you. Do you know your problem, Manny?’ he asked.

‘What’s that?’

‘You didn’t join the same police force as the rest of us. You joined one of your own. I wish you and your wife all the best in retirement. Enjoy the rest of your evening.’

He wandered across to where Maggie was standing, with Mary Chambers, Stevie Steele and Colin Mawhinney, who was holding a Budweiser, and biting uncertainly into the first Scots mutton pie of his life. ‘What was that about?’ she asked him quietly, turning her back on the other three. ‘Were you winding him up?’

‘I didn’t have to; he’s fully wound as it is. He thinks he should have got Haggerty’s job. He says the Big Man shafted him.’

‘Manny thinks he should have got the DCC’s job,’ Maggie retorted. ‘But he’s right about the second bit. The boss did shaft him, and thank God for it, too.’

‘He says you should keep an eye on Haggerty.’

‘If I keep a proper eye on what’s happening in this division, I won’t need to bother looking out for the ACC. If I don’t, I’ll hear about it.’

Mario grinned. ‘And so will every bugger under your command, I’ll bet. Don’t fret, lass, you’ll be a star. Your future’s mapped out.’

‘So’s yours, from what I hear. Looking forward to Leith?’

‘Too right. I think there might be a few people not looking forward to it, though.’

‘I’m sure, knowing your style. If it helps, a couple of my guys were in a pub down there the other day; it’s called the Wee Black Dug.’

‘Malky Gladsmuir’s place? I know it, not that I drink there. It’s a fucking hotbed, but Malky keeps a lid on it. I plan to have a chat with him, soon.’ He nodded towards Mawhinney, who was making the last of the pie disappear. ‘What did you think of our friend Colin?’