Quintin Jardine - Stay of Execution

‘What do you do, Alex?’ he asked her, after the winning goal in the final had been slammed into the net, the champions had celebrated, and the losers had cried. . James Andrew thought they had looked really silly.

She gazed down at him, amused, as they sat cross-legged, facing each other on the living-room floor. ‘What do you mean, wee brother, what do I do?’

‘In your office, where you solicit.’

She gave a really loud laugh at that, and he joined in, pleased that he had amused her. ‘We don’t use that verb, Jazz,’ she told him. ‘We practise.’

‘You mean so you’ll get even better at it?’

‘If you like.’

‘So what do you practise at?’

‘There’s all sorts of law. There are solicitors who do nothing but family law, that’s buying and selling houses for people, and personal stuff like that. Then there are others who do nothing but criminal law, that’s appearing in court to defend the bad guys that Dad and Uncle Andy and Uncle Neil catch.’

‘What do you mean, to defend them?’

‘When they’re put on trial, they don’t always admit that they did it. If that happens there are people who have to decide whether they did it or not; they’re called a jury, and lawyers have to try to show them what really happened.’

‘Like that woman in Judge John Deed, in the funny wig?’

‘Exactly. As well as all of those, there are corporate solicitors. .’

‘Copperate? Something like Dad, d’you mean?’

She shook her head, stifling a smile. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I said “cor-por-ate”; that’s what I am. We work with businesses, making sure that the things they do are in accordance with the law, helping them with takeover bids, and big stuff like that.’

‘Do you work with famous people?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Like who?’

‘I’m not allowed to say; our clients are confidential.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Private.’

‘Secret?’

‘Sort of.’

‘I think I’ll be a solicitor.’

‘Not a policeman?’

James Andrew shook his head. ‘Dad doesn’t want me to be a policeman.’

‘He didn’t want me to be one either when I was growing up. Dads never want their kids to be what they are. . unless they’re lawyers. You know, both your granddads were lawyers, and they were both disappointed when Dad and your mum decided to do other things. Come on, tell me. Do you really want to be a policeman?’

He nodded, with a smile that was just between them. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Unless I’m a sort of a scientist like Mum.’

She laughed. ‘You’ve got plenty of time to decide, don’t worry too much about it yet.’

Jazz smiled up at her; sometimes his facial expressions were so much like those of their father that she could hardly believe it. ‘I’m not worried,’ he told her. ‘Alex,’ he continued quickly, ‘you know when your mum went away?’

She felt herself frown, wondering what was coming. ‘Yes,’ she answered hesitantly.

‘Did she go away like Granddad and Grandma Grace went away?’

Alex nodded. ‘Yes. She died. I was just a wee girl at the time; even younger then than you are now.’

James Andrew had no concept of the mechanics of death; all he knew was that it made the people who weren’t dead very sad, and as he looked at his sister, he realised that sometimes that sadness never went away. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, and reached his hand out to her.

She was saved by the bell, saved from making a sap of herself by having her kid brother move her to tears. Across the room, the phone on the sideboard rang out its loud trembling tune. She jumped to her feet, but she was beaten to it. The boy picked up the handset; ‘James Andrew Skinner,’ he answered, as he had been taught.

‘Jazz.’ He smiled when he heard his mother’s voice. ‘Is Dad back yet?’

‘No, not yet. Alex is here, though.’

‘Good, put her on, please.’

He handed the phone up to his sister, who had guessed by his tone who was on the line. ‘Sarah? Hi. Wassup?’

‘I need to speak to Bob, and it’s kind of urgent. I’m at the new Royal, doing what was supposed to be a routine autopsy, only it’s not. Normally I’d call the divisional CID office, but there’s a restructuring going on, and I don’t know who to ask for.’

‘Leave it with me. I’ll phone the club. If he’s in the bar, I’ll have him call your mobile. If he’s not in yet, I’ll ask the steward. .’ As she spoke, she heard a door open. ‘Hold on, that might be him now.’ She put a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Pops!’ she called out, and in seconds he was there, his hair ruffled and his face still red from the November chill.

She held out the phone. ‘Sarah.’

‘Hi, love. What is it? You want me to hold lunch for you after all?’

‘If only. Bob, this dead Belgian. This is no simple coronary; apart from a rather abused liver there was nothing wrong with this guy until the moment he died. His heart, his lungs, everything else was in fine working order. Tissue tests will have to be run but I don’t need them. This man was poisoned and I’m damn certain I know how it was administered. I need to know which officer in your great organisation I should inform about this.’

‘At this moment, love, you’re talking to him. You wait there; I’ll be with you directly.’

Brian Mackie’s chief superintendent’s uniform was still new; he looked as awkward in it as Maggie Rose felt in hers. The strangest part of it was the peaked, braided cap, which looked uncomfortable and out of place on his domed head.

‘Hello there,’ she called out as she closed the door of the police command room behind her.

Mackie’s head and those of the two inspectors who were with him turned towards her. ‘Maggie,’ he exclaimed, ‘I didn’t expect to see you today.’

‘Sure you did, Brian.’ She laughed.

‘Yes, well,’ he admitted, ‘maybe I’d have been surprised if you hadn’t put in an appearance.’

‘How’s everything going?’

‘No problems to speak of, although they’ve just had a small incident near the east turnstiles. One of the civilian security guys took it upon himself to try to body-search a member of the public for concealed alcohol, and actually laid hands on him. The man took exception to it, shoved him away and called a constable; rightly so, for the security fellow was absolutely reeking of drink himself.’

‘What did you do with him?’

‘I told the officer on the scene to arrest him, and to note the address of the complainer, so that we can take a statement later. I’m of a mind to charge him with assault; I won’t have these people behaving like that.’ He smiled. ‘Apart from that it’s just another day at the office. These events are not quite like the Hearts-Hibs derby games. They attract just as many prats, but a different sort, if you know what I mean, plus there’s never any aggro between the rival supporters. The main problem we have is with pickpockets. They’ve been known to work in organised groups on days like this; I think they see all these half-cut Watsonians and Academicals as easy game.’

‘Can that not be a bit risky?’

‘It certainly can,’ Mackie agreed. ‘At the last match, a couple of weeks ago, one of them picked the wrong pocket and got his jaw broken.’

‘What did you do about that?’

‘I’d have charged them both, but the pickpocket wouldn’t make a complaint, so only he got done. A pity in a way; the lad involved was a judge’s son. That would have been fun had it come to court.’

Rose frowned. ‘The judge wasn’t Lord Mendelton, was he?’

‘As a matter of fact he was. Why do you ask?’