Quintin Jardine - Stay of Execution

‘If anyone can do that it’s John the Twenty-fifth.’ Skinner looked at his colleague. ‘Where are these bloody Belgians, then?’

‘They’re rehearsing out on the back pitches. They wanted to do it in the stadium, but there are too many workers about for that. I’ve got uniformed officers watching them, though. I’ll show you where they are if you like.’

‘It’s okay, Brian,’ the DCC laughed, ‘I used to be a detective, remember. I’ll find them; the noise of their drums might just give me a clue.’

He walked out of the stadium and round the west stand, past the Scottish Rugby Union offices and shop and out of the gate. A cold wind was blowing from the east, but even against it, he could still hear the martial sound of drumming and the blare of brass instruments. He looked across the big field and saw a group in military array, twenty-four blue-clad musicians in front and a dozen red-uniformed musketeers bringing up the rear. He strolled towards them, but kept his distance until he saw the leader, Malou, give the ‘fall out’ signal.

The old colonel had seen him coming; as his men laid down their instruments, he walked to meet him. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. ‘You come to watch us march?’

‘That and some,’ said Skinner. ‘Do you practise every day?’

‘No, but today we must. On Sunday I sent for two replacements from Belgium, from the First Guides band; they arrived last night and they have very little time to get to know our repertoire, and our march routines.’ He shivered. ‘I wish it wasn’t necessary. It’s a cold country you live in. It is as well our uniforms are thick and made for the outdoors.’

‘What do you do when it rains?’

‘We have capes; transparent so you can see the uniforms.’ Malou fumbled in his trouser pockets and produced a blue pack of cigarettes. He offered one to the DCC, who shook his head. ‘You don’t have the habit, then?’

‘No. My brother forced me to smoke when I was about ten years old: made me sick as a dog. That put me off for life.’

‘You might have wound up smoking Gauloises like me. You should have thanked your brother.’

‘I didn’t see it that way at the time,’ the Scot mused, ‘but you’re right.’ He watched as the old man lit up with a disposable Bic and inhaled deeply.

‘Filthy habit, but it’s one that’s been with me since I was a young man. When I joined the army nearly everyone smoked, especially the officers. There were nights when we couldn’t see across the mess, it was so thick.’

‘Sounds like the fog we had here last week. Why do you smoke those things?’ the DCC asked. ‘They seem pretty strong.’

‘I’ve smoked them for forty years and more. The main reason I got hooked on them was because they were good for keeping the mosquito at bay.’

‘Would they work on midges? That’s our big problem in Scotland.’

‘I’ve heard that. A good friend told me so many years ago. As I understand the two creatures are essentially the same. Mosquito means “little fly”, and so does your word “midge”, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Skinner grinned, ‘but ours have sharper teeth.’

‘So why are you here?’ Malou asked. ‘Do you have news of the deaths of Philippe and Barty, or did you simply want to see us march and hear us play?’

‘There are some things I want to ask you. Well, one thing, really. Why are you here?’

The old colonel looked up at him sharply. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Why were you invited?’

‘Because we are very good; we are an institution in Belgium and in Luxembourg, and Holland. . or at least we once were, before age started to catch up with us.’

‘I’m sure that’s the case, Monsieur Malou, but there has to be more to it than that. You’re here at the personal invitation of the Pope.’

‘When he was a young priest, newly ordained, His Holiness spent some time in Belgium. The Bastogne Drummers have been around for many years; I didn’t found them, I only gave them a lift when they needed it. I imagine that Father Gibb must have heard them then.’

‘What did you call him?’ Skinner asked quietly, as Malou dragged on his cigarette.

The colonel looked away; his face seemed to redden slightly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, ‘I forgot who I was talking about.’

‘No, you didn’t. That’s a name that very few people use; the only ones who do are his closest personal friends. How long have you known the Pope?’

The old man finished his cigarette, inhaling the last of the smoke. ‘We met during that time I spoke of, when we were both young men. And yes, we became good friends in those days. But it was a long time ago and it is not something I like to boast of; that would not be proper. I don’t even like to talk about it.’

‘Come on, it’s more than a youthful meeting forty years ago for him to have invited you here. What brought you together?’

‘That is something between Father Gibb and me,’ Malou snapped, ‘and I will not speak of it, to you or anyone else. And neither, I can promise you, will he.’ He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Skinner staring at his back.

Murphy Whetstone was home alone when Steele called. As he led the detective through to the kitchen, to make coffee for them both, he explained that his mother had taken Blue off in her car for a walk around Holyrood Park. ‘The poor dog’s had barely any exercise since Dad died, and from what Mum said, his walks had been getting shorter before that.’

‘Yet your father was in the habit of walking home from the off ice?’

‘I know, but that had tailed off too, so Mum said.’

A night’s sleep seemed to have done him some good. The circles had gone from beneath his eyes, and he looked more like a man of his age than he had on the inspector’s first visit to him. He seemed also to have regained some spirit, as he handed Steele a mug. ‘Are you here to ask or tell?’ he said bluntly.

‘Tell, in this case. There’s been a development I thought you should know about.’ As he explained about the disappearance of Aurelia Middlemass and her husband, Murphy’s face seemed to light up. ‘It all fits now,’ he exclaimed, when the inspector had f inished.

‘What does?’

‘Come into my dad’s study and let me show you something,’ he said. Carrying his coffee, Steele followed him into a room next to the kitchen that looked out on to a long, immaculately maintained back garden. ‘My mother’s pride and joy,’ he said. ‘Dad had his golf; she’s got that.’

In one corner of the study, there was a desk on which a computer sat, up and running, showing moving stars as a screensaver. ‘I’ve been looking though my father’s files,’ said the young man. ‘To be completely honest, I thought that if he had left a suicide note, this is where it would be. The Old Man came late to computers, but when he did, he embraced them. His Filofax is gathering dust somewhere; all his personal records and notes were kept here. He had a web-cam, and he and I used to have video chats every couple of weeks or so. He didn’t keep a daily diary. . not the Samuel Pepys kind at least; he wasn’t that sort of man. . but I did find reminders and stuff, and notes, in a personal folder.’ He looked at Steele. ‘Before I show you this, I promise you, I didn’t create it to try to prove anything. This is his own document.’

He touched the mouse and the screensaver vanished, to be replaced on the screen by a photograph of Blue, the Siberian husky. Murphy smiled. ‘He used to create his own wallpaper,’ he said. ‘He had a video camera and downloaded pictures from it. He was always changing the image.’ He moved the mouse and clicked on a series of folders, until a document opened. It was headed ‘Countdown’.