Quintin Jardine - Stay of Execution

‘Of course it isn’t. We all do things off the record.’

‘We don’t all kill people.’

‘Who says I have?’

‘That much is on your file; you must know that.’

He shrugged. ‘They were terrorists. I was an armed officer.’

‘They mean nothing to you?’

He held her gaze although, to his surprise, he found it difficult. Jim Gainer’s phrase came back to him. ‘I don’t put flowers on their graves,’ he said.

‘Did you kill them in cold blood?’

‘I don’t like talking about it, Aileen.’

‘Please, I want to know. I’m interested in what makes you tick. You’re not frightening me any more.’

‘If you’re that keen it’s like this: I’m a police officer. That means, literally, I’m an agent of the people. When I act I do so on their behalf, in the interests of the society which put me in that position. Emotion doesn’t come into it. I didn’t feel any then, and I don’t now when I’m forced to look back on it, or persuaded to talk about it.’

‘Why can’t I believe that?’

‘Because you’ve read too much crime fiction. You think that because I’m a copper I’ve got to have a tortured soul.’

‘And don’t you?’

‘I did for a while, but I’m getting over it. I won’t say that I’m entirely at peace with myself yet, but I’ve been persuaded that the bad’s outweighed by the good. Most people can say the same about themselves. . you included.’

‘Yet you’re still able to say to me that you could execute someone, just like that, and feel nothing.’

‘Since I’ve told you I don’t feel remorse, are you saying that I enjoyed it?’

‘I hope not. I think I’m wondering whether you carry enough anger within you to make you able to do anything.’

He shook his head in denial. ‘It’s just a dirty job, that’s all. When it’s done I go home to my wife, and my children.’

‘Could you kill me if it was necessary?’

‘Don’t be daft, woman.’

‘Seriously. Could you kill me?

‘If I found you threatening to use lethal force on me or anyone else, I probably could. But that’s academic, because you couldn’t do that.’

‘How can you say that so confidently? You hardly know me.’

An expression that she had not seen before spread across his face; there was mischief in it. She had not thought him capable of that.

‘Sure I know you,’ he told her, in a slow, easy drawl. ‘You’re thirty-six years old, the daughter of a chartered accountant and a nurse. You were educated at Hutcheson’s Grammar School and Strathclyde University: you’ve got an honours degree in civil engineering.’

His smile vanished, and his voice grew serious. ‘When you were twenty-three you went to South America to work on an irrigation project in Surinam. You were caught up in a revolution, and you set up a refugee camp for women and children running from the fighting. You fed, sheltered and saved the lives of hundreds of people. Then a platoon of rebel militia arrived; the government were winning, they were on the retreat, and they were out to scorch some earth. You faced them down, and they left your camp untouched. You weren’t so lucky, though. You were raped by their commander. Luckily for you, he was one of the few men in that group who wasn’t HIV positive, but you didn’t know that until you were tested, after the revolt collapsed completely and the army arrived.’

He paused; Aileen de Marco’s mouth was set in a tight line. ‘After that,’ Skinner continued, ‘you came back to Scotland and you took a job with a firm of consultant engineers. You also became an active member of the Labour Party, where before you had only been a supporter. When you were twenty-six you were elected to Glasgow District Council. By that time you had established a charity which raises funds for the relief of refugees from civil wars, of which there is never any shortage. At the beginning of your second term on the council you were appointed chair of the planning committee. You were instrumental in uncovering a bribery scandal involving contractors, officials and a couple of your fellow councillors. They all got the slammer; as a result you’ve got some enemies yourself. They did their best to stop you getting a seat in the parliament, but they failed. That was their one chance. Now you’ve got power and you’re going to get more in the future. You’ve become a career politician. You don’t run a car, and you live alone in Glasgow, in a flat by the side of the Clyde. You’ve never married, although you had a relationship with another councillor that ended six years ago. Since then your male acquaintances have included a journalist and a musician. Currently unattached.’

He paused again. ‘Oh, yes,’ he added. ‘And confirming your attraction to the oppressed and the under-privileged, you’re a Partick Thistle supporter.’ He looked at her. ‘You couldn’t kill anyone, and you couldn’t even threaten it. If you saw someone threatened with death, you would say, “Kill me instead.” And you know what? They probably would, because people who are capable of killing usually do it when they’re challenged to.’

She sat in silence as he finished. ‘That’s me taught, isn’t it?’ she whispered eventually. ‘Does it say on my file that I couldn’t kill anyone?’

He smiled. ‘No, Aileen, I said that. My wife made a forceful point to me a few days ago. There are no angels, she told me.’ He flashed her a quick, wicked glance. ‘But there are some who can call up the Devil when we need him.’

‘And I should be grateful you’re on our side?’

He nodded, and his grin widened. ‘Very.’

She gave a snort of laughter. ‘God!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re up front, aren’t you?’

‘Very rarely. You’d be surprised if you knew how few people I’d talk to like I’ve talked to you this evening.’

She shook her head. ‘No, I wouldn’t. You might be surprised too; the normal everyday Aileen de Marco’s as private a person as you are. I guess that having read each other’s files has given us a sort of intimacy.’

‘I suppose.’ He swung round in his chair, then suddenly looked her in the eye. ‘Tell me something. That rebel, the one in Surinam: he didn’t rape you, did he? Not forcibly, that is.’

He saw her cheeks redden. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I think that was the deal. It was the price you had to pay to save the people you were looking after. Am I right?’

She nodded, eyes downward. ‘How did you know that?’ she asked quietly.

‘If he’d raped you, taken you by force, I mean, it would have been a violent act. He’d have killed you afterwards and his men would have slaughtered everyone in your camp. You took a chance that he would keep his word.’

‘I couldn’t do anything else.’

‘Of course not. You were lucky that the guy had some sort of honour.’

‘They killed him, you know,’ she murmured. ‘The government troops caught him and shot him, in front of his men. Then they shot the rest of them.’

Skinner shrugged his shoulders. ‘Fair enough, in your man’s case. You might pretend to yourself that there was a sort of treaty between you at the time, but in truth he did rape you, as sure as if he’d held a gun to your head.’

‘I suppose you’d have shot him too,’ she challenged.

He looked her in the eye, smiling cheerfully. ‘Only if he was very lucky,’ he replied.

‘God,’ she exclaimed, ‘you mean that too, don’t you? Stop it. Turn off that magnetism.’

‘Hey!’ He touched his chest, just below his left shoulder, where his pacemaker had been implanted. ‘A magnet could do me some serious harm. I’m computer-driven, remember.’

She laughed. ‘You mean that’s your equivalent of a krypton necklace, Superman? That’s a powerful hold you’ve given me over you.’