Quintin Jardine - Stay of Execution

Aileen smiled. ‘You’d better.’ She eased herself to her feet. ‘My car should be downstairs by now. I have to get to the office. Will you be around tomorrow at Murrayfield?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’m not a player in the operation, although I helped put it together. If I turn up, Willie and Brian might think I don’t trust them. If I’m there, I won’t be high profile, that’s for sure. It’ll be a private visit.’

‘Part of your search for God? Now I’ve told you He’s not up my skirt after all?’

He stood, quickly and supply. ‘Don’t sell yourself short.’ He chuckled, as he walked her to the door. ‘Should we shake hands?’ he asked.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she whispered. Rising up on her toes, she kissed him. He was still gazing at the dark door well after it had closed on her, still aware of her perfume lingering behind her, the ghost of her presence in the room. He gave himself a shake back to reality and returned to his desk, ready to start his morning’s work in earnest.

He buzzed McGurk. ‘Jack, the minister’s gone. Give me a couple of minutes then come along please, and bring the mail with you.’ He switched on his computer, let it boot up, and checked his e-mail. There was nothing in his official mailbox. . there rarely was, since his executive assistant routinely printed out all the incoming messages, other than those from certain listed contacts. . but when he signed on to his personal address, he found one from ‘dmacphail’ asking if he would make that evening’s gathering of his five-a-side football group, the Thursday Legends. . ‘Not a chance tonight, mate,’ he muttered. . two with headlines guaranteeing to increase his penis size, another offering him Viagra online. . ‘So I can cope with the new cock, I suppose,’ he chuckled. . and a fifth, from ‘dr_sarah’. He moved the cursor to open it then changed his mind and deleted all five.

There was a rap on the door; it swung open and McGurk came in with a bundle of documents. ‘Thanks,’ said the DCC. ‘Do you want to talk me through any of that stuff?’

‘Just two items, sir.’ He laid a brown envelope on the desk. ‘That’s from Signor Rossi.’ He placed a bulky package beside it. ‘And that’s from the head of CID; all the paperwork on the Belgian investigation.’ He dropped the rest into the DCC’s in-tray. ‘That’s just the usual stuff, I’d say.’

‘So much for the paperless office,’ Skinner grumbled. He reached out and tapped the pile of material that Pringle had set him. ‘When I get round to this,’ he said, ‘I might ask you to come and help me. I’ll be trying to find something that’s out of shape, something that doesn’t square with the facts as we know them. If you’re helping me, we’ll be twice as likely to spot it; four eyes are always better than two, especially when you don’t know what the hell you’re looking for.’

‘I’ll be there, boss,’ said McGurk. ‘Is that all for now?’

‘Yes, Jack, thanks; and thanks in general too. You’ve settled in very well, in spite of me sometimes. I feel that my back’s being well watched, and that’s what I value most of all in an exec.’ He slapped the fat folder again. ‘I’ll give you a shout when I need you.’

Alone, Skinner picked up the big brown envelope, slid out its contents and examined them. It was a three-page fax with a cover sheet, which showed that it had been sent to Giovanni Rossi from an Italian number. As he had been promised, it was a detailed biography of Gilbert White, Bishop of Rome, latest in a line of succession that stretched back to St Peter. As he read it, Skinner could see in his mind’s eye the last occasion on which he had met him, just over three years earlier at a reception hosted by the former first minister in Bute House, his official residence. In his red robes and cardinal’s hat, he had seemed to fill the room. If his election to the papacy had surprised the rest of the world, it had been seen in Scotland as no more than his due.

The DCC began to read. He found that the paper was written almost in reverse order; the first part dealt with the Pope’s life since his elevation, his pronouncements, his views on major issues facing the Church and the world, and the two formal visits he had made, the first to his old college in Spain, relocated since his time to Salamanca, and the second a dramatic mission to the Democratic Republic of the Congo, in a successful bid to snuff out the last traces of the long-running civil war. It was only when he reached the last page that he found the information he had been after. The young Gilbert White had been educated at St Patrick’s High, Coatbridge, and had studied for the priesthood at the Royal Scots College in Valladolid, Spain, established in the days when Catholicism had been an outlawed religion in Scotland. He had been ordained in Glasgow at the age of twenty-six. In the first year of his priesthood, he had chosen to broaden his education and experience and, through the influence of one of his former tutors, had been granted a two-year attachment as a curate to the great cathedral in Brussels. When that was complete he had returned to Scotland and, apart from a period on the staff of the Pontifical Scots College in Rome, had spent his entire pastoral career there.

Skinner finished the document, then read it through for a second time. He leaned back in his chair and scratched his head. He must have met Malou in Brussels, over forty years ago; there could be no more to it than that.

He laid the biography aside and turned to Pringle’s folder. He was about to open it when his phone rang. ‘I have Father Collins on the line, sir, from the Pope’s secretariat.’

‘Put him through.’

‘Good morning, Mr Skinner.’ The young priest’s accent betrayed his Western Isles origins. ‘I spoke to the Holy Father last night and asked him your question. He asked me to tell you that the name Auguste Malou does mean something to him. He met him during the period of his attachment to the Cathedral of St Michael in Brussels, and they’ve remained in touch ever since. Their friendship is the reason for his invitation to the Bastogne Drummers to play at Murrayfield.’

‘That’s all he said about him?’

‘That is all, sir.’

‘I see. Thank you for your trouble, Father.’

‘Don’t mention it, sir. His Holiness also asked me to tell you that he’s looking forward very much to seeing you and Sir James Proud again. After this evening’s mass, he’ll be having supper with the Archbishop, at his residence: he’s staying there, as you know. He wonders whether you and the chief constable would care to join them; around nine thirty. He promises that the conversation will be almost entirely about football.’

The DCC was taken aback. ‘I think I can speak for Jimmy on that,’ he said. ‘We’d both be honoured. I’ll let him know. Mind you,’ he added, ‘being a Hibs fan, the Pope may have little to talk about.’

‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Angelo Collins, laughing as he hung up.

Skinner did not have time even to reach for Pringle’s folder before his phone, barely in its cradle, sounded again. ‘Yes, Jack,’ he said.

‘Boss,’ began his assistant, ‘remember that thing I mentioned last night: the investigation that DI Steele might need to involve you in? Well, it’s come up. DCS Pringle’s just been on the phone; and he’d like to bring Stevie to see you. He said it was urgent, so I said okay. They should be with you in ten minutes, tops.’

‘Okay. I guess Dan’s folder will get done some time. There have been no more reports of incidents involving the Belgians, have there?’

‘No, sir. I’ve been keeping an eye on them like you asked. All’s quiet. I checked with the Humberside police too, to see whether they’ve made progress with their investigation.’