Quintin Jardine - Stay of Execution

‘I’ll patch that through to the CIA. It may help them.’ The other phone rang as she spoke; he motioned to Steele to pick it up. ‘I’ll get back to you,’ she said.

Skinner laid down one phone and took the other. ‘Lieutenant Huggins?’

‘Sir.’›

‘I’ve got some news for you. I reckon your people Salvona and Falcone were in Florida after all. Someone else killed Mawhinney. Eli, how well did you know the man?’

‘I didn’t, sir. The inspector was promoted out of the IAB well before I was posted there. Inspector Donegan and he were close, though.’

‘Is he there?’

‘He’s in the next room.’

‘Get him.’

‘Sir, you won’t discuss Salvona with him, will you?’

‘That’s irrelevant. Get him.’

He waited, fretting, until Nolan Donegan came on line. ‘Inspector,’ he said, with no preamble, although he had never met the second American, ‘did you know Colin Mawhinney socially, as well as professionally?’

‘Yes, sir; for years.’

‘Okay. Don’t ask questions, just answer them. What can you tell me about his wife?’

He heard Donegan take in a breath. ‘Margery? She was the best thing that ever happened to him. I was there when they met.’

‘When was that?’

‘Colin and I were in a bar on Wall Street one night, out of uniform, when she came in, with a guy. They came up and sat on the stools next to us; she asked Colin for a light and they got talking. It was just simple conversation. I remember he asked what she did, and she told him that she’d just joined Garamond and Stretch, and that her name was Margery Walls; I remember she made a joke of it. “Like two streets,” she said. Colin said hello to the guy and asked if was a colleague, and he leaned over and said, “No, now why don’t you fuck off?” The friendly sort.’

‘Can you remember his accent?’

‘Definitely not American or British, and not Hispanic-American either.’

‘Did she call him by name at any point?’

‘Yeah, she did. I remember that. When he said what he did, she turned to him and said, “Franco, that’s not necessary.” Then he grabbed her, roughly, by the arm and tried to turn her towards him. She tried to push him off, but he held on to her until Colin showed him his badge, and told him quietly but firmly. . that was his style. . that it would be best if he took his own advice. The guy looked at Margery and said, “Ah, fuck you, then,” and turned and left.’

‘Did you ever see him again?’

‘Never.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘Dark hair, glasses, heavy set, little moustache, maybe late thirties; that’s it.’

‘So what happened with Colin and Margery after that?’

‘She stayed, he saw her home, and that was that. Three months later they flew to Vegas and got married, and a little over six months after that, she was killed.’

‘She wasn’t,’ said Skinner, quietly.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Margery Walls walked out of the WTC before the second plane hit. She went to Dubai, with a Zimbabwean passport that identified her as Polly Price. From there, she moved to Edinburgh using the name Aurelia Middlemass, which she’d acquired from a South African woman who was killed when her American diplomat boyfriend’s jeep was blown up.’

‘This cannot be true.’

‘Get over here, Inspector. Have Huggins bring you to my office and ask for Neil McIlhenney. He and his colleague DI Steele will ask you to look at a couple of photographs. Then you’ll see whether it’s true or not.’

He hung up and redialled the consular residence. This time Special Agent Gower answered. ‘Merle, I have a name for you. Franco. That’s all, just Franco; but if he isn’t one and the same guy as Hasid Bourgiba, and Anwar Baradi, and Jose-Maria Alsina, then it’s time for me to make my wife a happy woman by taking early retirement.’

As he sat in the Archbishop’s residence, Deputy Chief Constable Robert Morgan Skinner felt that his life had become the stuff of fantasy. It was as if he existed on three planes, in three contrasting worlds.

There was the one in which he had become embroiled in Fettes, one of mystery, death, and danger. He had stepped out of it for a while, but he knew that he would have to go back, to try to solve the many unanswered questions that still seemed to be pointing him in a certain inevitable direction. There was his crumbling home life. He had called Sarah from the car that had taken him, and the chief constable, to their supper engagement, to explain that he would not be home at all that night. She had been cold and distant; their brief flickering of understanding a few days earlier had disappeared. He found himself in a huge dilemma, aching for his children, yet knowing that a reunion with them would bring a confrontation with his wife. And third, but not least, there was the world into which he had stepped that night.

He had expected others to have been invited for supper: di Matteo, Rossi and Angelo Collins, certainly, and possibly the Lord Provost and his wife. Yet when they had arrived there had been only four places set: theirs, the Archbishop’s and the last, at the head of the table, for the Pope himself.

The conversation had been largely as promised. Pope John the Twenty-fifth was a hopeless football addict, and had been since boyhood, he revealed. He had played the game in his teens at a decent level; he had played in the Boys Guild, like Gainer, he had turned out as an amateur for Albion Rovers and, like Skinner, he had played for Glasgow University.

The DCC looked at him, as they sat in the Archbishop’s drawing room, supper over and with brandy goblets in their hands. Cardinal Gilbert White had been a familiar figure in Edinburgh, a hugely popular man who had bridged the religious and political chasms that existed across central Scotland. He had been a giant of the city, and it was difficult to conceive that he could have evolved into something even greater.

And yet he had. He wore simple garments, more of a tunic than a suit, and he sat comfortably back in his chair, yet his presence seemed to fill the spacious room. In his career Skinner had stood close to monarchs and princes, prime ministers and presidents, yet until that evening he had never experienced the feeling of being in the presence of true greatness. With it there came a peacefulness that settled on him as a blanket, making him realise how weary he was.

‘So, Jimmy,’ said the Pope to the chief, ‘you’ve been sitting quiet all night listening to Robert and me and the other James here, kicking the ball around. Tell me, how much longer will it take for them to prise you out of that uniform and introduce you to the delights of tending your garden?’

Skinner looked at Proud; it was a question he had never asked himself. He assumed, as did his colleagues, that he would carry on to the last day allowed by law. ‘Not long now,’ he replied. ‘I’d go tomorrow if I thought that this man here would step into my shoes, but he’s showing a marked reluctance to commit himself to that.’

‘What’s this, Bob? Are you denying Lady Proud the pleasure of having her husband around all day?’

The DCC sipped his Amaretto, then scratched his nose, until to his surprise he found himself voicing his thoughts in a way he never had before. ‘You make me aware of my own selfishness, Your Holiness. I confess that I welcome Jimmy’s continuing presence in that office of his, because every day he spends there delays the moment when I have to make what will probably be my last career decision. I’m not so arrogant that I assume his job is mine for the asking, but I know of his ambitions for me, and it would make me feel bad if I had to deny them.’

‘Are you saying you might not apply for the chief’s job when it becomes vacant?’