Quintin Jardine - Murmuring the Judges

‘Bloody hell,’ whispered Martin, quietly. ‘If we don’t stop these people there’ll be no fucking money left in our area!’

As he spoke, he reached the big, modern hospital. It was well sign-posted, and so the Accident and Emergency admissions unit was easy to find. The detective parked two hundred yards away, in the first available bay, jumped out and led McGrigor at a brisk walk towards its entrance.

As the two policemen strode through the double doors, Martin looked around for the admissions desk. Instead, he saw Chief Constable Sir James Proud, imposing in his heavily braided uniform. His face spoke the news for him.

‘When?’ the Head of CID asked, grim-faced.

‘Half an hour ago,’ replied the silver-headed Chief. ‘The poor lass never regained consciousness. I’ve just left her parents and her boyfriend. It’s his twenty-third birthday tomorrow: the same age as she was.’

There were a few people in the police force who believed that Sir James Proud took such pleasure from the wearing of his uniform because it helped him hide a soft centre. Anyone seeing the look in his eyes as he spoke to Martin would have been disabused of that notion. ‘You make sure you catch these bastards, Andy,’ he said, quietly, yet ferociously. ‘Catch them quick.

‘When you do, I’ll interview them myself, just to see what sort of creatures they are. Because I surely don’t detect any humanity.’

Bob Skinner, with Jazz dozing in a carrier strapped to his father’s back, grinned at Mark as he fought with determination to master his in-line skates. The boy was highly gifted in terms of memory and intellect, but not in terms of athleticism.

Sarah’s hand was in his as they walked back along the Passeig d’Empuries, from the beach where they had spent the hot August afternoon. She had a big beach umbrella, in a carrier, slung over her shoulder, while he carried their towels and the other debris of the day in a yellow bag.

As they passed from beneath a tree-shaded area of the walkway, Bob nodded to his right, towards a whitewashed building which stood facing a small, sharply curved bay. ‘Look at that,’ he said with a smile. ‘The Hostal Ampurias. I used to have a day-dream that one day I’d buy that place and make it one of the finest hotels on the Costa Brava.’

Sarah laughed, and slipped her arm around his waist. ‘Why don’t we?’

‘Two reasons. One, the owners don’t want to sell. Two, we can’t afford it. No, three reasons, we’ve got two boys to bring up, and you’re off the pill. Oh aye, and another. Four reasons, we’ve just bought a new family home back in Scotland.’

She smiled. ‘Okay, but in a few years you’ll be eligible for retirement on a pretty good pension. I could do consultancy and locum work during the school terms and we could spend all of the holidays out here.

‘You could write your memoirs.’

His roar of laughter was so loud that it startled the walkers around them, and made Mark pause on his roller-blades to look over his shoulder. At his back, he felt Jazz stir.

‘That will be right,’ he retorted. ‘The things that would make my memoirs a best-seller are the very things that I couldn’t include in them. If I ever wrote about crime, it would have to be fiction, like that guy we know back in Gullane.

‘Mind you, from what I hear there isn’t too much money in that.’

She looked up at him as they walked. ‘I’m half serious, you know,’ she whispered, in her gentle New York drawl. ‘I just want us to be as happy as we possibly can be.’

‘I know that. And the way to that is for you to be what you are, and for me to be what I am, not for us to deny our natures. I promise you this, though, my darling. As soon as I know I’m past my sell-by date as a copper, I’ll go. I’m not implying that Jimmy’s past it. . he’s the best Chief Constable in the land, by miles. . but I’ve got no wish to hang on for the silver uniform and the knighthood.’

Sarah’s arm tightened around his waist. ‘You don’t know how good a Chief Constable you’d be until you’ve tried it. I’ve no doubt that you’d be brilliant. The Strathclyde job’s coming up soon, isn’t it?’

‘Christ,’ he gasped. ‘One minute you want me to retire, the next you want me to go after Jock Govan’s job. I can tell you that is something I definitely will not do. If I become a Chief anywhere, it’ll be in succession to Jimmy. My role with the Secretary of State, even though I’ve chucked it, gave me special eligibility.’

Sarah’s face fell into shadow as they passed under another umbrella of trees on the wide red walkway. ‘Do you regret not staying on in that job, even though you were asked?’

‘Not for one second. I’ve had a bellyful of the duplicity of politicians.’ Then suddenly and conspiratorially, Skinner smiled. ‘But let me tell you a secret. I’ve been asked to keep my links with MI5 and the security service. That’s where the real advantage lies.’

‘You so-and-so! You never said.’

He nodded. ‘That’s true. Mind you, now I have told you, I’ll have to kill you.’

For a split-second, she frowned at his joke. ‘Hey, coming from you, that ain’t so funny.’

‘See what I mean about my memoirs then? Now, change of subject. Where do you want to eat tonight?’

They strolled on together, Bob, Sarah and their boys, along the last kilometre of the walkway, until they reached the headless statue which marked its limit. Directly across the street they climbed the one hundred steps which took them up to Puig Pedro, Mark counting every one out loud. Sarah’s legs were still aching when finally they reached their villa.

Jazz was still asleep in the carrier as Bob eased it from his shoulders. ‘I’ll just put him in his cot,’ he whispered.

‘Yeah,’ said his wife. ‘While he still fits it. I may take a snooze too, if you and Mark want to play in the pool for a bit.’

She kicked off her shoes in the hallway and wandered into their big living area.

Sarah had always objected to mobile phones on holiday. However she had agreed to a fax being installed in the villa. ‘For emergencies only, remember.’

When Bob came into the living room, bare-chested and barefoot, she was standing facing the door. Her hazel eyes were narrowed and the laugh-lines around them showed white against her tan. There was an expression of pain on her face.

Without a word she handed him a single sheet of fax paper, and watched his face grow first shocked, then dark with anger as he read. When he looked up at her, the question was asked and the answer given without a single word being exchanged.

‘I’ll begin packing,’ she said. ‘You explain to Mark.’

‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘We’ll take the Channel Tunnel. That way we can be home in twenty-four hours.’

Like many policemen, even of the most senior rank, Sir James Proud was wary of the press.

Dislike was too strong a word to describe his attitude; he was shrewd enough to appreciate the role of newspapers and the electronic media in shaping public perceptions of his force and its effectiveness. For that reason he had always been assiduous in maintaining friendly working relationships with editors and proprietors.

However, facing a mass of hungry hacks across a table was another matter entirely. There was something about their collective attitude which made him feel as if he was in the centre of a pack of predators, every one with his scent in their nostrils, every one waiting to fire questions with teeth in them.

Proud Jimmy could not be described as shy, nor nervous. He feared no man, except, privately, Bob Skinner, when aroused to a rage. But it was in his nature to measure his words, and to weigh his reply to every question put to him. He envied his deputy and his Head of CID their calm assurance in media briefings, knowing that while they always seemed confident and assured, invariably he presented an image of hesitancy and stiffness.