Quintin Jardine - Murmuring the Judges

‘Not any more. I’ve been promoted out of Special Branch just like you.’

‘Superintendent it’ll be, then. Congratulations. What can Ah do for you?’

‘I want to consult the Criminal Intelligence Unit you’re running now. Can you give me some assistance?’

‘Of course I can. I’ll deal wi’ it myself; I need to practise using the technology. Who’s the target?’

Mackie paused, as if to restrain Afhtab’s eagerness. ‘The name is Bernard Grimley. He used to own a pub on the South Side of the Clyde, before he sold up and bought a place through here. I’ve asked my lads, but he’s not known to them.’

‘I’ll check. What’s he lined up for?’

‘I can’t say, Salim. It’s sort of unofficial, like in the old days. In fact I’d be grateful if you didn’t keep a record.’

The Chief Inspector laughed. ‘Ah don’t know. Special Branch habits die hard, right enough. You got a secure fax there?’

‘Yes. Right in this office.’ Mackie turned and read the number from a machine on a small table behind him.’

‘Okay. Leave it with me. I’ll ask the Oracle and send you a report. . one way or the other.’

‘Thanks, mate. I’m due you one.’

‘Guinness’ll be fine.’

Mackie put down the phone and went back to the reports in his in-tray. He worked his way through them in half an hour, then made a call to confirm a lunch appointment with the Area Manager of the Bank of Scotland. Just as he agreed the time, the fax behind him rang and a connection was made.

He watched until the machine had finished excreting a single sheet of paper, picked it up, and read it through. He was smiling thinly to himself as he dialled the Head of CID’s direct-line number.

‘Martin.’ The Chief Superintendent’s voice sounded tired, Mackie thought.

‘Andy, it’s Brian. About that other matter you asked me to look into yesterday. There’s nothing known locally, but I’ve had some feedback from Strathclyde. It’s not going to help Alex, I’m afraid.’

There was a sigh. ‘Ach well. Give me it anyway.’

‘Grimley is known to our colleagues, right enough. He ran a pub called the Fireman’s Lift, in Jeffrey Street. It was a right thieves’ kitchen, and was known to be a contact place for Loyalist paramilitaries over from Northern Ireland on fund-raising trips.

‘Both Special Branch and CID had the place under constant observation, and this resulted in a number of arrests. They also picked up several leads which led the security forces to Loyalist arms dumps in and around Belfast.

‘The single link in all these successes was Bernard Grimley. For most of the time he owned that pub, he was a police informer, until he stopped co-operating around three years ago.

‘Our colleagues reckoned that he’d lost his bottle. When he sold the place it was on their advice. They were scared that sooner or later someone in Ireland, or Glasgow for that matter, would put two and two together and come up with the right answer.’

‘Ahh,’ Martin growled. ‘That cracks it for Alex’s case, I fear. I have a feeling that Mr Grimley’s going to end up quite a bit richer.’

‘Unless you tip off the UVF,’ said Mackie, drily.

Most prisons in Scotland are grim-faced places, with a tendency to cast a blight on their surroundings. During his career, Andy Martin had visited Glasgow’s massive, forbidding Barlinnie, the grey-walled institution which embarrasses Perth, and the top-security establishment at Peterhead.

Compared to those three Victorian citadels, he found Edinburgh’s Saughton less intrusive upon the city, in its discreet location, tucked away on the outskirts. Yet it was a prison nonetheless, a place of incarceration, and the policeman experienced a feeling of despair every time he walked through its doors.

In his eyes, every man there marked a success for his force, but a failure for humanity.

He announced himself at the gate-house, showing his warrant card to the guards, and was escorted through a succession of corridors to the interview room set aside for his meeting.

It smelled of stale sweat and cigarettes. As he waited alone, shouts from the exercise yard outside drifted through the barred window. Eventually, after around five minutes, the door swung open and the tall red-haired figure of Nathan Bennett shuffled into the room, ahead of two prison officers, each one bigger than him.

‘Thanks, lads,’ said Martin. ‘Would you stand guard outside, please. I want to talk to Mr Bennett in private.’

One of the warders eyed him doubtfully. ‘Ah’m no sure about that, sir.’

‘Don’t you worry about me. Mr Bennett says he’s an innocent man. In that case, he’s hardly going to take a swing at me, is he?’ He smiled evenly at the prisoner. ‘Unless he fancies a transfer to the hospital wing, that is.

‘On you go now. I’ll give you a shout when we’re finished.’

The two uniformed officers looked at each other. The doubter was unpersuaded. ‘Ah’ll still need to ask the Principal Officer about that, sir.’

Martin gave up. ‘Okay,’ he agreed. ‘Stand over in the corner there, and chat to each other. Just don’t be ear-holing me.’

As the men obeyed, Martin turned to Bennett, motioning to the red-haired man to sit at the small square table in the centre of the room, and taking a seat opposite. For a while, they gazed at each other, the policeman smiling lightly, the prisoner glowering, nervous and unsure.

The former broke the silence. ‘We haven’t met before. I won’t say that it’s a pleasure, but it’s fascinating, all the same. It’s not often that I’m privileged to be in the company of a genuine, fully qualified idiot.’

For a second there was a spark of reaction in the dull lifeless eyes, before the head dropped. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘I’ve been reading the transcript of your trial. If you think that any jury’s going to fall for that, you have to be daft as a brush. We both know that you’re as guilty as sin, so let’s cut the crap.’

‘Ah never done it,’ Bennett protested. ‘It’s mistaken identity. Ah wis at home in bed at the time. I’d been to the bank in the mornin’. That must have been when I dropped my card.’

The detective shook his head. ‘Fuck me,’ he sighed. ‘This gets better. I’m dealing with the Invisible Man now. That must be a hell of an advantage for a bank robber. Nathan, we didn’t get to that bit of the prosecution case before the judge popped his clogs, but we’ve looked at the tapes of the bank’s customers that day, and the day before. You don’t appear in any of them.’

‘The camera must have been faulty, then.’

‘Not till you sprayed paint on it. We’ve got a great shot of that, incidentally. You shouldn’t have used your left hand, not with those fingers missing.’ He nodded towards the table, where the man’s hands rested, the third and fourth fingers of the left severed at the knuckle.

‘How did you lose them?’ he asked casually.

‘In the Falklands. Fuckin’ Argies shot them off.’ Bennett was animated for the first time. ‘We fuckin’ sorted them though. Ah got five for each finger.’ He held up his right hand with its full complement.

‘How many had their hands up?’

As Bennett flushed and his gaze dropped once more, the detective wondered whether his aside had hit the mark.

‘Got any fags?’ the prisoner asked.

‘That the tradition, is it? I chuck you twenty Bensons and you talk to me. Forget it, pal. I don’t smoke, and I don’t hand out presents to the likes of you. I’m here to give you life, Mr Bennett, that’s all.’ The red-haired man shot a look at him, suspicion in his dull eyes.

‘There’s two ways that can work,’ Martin went on. ‘One way I give you back your life. For that to happen, you turn Crown evidence, you name the other guys on the robbery, and you give us the man in charge, the guy who did the planning.