Quintin Jardine - Pray for the Dying

His second nod was more convincing. ‘Deal.’

‘Good, now what do you do for Sunday lunch these days?’

‘Usually I go out for it. Today, maybe not; I’ll see what’s in the fridge.’

‘Do that, and I’ll get showered and dressed. No rush, though. I’d like to lie low here for the rest of the day, if I can.’

‘Of course. We might even manage breakfast tomorrow?’

‘Sounds like a plan. Thanks. You’re a sweetheart. It really is good to have somewhere to hide out just now. Actually, I’m a chancer,’ she admitted. ‘I brought enough clothes with me for two nights.’ She shuddered. ‘God, was I glad to get out of that dress, with the bloodstains. I felt like Jackie Kennedy.’

He winced at the comparison as she went into his bathroom. She had left her phone there the night before, after brushing her teeth. She switched it on, then checked her voicemail.

There were over a dozen calls. One was from her constituency secretary, one from Alf Old, the Scottish Labour Party’s chief executive, another from her deputy leader. . Probably cursing that the bastard missed me , she thought. . several from other parliamentary colleagues, not all of her party, and three from journalists who were trusted with her number. She had expected nothing from her husband.

As soon as she was showered and dressed she called the secretary, an officious older woman with a tendency to fuss. ‘Aileen, where are you?’ she demanded, as soon as she answered. ‘I’ve tried your flat, I’ve tried your house in Gullane. I got no reply from either.’

‘Never you mind where I am,’ she retorted sharply. ‘It would have been nice of you to ask how I was, but I’m okay and I’m safe. Anybody calls inquiring about me, you can tell them that. I may call into the office tomorrow, or I may not. I’ll let you know.’

No reply from Gullane? she mused as she ended the call, but had no time to dwell on the information as her phone rang immediately. She checked the screen and saw that it was the party CEO, trying again. ‘Alf,’ she said as she answered.

‘Aileen,’ he exclaimed, ‘thank God I’ve got through. How are you?’

‘I’m fine, thanks. I’m safe, and I’m with a friend. I’m sorry I didn’t call you last night, but things were crazy. The security people got me off the scene, by force, more or less. Even now I have protection officers parked outside, like it or not. The First Minister insisted.’

‘Good for him. Now. .’

‘I know what you’re going to say. Silence breeds rumours.’

‘Exactly. I’ve had several calls asking where you are, and whether you might have been wounded.’

‘Then issue a statement. Have they confirmed yet that it’s Toni Field who’s dead?’

‘Yes. Strathclyde police announced it a wee while ago.’

‘In that case we should offer condolences. . I’ll leave it to you to choose the adjectives, but praise her all the way to heaven’s gate. . then add that I’m unharmed, and that I’ve simply been taking some private time to come to terms with what’s happened. I suppose you’d better say something nice about Clive Graham as well, but not too nice, mind you, nothing that he can quote in his next election manifesto.’

‘Mmm,’ Old remarked. ‘I can tell you’re okay.’

‘I’ll be fine as long as I keep myself busy,’ she told him. ‘I’m sorry if I seem a bit brutal, but even without what happened last night there’s a lot going on in my life.’

‘Do you want to take some more time out? Everyone would understand.’

‘They might,’ she agreed, ‘but in different ways. There are plenty within the party who’d think I was showing weakness. I don’t have to tell you, Alf, as soon as a woman politician does that the jackals fall on her. I’ve handled stress before; I’m good at it.’ She paused. ‘I’ll be back in business tomorrow; I have to be. The First Minister will come out of this looking like fucking Braveheart, so we have to keep pace. We need to come out with something positive. You know that Clive and I were planning a joint announcement on unifying the Scottish police forces?’

‘Yes, you told me.’

‘Well, I want to jump the gun. Have our people develop the proposition that what happened in the concert hall illustrates the need for it, that it was a result of intelligence delayed by artificial barriers within our police service that need to be broken down. Then set up a press conference for midday tomorrow. We don’t have to say what it’s about. They’ll be all over me anyway about last night. But I want to be ready to roll with that policy announcement.’

‘Will do,’ Old said, ‘but Aileen, what about your personal security? I know the police don’t believe there’s any continuing threat to you, because I spoke to the DI in charge this morning, but they can’t rule it out completely.’

‘I told you,’ she snapped, ‘I’ve got bodyguards. But so what? If people want to believe there is someone out to get me, let them. Remember Thatcher at Brighton? The same day that bomb went off she was on her feet, on global telly, making her conference speech and saying “Bring it on”. That’s the precedent, Alf. I either follow it or I run away and hide. Now get to work, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

As Old went off to follow orders, Aileen thought about returning some of the other calls but decided against it. Instead she trotted downstairs. ‘Joey?’ she called as she went.

‘I’m in the kitchen. Telly’s on: you should see this.’

She had had no time to learn the layout of the house when she had arrived late the night before, but she traced his voice to its location. The room looked out on to a large rear garden surrounded by a high wall, topped with spikes. ‘No place for the photographers to hide here,’ she remarked.

‘No. I had the fencing added on when I bought the place. It does the job.’

‘So what’s on the box that I should see?’

He turned from the work surface where he was putting a salad together and nodded towards a wall-mounted set. It was on, and a BT commercial was running. ‘Sky News,’ he replied. ‘They’ve been trailing a Glasgow press conference and somebody’s name was mentioned. In fact. .’

As he spoke, the programme banner ran, then the programme went straight to what appeared to be a live location: a table, and two men, one of them in uniform.

‘Is that who I think it is?’ Joey asked. ‘I spoke to him last night; didn’t have a clue who he was. No wonder he got frosty when I asked about you.’

She smiled, but without humour or affection. ‘That’s him. I told you earlier what this is about. Observe and be amazed, for it’s one of the biggest U-turns you will ever see in your life. Here, I’ll do the lunch.’

As she took over the salad preparation, Joey Morocco watched the bulletin as Dominic Hanlon introduced himself to a roomful of journalists and camera operators. There was a nervous tremor in the councillor’s voice, a sure tell that the event was well beyond his comfort zone. He began by paying a fulsome tribute to the dead Antonia Field, and then explained the difficult circumstances in which the Strathclyde force had found itself.

‘However,’ he concluded, ‘I am pleased to announce that with the approval of his Police Authority in Edinburgh, Chief Constable Robert Morgan Skinner has agreed to take temporary command of the force for a period of three months, to allow the orderly appointment of a successor to the late Chief Constable Field. Mr Skinner, would you like to say a few words?’ He looked at his companion, happy to hand over.

‘In the circumstances,’ Skinner replied, ‘it’s probably best that we go straight to questions.’

A forest of hands went up, and a clamour of voices arose, but he nodded to a familiar face in the front row, John Fox, the BBC Scotland Home Affairs editor.