Quintin Jardine - Pray for the Dying

‘Stupidity medal more like.’ Skinner paused. ‘Did Morocco say who the victim is?’

‘No, but he did say it isn’t Aileen, or Paula. They are both unhurt, yes?’

‘Yes, fine, I’ve spoken to them both, before I had them rushed out of here. Aileen wanted to stay and wave the red flag, of course.’

‘Ouch! Bob, can I do anything? Personally, or through the agency?’

‘Yes, you can. I’d like you to take Alex to Sarah’s, and stay there with her. I don’t believe for a second there’s any sort of threat to them, but I’m feeling a bit prickly, and I want all my family under one roof and looked after till I can get to them.’

‘I understand. I’ll do that. Now, Alex wants to speak.’

Skinner could picture his elder daughter snatching the phone from her partner’s hand. ‘Dad!’ Her voice had the same breathless tone as Sarah’s, a little earlier.

‘Be cool, kid,’ he told her. ‘The panic’s over; there’s no hostage situation or anything like that. Andy will tell you as much as he can. I have things to do and then I have to go to the Royal Infirmary. We have a cop there fighting for his life and I have to see how he’s doing. Go now. I’ll see you when I can.’

He ended the call and walked back towards the pool of light in front of the stage. The First Minister had been escorted away by his protection officers, and Councillor Hanlon had gone to the Glasgow council headquarters, to have them made ready for the media briefing to come. But Skinner was not standing guard alone.

‘I’ve just spoken to your niece,’ he said to Detective Chief Inspector Lowell Payne. ‘I didn’t tell her you were involved, though, in case she phoned Jean. There’s enough anxiety in my family without spreading it to yours.’

There was a personal link between the two men, one that had nothing to do with the job. Ten years after the death of Skinner’s first wife, Myra, Alex’s mother, Payne had married her sister.

‘Thanks, Bob. I appreciate that.’

‘Don’t mention it. Listen, Lowell, this job I’ve taken on, temporary or not, I have to be on top of it from the start. That means I need to get up to speed very quickly on the basics of the force, areas where my knowledge may be lacking: its structure, its strengths and its weaknesses, as perceived within the force.

‘I’m going to need somebody close to me, to advise me and instruct me where necessary, a sound, experienced guy. You’ve got twenty-five years plus in the job, all of it in Strathclyde. Will you be my aide, for as long as I need one? Officially, mind; you’ll come off CID for the duration and operate as my liaison across the force. You up for it?’

The DCI seemed to hesitate. ‘Are you not worried there might be talk, about you and me being sort of related?’

‘No, and anyway, we’re not. My daughter being your niece does not make you part of my family, or me part of yours.’

‘In that case the answer’s yes.’

‘Good. Now, what’s happening outside?’

‘Everybody’s calm, and they’re leaving. They’re all potential witnesses, I know, but there’s no need to ask them all for contact details, since they’re all on a central database. They all booked through the internet, so they all had to leave their details.’

‘Good man. Not that we’ll need to go back to any of them. None of them can answer any of the questions we need to ask.’

‘Those being?’

‘Who sent the hit team, and why?’

Payne frowned. ‘Why? Does there have to be a why these days, when terrorism is involved, and politicians are the target?’

‘Doesn’t matter. It’s our job to look for it.’

‘And mine to help you.’

Skinner turned. He had recognised the voice, from many similar scenes over many years. The man who faced him was clad in a crime-scene tunic, complete with a paper hat that failed to contain the red hair that escaped from it. Looking at him the chief wondered if he would have recognised him in ordinary clothes, or, God forbid, in uniform.

‘Arthur,’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re looking as out of water as I feel. What the hell are you doing in Glasgow?’

‘You should know, boss,’ Detective Inspector Dorward replied. ‘You approved the set-up. Ever since forensic services were pulled together into a central unit, we’ve gone anywhere we’re needed and more than that, we’ve had a national duty rota at weekends. I drew this straw. And bloody busy I’ve been. I’d not long left a very messy scene in Leith when I got the call to come through here.’ He paused. ‘But I could ask you the same question. Why are you here?’

‘I was following a line of inquiry. It led me here.’

Dorward raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh aye,’ he drawled. ‘I know what that means. So far I’ve counted four bodies on the ground. Any of them down to you?’

‘Just the one.’

Dorward nodded towards the figure under the jacket. ‘Not her, though?’

‘Definitely not. Now don’t push your luck any further, Arthur.’

‘Fair enough, Chief; in return, you get your big feet off my crime scene.’ He looked at Payne. ‘And you.’ He paused. ‘Here, weren’t you at Leith?’

The Strathclyde DCI nodded.

‘Then what the fuck’s going on here? What’s the connection?’

‘Never mind that,’ Skinner told him. ‘This is what matters. For openers, we need you to recover the bullets that killed our victim here, for comparison with the ones that were recovered from the two bodies in Leith.’

‘Are you saying they’ll be the same?’

Skinner nodded.

‘And if they’re not?’

‘Then we’re all going to find out how deep shit can get. Go to work, Arthur.’

‘Errr. .’ a deep contralto voice exclaimed from the relative darkness beyond the floodlights, ‘can we just hold on a minute here?’

Its owner stepped into the bright light. She was tall, around six feet, and wore, over an open-necked white shirt, a dark suit that did nothing to disguise the width of her shoulders. Her hair was dark, swept back from a high forehead, her eyes were a deep shade of blue, but her nose was her dominant feature. A warrant card was clipped to the right lapel of her jacket.

She eyed Skinner, up and down, no flicker of recognition on her face. ‘So who the hell are you, to be giving orders at my crime scene?’ she asked, slowly.

The chief constable took his own ID from a pocket and displayed it. She looked at it, then shrugged.

‘That doesn’t answer my question,’ the woman retorted. ‘That says Edinburgh. Okay, the earth might have moved for me last night, but not that much. As far as I know, this is still Strathclyde.’

Payne took half a pace forward. ‘Cool it, Lottie. This is Chief Constable Bob Skinner, and you know who I am.’

She frowned at him. ‘Sure, I know who you are. You’re a DCI and you’re in strategy. I’m serious crimes, which this as sure as hell is, from what I was told and what I saw outside. That puts me in command of this crime scene.’ She nodded sideways, in Skinner’s general direction. ‘As for our friend here. .’

‘Sir,’ Payne sighed, ‘I must apologise to you, on behalf of the Strathclyde force. My colleague here, DI Charlotte Mann, she’s got a reputation for being blunt, and sometimes she takes it to the point of rudeness. Lottie, get off your high horse. We know what’s happened here. .’

‘I don’t,’ she snapped back. ‘I know there’s a dead cop outside in Killermont Street, and two other gunshot victims, but I don’t know how they got there. I don’t know who’s under that jacket. .’

‘You’d better take a look, then,’ Skinner told her.

‘You speak when you’re spoken to. . sir. And don’t be trying to tell me my job.’ She stepped across to the body.