Quintin Jardine: Skinner's ordeal

`Good morning,' he said. 'My name's Bob Skinner. What's yours?'

The man looked at him as if he was trying to remember. Seated, he looked short, but stockily built. He had thick, black, matted curly hair, and wore a dirty tweed jacket over a heavyweight check shirt. His hands were in his lap. Skinner was shocked to see that they were stained with blood. He looked at the man's face properly for the first time, and saw a red smear by his right temple.

The shepherd blinked. 'Ronnie Thacker. My name's Ronnie Thacker.'

`What were you doing up here, Mr Thacker?'

`Getherin' in the sheep. It was time tae bring them back tae the ferm.

`Mr Radcliffe said he found you running down the road. You didn't have a vehicle, then?'

`Lost ma licence!' The man glared at him, as if he should have known. 'The boss dropped me off on the hillside, then went back for his breakfast.'

`So. Let's talk about the crash, Ronnie. Take your time, now, and try to remember everything. When did you see the plane first?'

Thacker knitted his brows. Ah dinna ken really. Ah just looked up and it was there, comin' towards the ground.'

Was there anything in particular that made you look up?'

The shepherd paused, as if struggling to express himself. Ah dinna ken for sure. At first, Ah thought Ah heard a shot, far away, like. Ah thought tae myself, "Wha's out wi' a twelve-bore at this time o' day?" It was then Ah saw the plane.'

`Can you describe it, as it came down?'

It… It… It seemed tae be in slow motion at first. It just sort of drifted down. Then the closer it got, the faster it seemed tae be goin'. Ah couldna dae a thing, ken. Ah thought it was goin' tae hit me, but Ah couldna move. Then it went past me and crashed intae the valley. The tail tore aff and then a'thing just blew up. Great big dods o' metal goin' up in the air, and fallin' all about me. Yin bit just missed me. It hit wan o' ma ewes, though.

Turned the poor bugger inside out. Never seen a mess like yon, outside of a knacker's yard.'

He held up his bloody hands to illustrate the point. Skinner winced:

`That's when Ah panicked. Ah just had tae get away from that thing. Ah never thought where Ah wis goin' other than just down the road, away frae here. Ah walked and walked.. Then Ah met your lot, and the buggers brought me back!'

Skinner smiled at him gently. 'You're an important man, Ronnie. You're maybe the only witness we've got.'

A light seemed to go on in a dark recess of the shepherd's brain. D'ye think I might get money, like? Frae the papers?'

`Don't book your holidays on the strength of it. Now, let's go back to the crash. I want you to think carefully. When the plane hit the ground, what happened to the nose-cone?'

`The whit?'

The bit at the sharp-end, Ronnie. Where the driver sits.'

The shepherd's brow furrowed again. D'ye ken, that's a funny thing. And it never occurred tae me till you said. The bit at the front. It wisna there!'

`You didn't see it at all?'

`Naw. It wisna there, Ah tell ye. The front was open. There wis smoke and some flames comin' out. But Ah never saw the bit at the sharp end. Not at all!'

Skinner sat and stared at the man for several seconds. `Honest!' said Thacker, plaintively.

Okay, okay. I believe you!' He stepped out of the car, and beckoned to Radcliffe.

`Charlie. I want you to put this boy in a car and send him up to Brian Mackie. Tell him he's to give him a statement, repeating everything that he's just told me. Then get word to Brian that no journalists are to be allowed within a mile of the bloke. Got that?'

Radcliffe looked at him, wide-eyed. 'Got it, sir. Every word of it!'

Sir James Proud rarely used a police driver if he could avoid it. `Policemen are trained for policing,' he said often to Bob Skinner, 'not for driving pompous sods like us around, just so that we can be seen in our big cars.'

On the other hand, the veteran Chief Constable was rarely seen out of his impressive uniform on public occasions. The boys and girls on the beat like to see their Chief wearing the silver braid, Bob. It makes their uniforms feel that bit more important. Besides, it makes me feel that I really am in command of this outfit. When you drive a chair for as long as I have, you need to reassure yourself on that score.'

But, on this day, when Proud Jimmy's car crested the rise and pulled into the impromptu police carpark, he was in the back seat. When he stepped out, Skinner saw that he was clad in a heavy navy-blue pullover and baggy old flannels, their legs tucked into thick grey woollen socks worn inside tan hiking boots.

For a moment, Skinner's anger over Sarah's involvement threatened to burst to the surface, but it evaporated as soon as he saw his friend's shocked, drawn face. 'I came to help, Bob,' said the Chief quietly. 'But on the way, I received this over the car fax.' If Skinner disliked his car phone, he loathed the very idea of a fax on wheels, but in the official vehicles reserved for chief officers they were standard equipment.

With an expression of distaste he took the sheets of paper which Proud Jimmy held out to him. 'What is it?'

It's the passenger list, row by row. D'you see the name against Row 1 seat E?'

Skinner glanced at the first page and saw the name of Colin Davey MP. 'I know about him. Wee Adam Arrow called me a few minutes back. He's flying up here.'

`Mmm,' said the Chief. To the DCC's surprise, he sounded almost uninterested. 'Now look at the fourth page. Row 28, seat A.'

Skinner thumbed through the pages until he found the reference. He stared at it, and as he did so he paled, and his shoulders sagged. 'Oh Jimmy, no. Surely not! Not Roy Old. Not nice, amiable, easygoing Roy.'

I'm afraid so,' said the Chief sadly.

`What the hell was he doing on that plane? I spoke to him yesterday. He was going to the conference dinner last night. It was a black-tie do, port and cigars and all that. A real

"AlkaSeltzers at Oh Nine Hundred" job. Why the bloody hell did he have to be so damned conscientious that he dragged his hangover on to the seven o'clock shuffle?'

Detective Chief Superintendent Roy Old was Head of CID, Skinner's immediate deputy in the criminal investigation hierarchy, and once upon a time Detective Inspector to his Detective Sergeant in the Gayfield Police Station. He was a quiet, self-effacing man, to the extent that he had been in a backwater job in West Lothian until Skinner's accession to Chief Officer rank. One of the first acts of the newly appointed Assistant Chief Constable had been to install his former boss as his number two — the ideal man, he had thought, to maintain stability while he formulated his long-term plans. Those plans were in place.

Now their implementation would have to be brought forward.

Skinner turned his back on the Chief and leaned against the roof of his car. 'I put him there, Jimmy!' It was almost a howl. 'I could have gone to that bloody conference, I should have gone. But I sent Roy instead. And why? Because I looked at the programme and thought, "Christ what a bore! A three-day inter-Force conference on fraud! No way I'm sealing myself up in that. Roy can go. Good old Roy. It'll help him while away some time till his retirement."

`Now good old modest Roy's lying in bits down in the heather, because the great Bob Skinner was too self-important to bother with the mundane parts of his job!'

Sir James laid a hand on his shoulder. 'Bob, son. There's no reason for you to think like that. Delegation's the name of the game. You and I could each spend eighteen months of every year at conferences if we went to them all.'

`No, Jimmy, that won't wash. I can't get away from it. I put Roy on that plane. And I did it for a laugh. I did, man! I looked at the programme and I said to Maggie, "Old can go to that one. He's just the guy to sit on his arse for three days listening to a team of accountants droning on about corporate misbehaviour!" So I filled his name in on the form and sent it through to him. It was a joke, really, but he didn't get it. He just booked himself in and went.