Quintin Jardine - Lethal Intent

Skinner tapped the other photograph. It showed a much younger, less menacing man, clean-shaven with slightly frightened eyes. 'Who's the other guy? "Bobby Jakes", it says here.'

'That's right; his real name's Bobi Janevski, Frankie's wee brother, said to be nineteen years old. He came over with him, and he's never far from his side. They share a flat in Dumbarton Road. He was lifted along with Frankie on the ecstasy thing, but that's the closest call he's had.'

'Okay, those are the guys; what about the pub?'

'The Johnny Groat's an old-fashioned boozer in Cameron Street, not far from where they live. The owner has half a dozen small pubs, with a manager in each. He lives in Skelmorlie and he doesn't give a shit about them. It's run-down and shabby and so are the punters. The local CID look in every so often, but they can't be everywhere, and there never seems to be much happening.'

'What's your cover story when you're in there?'

'If anyone asks, we're night-shift porters at the Western Infirmary,' McIlhenney told him. 'We've just been transferred from the Royal; that's why we're not known around there.'

'Sounds okay,' the DCC conceded. 'So, when will you be in there?'

'Tonight. I've got someone to see here, and then we'll be off.'

'Have you told your wives what you're doing?'

'No detail, obviously. Stake-out is near enough to the truth.'

'How did Lou take it?'

'She didn't press me on it, but I can tell she's worried.'

'How about your wife, Bandit?'

The chief inspector shot him his most disarming grin. 'Her exact words, boss? "Jesus Christ and General Jackson, David, not another weekend up the bloody spout!" She's well used to it by now.'

Andy Martin had respected Rod Greatorix from their first meeting in his own early days as head of CID in Edinburgh. They had both been detective chief superintendents then, opposite numbers in their respective forces, and he had found his colleague to be a ready and valuable sounding board.

If Greatorix had ever resented the younger man's appointment to the Tayside deputy chief constable post, he had kept it to himself, and their good working relationship had continued in their new circumstances. Thus when Martin invited him to lunch with him in his office, there seemed nothing unusual about it.

As they ate, their conversation across the table had been restricted to golf, and to the unlikelihood of either being able to play that weekend as the weather closed in. It was not until they had reached the coffee stage that the DCC turned to what was on his mind. 'How long have you been in post, Rod?' he asked.

'Twelve long bloody years, Andy. Your old colleague, Dan Pringle, is the same age as me, to within a month, and he's only had his job since you left it. Are you going to tell me I've been in it too long?'

The question took Martin by surprise. 'God, no!' he replied. 'You're one of the biggest assets this force has got. The chief and I are only sorry that you can't do another twelve long bloody years.' He paused. 'You should be sitting in this office, you know. It didn't occur to me when I applied for the job that my conscience would bother me after I got it.'

'Then let it rest in peace. Nobody was ever going to appoint someone my age to chief officer rank, and you know it.'

'Maybe I do, but maybe also I don't agree with that, as a matter of principle. You earn things in this life. You earned the silver braid on your hat and the lift in your pension. It's not your fault that my predecessor was only a couple of years older than you and chose to sit out his career here until the last possible moment'

'There was nothing to be done about it, though, was there? And anyway, it was my own fault: I could have had an ACC job in Inverness ten years ago, but my wife didn't want to move up there. So don't you worry about that; I'm content.'

'I'm glad for you,' said Martin, 'for I'm not'

Greatorix was taken aback. 'Why the hell not? You're on a fast-track to the stars, son. What have you got to be worried about?'

'The future, Rod; not mine in particular, but everybody's in this service. Have you heard any talk about a new bill that's coming up in the Parliament?'

The older man chuckled. 'I'm long past bothering about those things. Let them get on with it, I say.' He sipped his coffee. 'But I thought this new Justice Minister was supposed to be a good act. With her in post, why are you concerned?'

'Because she's not calling the shots. This new bill, Rod, it'll be introduced next week. Let me tell you what it does.' As he explained the powers that the new measure would confer upon the First Minister, he watched Greatorix's expression become more and more sombre.

'Surely he's not going to use them,' he argued. 'When he says they're only for extreme situations, shouldn't we believe him?'

'Rod, when this becomes law, all promotion short-lists at assistant chief rank will be referred to him automatically. If he's not going to look at them as a matter of course, why do it at all? The betting is that he will use the powers. He's already made one private threat to a senior officer who crossed him. You were here before Tommy Murtagh, and you were in a position to watch him operate as a councillor. You tell me that he can be trusted with overall command of the police.'

The chief superintendent sat silent for a while, gazing through the window at the grey day. The snowfall of the previous evening looked to be on the point of returning. Finally, he gave a great sigh. 'I can't tell you that, Andy. The fact is that he's one of the last men I'd trust in that position.'

'When he was a councillor, was he ever under investigation?' asked Martin.

'Informally, yes. A council employee once came to a colleague of mine, a guy who's retired now, and complained that Herbert Groves Construction had insider knowledge in three successive contracts. He pointed out that their bids were submitted last, in each case, and that they were lowest, in each case, by only a few hundred pounds.'

'Who signed them?'

'Brindsley Groves.'

'And the investigation?'

'I didn't involve myself, but it was abortive,' said Greatorix, wearily. 'My colleague had a quiet word with the chief executive, behind Tommy's back, but there was absolutely no evidence of a fiddle.' He paused. 'Listen, Andy, if you're looking to dig up dirt on Murtagh, you're not going to find it in the council. In fact, I don't think you're going to find it at all. I've never seen anyone who can cover his tracks better than him.'

'What about Groves?'

'If you want my advice, be very careful around him.'

'Funny,' Martin mused. 'The chief told me to be careful as well.'

'Take heed, then. Brindsley's smart, and if he twigs what you're up to he'll be on to Tommy like a shot.'

'What sort of a man is he?'

'Dynamic would be a good word for him. He's not a bit like his father, young Herbert, was.'

'Young Herbert?'

'Aye, he was the second generation. His father founded the firm and he was named after him. The business was solid, but getting stagnant, until Brindsley took over control. When he was at university, he used to work on projects in his vacation. He studied every trade, until he could judge the quality of every piece of work on a job. After he graduated, he went into management straight away; in theory he was assistant to his dad, but after only a couple of years he persuaded him to take a back seat. He took accountancy in his degree, and one of the first things he did was to retire the finance director, and replace him with someone who knew what he was doing. By the time he was thirty, he'd taken Herbert Groves Construction from being a cosy wee Dundee company, and turned it into one of the most successful building contractors in Scotland.'