Quintin Jardine: Lethal Intent

'Is that why you wanted to know where the DCC is?'

'Mainly, yes.'

'Let me guess: so does Sir James, and he told you to ask me.'

Haggerty looked sheepish.

'Silly games, sir. You weren't testing me, were you? Trying to ease me into telling you things I shouldn't?'

'Nothing was further from my mind,' said the ACC disingenuously.

'No, of course not: you wouldn't do that.' McIlhenney smiled, affably. 'Anyway you and the chief can relax. He should make the meeting. I had a call from him at half six this morning. He's flying back today from… where he's been; he gets into Glasgow tomorrow morning. I'm picking him up. He might be like a bear from the jet-lag, but he'll be there.'

Aileen de Marco liked her office. It looked out and down over the Old Town of Edinburgh, and if she got close to the window and leaned to the left, she could see the castle.

In her days as a Glasgow councillor, she had thought that its Victorian marble-lined City Chambers was the finest public building in the world. She had been as loyal a Glaswegian as there was, and had regarded Edinburgh as a pompous place, which looked down its civic nose at the rest of Scotland. Yet now that she was there, installed as a minister in Scotland's first home-based legislature in almost three hundred years, she had to admit that there was something about St Andrews House, for all its allegedly fascist architecture, that she liked even more.

It stood on the site of the old Calton jail… legend had it that its execution chamber was still in existence, used as a store deep in the cellars… and it had little of the opulence of its George Square counterpart, which had been built to emphasise Glasgow's proud position as the second city of the Empire. Yet it had its own aura, drawn from the city around it.

It was a cold winter day, and the view was hazy, as if the traffic-crippling fog of a few weeks before was threatening a come-back, but the great dome of the Bank of Scotland headquarters on the Mound, with the silver Christmas star on top, still stood out on the skyline, between the crest of St Giles Cathedral and the tall spire of the Assembly Hall that had given the Scottish Parliament its temporary shelter.

She would never give up this room without regret, she realised.

She had just settled into her chair, and was about to buzz for Lena McElhone, her private secretary, to bring in the morning's in-tray, when the unlisted phone on her desk rang. She wondered if it was Bob again, calling to make sure she had done nothing reckless, but then she realised that it was the middle of the night in Florida.

She picked up the receiver. 'Yes?'

'Ms de Marco?' a male voice asked. 'Lord Advocate for you, ma'am.'

'Put him through,' she said, icily.

'Aileen, how are you?' Milton Grassick began.

'Still here,' she replied. 'Are you surprised?'

'Relieved, actually. I wanted to talk to you about your meeting in Bute House yesterday, with Tommy. I gather it was hostile.'

'I don't think it was even as friendly as that.'

She could almost hear Grassick wince. 'You threatened resignation?'

'Was the First Minister smiling when he told you that?'

'I have to say that he didn't sound too concerned. I am, though.'

'Nice of you, Milton,' she said, casually. 'But isn't it a bit late for that?'

'You haven't…'

She paused for several seconds, letting the silence build. 'No,' she told him, at last.

His sigh of relief seemed to explode down the line. 'Thank goodness for that. Listen, Aileen, if anyone should go over this it's me. I had a call from Bob Skinner in the middle of the night; he made his feelings very clear and even threatened to embarrass me publicly. He's not a very nice man when he's angry, is Mr Skinner, but I rather think his view will be shared by most of the police service. It'll be difficult for me to work with him, and maybe with the chief constables, from now on. So I think I may well…'

'Tommy won't let you,' she told him, bluntly. 'Your resignation would be seen as a condemnation of his decision… or, rather, of his surrender of his powers to London.'

'He may have difficulty…' Suddenly Aileen was distracted by the sound of her door opening. Lena McElhone slipped into the room. 'Hold on, Milton. What is it, Lena?' she asked.

'The First Minister wants you,' her private secretary replied. 'Now, was what he said.'

'Okay.' She returned to the phone. 'Milton, I'll need to go. You-know-who's calling for me. Listen, don't you do anything rash; if you feel your position is untenable, do what Lord Advocates have always done, promote yourself to the Supreme Court bench. I'll support that.'

There was another silence, shorter this time. 'Let me consult a few people about it,' he murmured. 'There is a vacancy, and I could probably persuade the Judicial Appointments Board to approve, but…'

'Think about it; now I really must go.' She hung up and followed McElhone from the room.

The First Minister's office was almost identical to her own. The furnishings were a little grander but that was the only difference the eye could detect. Tommy Murtagh looked even smaller behind his desk; she looked at him as she closed the door behind her, but saw nothing in his eyes that gave away what he was thinking.

'Thank you for taking the time to see me,' he began.

She looked for sarcasm in his tone, but could detect none. 'My time is your time,' she said. As she spoke, she heard the door open again, then close.

She turned: a tall, slim, man had followed her into the room. He looked to be in his fifties, with muddy grey eyes. His only distinguishing feature was a high forehead, accentuated by a receding hairline. 'I want you to meet someone, Aileen,' Murtagh continued. 'Sit down, please, both of you.' He pointed to two chairs that faced his desk. They were exceptionally low-slung; she knew that he liked to look down on his visitors. She would have preferred to stand, but she did as he asked, keen to see what was coming.

'Ms de Marco, I'd like to introduce Mr Greg Jay,' the First Minister announced. 'As you know, when the office of Secretary of State for Scotland disappeared, I inherited Sir John Govan as my security adviser. Sir John's done a good job, but to be frank, he's establishment, very much in the court of the Association of Chief Police Officers, and that isn't always our side. I've decided to replace him with someone from the… dare I say it? … more active side of policing. Mr Jay has just retired, with effect from last Friday, in fact, as detective superintendent in charge of a CID division in Edinburgh; he's been doing this job unofficially for a couple of weeks now, but as of today he's full-time. He comes highly recommended by friends of ours.'

She nodded to Jay as she accepted his handshake. 'Congratulations; I'm pleased to meet you.' She looked back at Murtagh. 'At the same time, I'm a bit surprised that you didn't consult me as Justice Minister before making the appointment. I have relations with the police in my portfolio, after all.'

'This isn't a police post, Aileen. Greg's remit is security, in the broadest sense. Besides, there were reasons for not consulting you.' He paused. 'Before I go into those, let's round off our last conversation. You were a wee bit steamed up last time we spoke. Are you still thinking of resigning?'

She shook her head. 'My friends tell me that would be an overreaction on my part. They've persuaded me that since the decision was yours alone and taken behind my back, nobody's best interests would be served by me quitting.'

Murtagh's oval face broke into a smile; it was framed, oddly, by his red moustache. 'Not even mine?' he murmured.

'If you want rid of me, Tommy, you'll have to fire me.'

'I'll bet you think I wouldn't do that, though. Not given the story that's running in the on-line Scotsman, and the Herald,' he tapped the computer monitor on his desk as he spoke, 'and on the latest radio and television news bulletins.'