Quintin Jardine - Lethal Intent

As Aileen paused, a slight murmur swept through the chamber. 'Any new piece of legislation requires scrutiny,' she continued, 'and the administration which presents it is entitled to be questioned about it.'

She glanced at the Conservative benches. 'I am sure, for example, that the members opposite will express concern that the traditional apolitical position of the police could be compromised if they have to glance in the direction of Bute House before taking important strategic, or even operational decisions. For their part, the instigators of the bill will assure them that there is nothing to fear, that no First Minister would ever allow political or even personal considerations to influence his decisions. Others will suggest that these powers could be interpreted as allowing politicians to look into the heart of forces and to examine covertly the actions of individual officers. Such scaremongering is to be expected, and I will not take the time to refute it here. All I will do is to point out that what is proposed will not put chief constables and their senior colleagues under the scrutiny of politicians in general. No, these powers will be vested in the hands of one person; they cannot be delegated to another minister, not even to the holder of my own office.'

Aileen put both hands on the lectern, looked around the chamber, at Bob Skinner in the public gallery, then at the Presiding Officer. 'So, sir, there is really only one question to be considered, an almost rhetorical question, most people in this chamber would say. Is it conceivable that any First Minister would not exercise these powers impartially, impersonally, and without bias of any sort?'

She picked up a sheaf of paper from the desk in front of her. 'That is the question which I now propose to answer.'

The chamber, she noticed with satisfaction, had gone deadly quiet.

As he looked at him across his massive desk it occurred to Andy Martin that there must be many better ways to spend one's life than working for Brindsley Groves. He was happy that he was doing one of them as he felt the wave of impatience and hostility emanating from the man.

'I have to tell you, Mr Martin,' he boomed, 'that I do not take kindly to unannounced visits from anyone, either to my office, my golf club or my home. I thought that your intrusion into my evening last Friday was a piece of cheek; it was quite obvious to me that you coerced my brother-in-law into introducing you. It was improper and unnecessary, as a simple phone call to my secretary would have got you a meeting. I have it in mind to complain to Graham Morton at Rotary tonight.'

The deputy chief constable smiled at the rebuke. 'I'm sorry if I upset you, sir, but I'm pleased that you're not blaming Rod for it.'

'Apology accepted,' Groves growled. 'But don't get above your station in future. Now, what can I do for you, and who's this?'

'This is a colleague of mine, Detective Inspector Steele.'

'Steele? Don't know you.'

'I'm from Edinburgh, sir.'

'What the hell are you doing here, then?'

'Actually,' Martin told him, 'he's here to interview you. He wanted me to have you brought to our headquarters, but don't worry, I poured cold water down his trousers and made him come to you.'

'I should bloody think so,' Groves muttered. 'What's it about, then?'

The DCC looked at him. 'Before we get into that, there's something I have to say. I have a daughter, and if anyone harmed her, I know what I would want to do to them. For all that I wear this uniform, I can't say honestly that I'd be able to restrain myself. I can say honestly that I wouldn't let my rage lie boiling for ten years before I let it out, in whatever way it found to express itself.'

'What are you talking about?' Brindsley Groves's eyes were slits, his shoulders bunched as he leaned on his desk, his big hands clenched together.

'He's talking about you, sir,' Steele retorted. 'I'm not from around here: I don't have to impress you. I'm here to question you about an attack on a boy just outside Edinburgh last Saturday afternoon. Can you tell me where you were on that day?'

'Shopping with my wife,' the man barked. 'I'm sure she'll confirm that.'

'I'm not,' said Martin quietly. 'Not after Rod's told her about Tommy and Cleo, your secret children by the late Rachel Murtagh.'

'Where were you last Wednesday?' Steele asked, before Groves could react.

'I don't know, ask my secretary.'

'And the Sunday before that?'

'Same answer!'

'We believe that you were in Edinburgh, sir. We believe that on that Sunday you abducted and killed George Regan, junior, having followed him from his home, which you had probably been observing over a period of time. We believe that three days later you returned to the city, broke into Ross Pringle's room on the Riccarton campus, and booby-trapped her gas heater, as a result of which she died of carbon-monoxide poisoning.'

'Rubbish!'

'Our scene-of-crime officers are very good, sir. In the lock on her door, they found traces of a strange lubricant. This was subsequently identified as a type of very fine oil used by clock-makers. I believe that's your hobby, sir.'

'Enough!' Groves shouted. 'Get out of my office!'

'We're not going to do that, sir.'

'In that case I'm saying no more without my lawyer present.'

'That's prudent of you, sir. When he gets here, we'll ask you both to accompany us to your home, where officers from the local force will undertake a search. We'll be looking for a match for the lubricant we found.' He leaned sideways in his chair so that he could take two plastic-wrapped objects from his coat pocket. He held up a grubby white sock. 'We'll also be looking for a match for this.' He showed Groves the granite. 'Later we'll go to your company's stone-cutting yard where we'll compare this with the stock that you have there.'

'Do all that,' the man growled, 'but you'll never prove that Patsy was my daughter. Without that, where's the motive?'

'We'll prove it all right, sir,' Steele replied. 'There's the payments from the Groves Foundation to your son-in-law for a start, but just to make sure, we'll do a DNA comparison.'

'Using what?'

'Using the lock of hair that her husband cut from her head before she was cremated.'

Groves sank back into his chair.

'You should have kept your mouth shut, Brindsley,' Andy Martin said, coldly. 'You know, I can't help dwelling on that ten-year gap. Why wait that long? You know what I think? I reckon that you waited for Chris Aikenhead to get back onshore from the oil rigs so that he could take the blame. I mean to say, where else was Stevie meant to look? It's just a pity you didn't keep in closer contact with him, for in the end your planning fell a foot short of perfection.'

'With your indulgence, Presiding Officer, I assure you that what I'm about to say is relevant to the issue.'

The chair nodded.

She held up a document. 'This is the official biography of the First Minister, as circulated by both the Labour Party and the Scottish Executive press office.' She heard a splutter from a seat nearby, and a few gasps around the chamber; her eye flashed to the public gallery and caught Bob Skinner's smile. She read the resume, loudly and slowly. When she reached the reference to his parents, she stopped. 'Members of this House, however indelicate this may sound, I have to tell you that there is one significant inaccuracy there. Mr Murtagh's mother never married; there was no ill-fated motor mechanic. He was born not in Derbyshire, but in York.' She paused as fresh murmuring arose, letting it subside. 'However,' she continued, 'this deception wasn't perpetrated just for mere propriety.'

She held up a piece of paper. 'This is a public document, but it's the kind that hardly ever comes to light unless someone has reason to go looking for it. It's a list of beneficiaries of a fund set up years ago for members of the Groves family of Dundee. Mr Murtagh's name appears on this list, as does that of the husband of his sister, who died in sad circumstances ten years ago. Members will note that his biography describes him as an only child.'