Quintin Jardine: Lethal Intent

'Aw, Jesus! Enough of this hatchet job.' Tommy Murtagh's face was almost as puce as his hair.

'First Minister!' The rebuke from the chair was sharp and clear.

'Mr Murtagh misunderstands me,' said Aileen. 'I will demonstrate a conclusion shortly.'

She picked up a third document. 'A few weeks ago, the First Minister made a new appointment that was not announced to this Parliament or to the press. Sir John Govan, the eminent and universally respected former Chief Constable of Strathclyde, was replaced as his security adviser by Mr Greg Jay, who was at that time a serving detective superintendent here in Edinburgh. Mr Jay's appointment was not disclosed to his colleagues, neither at that time nor on his retirement from the police service. Members will be interested to know that his job remit was a little different from that of Sir John.'

She waved the paper in the air. 'I had no advance knowledge of his appointment,' she said. 'However, last night, his letter of resignation from the post, addressed to me, was delivered into my hands. I also received his sworn statement, affirming that on the direct instructions of the First Minister, he conducted covert surveillance directed against me and against Deputy Chief Constable Robert Skinner. During this operation, Mr Jay intimidated my civil service secretary, and compelled her to give him information from my private diary. There was a clear purpose to this: the First Minister knew that Mr Skinner, a close personal friend, was likely to be outraged by the surrender of five untried remand prisoners to the US military, although that country had no legal claim upon them. Mr Murtagh used the information gathered. Although our relationship is entirely innocent, he threatened to leak it in such a way that it would have been sensationalised by the tabloid press, to my embarrassment and to that of Mr Skinner's family. Mr Murtagh sought to silence Mr Skinner; he also sought to coerce me into lending public support to this bill and, indeed, into adopting it as my own. He knows now that he has failed.'

A wave of noise swept across the chamber and the gallery, silenced only by Sir Stuart MacKinnon's roar of 'Order!'

'Ms de Marco,' he advised her, sternly, 'I think it would be as well if you drew this unusual speech to a swift conclusion.'

'Certainly, sir. I know that your own office certified this bill as fit for presentation, and I have no problem with that, for you didn't have grounds for refusal. The measures it contains are not inflammatory of themselves… given the certainty of good will and responsibility in the exercise of the powers it would confer. However, its opponents will argue that there can be no such certainty. In all honesty, I have to admit that my experience over the last ten days or so leaves me unable to disagree with them. In particular I have to ask myself whether I as an elector would want to entrust effective command and control of the police to a man who plots behind his colleagues' backs, and who, in addition, carries the burden of the knowledge that his sister died a suicide in prison, the victim of an apparent miscarriage of justice.'

She picked up the slim volume that was the Police Appointments Bill, Scotland. 'At this point,' she exclaimed, measuring her words, 'it would normally fall to me to commend this measure to Parliament. However, I find that I can only commend it to the dustbin.'

She let it fall to the floor, gathered up the rest of her documents, bowed briefly to the Chair and walked out of the chamber.

Tommy Murtagh's downfall was swift and sour. Less than an hour after his public denunciation by Aileen de Marco, and after a round of meetings and telephone conversations with those who had been his backers, he called on Sir Stuart MacKinnon in his suite and tendered his resignation as First Minister, to be succeeded temporarily by his deputy, the leader of the coalition partners.

As the news was breaking around the Parliament building, the Justice Minister was driven away in an official car, through a throng of frantically snapping cameras. She had declined, politely, interview requests by the political editors of the BBC, Scottish Television, and Sky, explaining to each of them that she had said in the chamber all she intended to say that day.

The car took her along Abbeyhill and up Regent Road, but it did not stop at St Andrews House. Instead it carried on along Princes Street, past the Christmas lights, turning at the end past the Caledonian Hotel and into Rutland Square.

Bob Skinner was waiting in the entrance hall of the Scottish Arts Club; as usual, it was quiet, and so nobody saw him take her in his arms as soon as the door closed on the street outside. 'You were wonderful,' he whispered. 'None of those people in there, MSPs, journalists and the rest, have ever seen anything like that before.'

'And hopefully never will again,' she told him sincerely. 'Did I look nervous?'

'Nervous? You looked like the Iron Lady herself.'

'God forbid! I was shaking like a leaf in there, all the way through. After it was over, I locked myself in my room. It was almost an hour before I'd got hold of myself again.'

'He's gone, you know; quit'

'I know. I heard before I left. His private secretary told Lena that he's going to resign his seat as well.'

'Just as well,' Bob muttered. 'You don't want the wee bastard on the back benches throwing daggers into your back every time you're on your feet. When do they choose his successor?'

'The party will choose its new leader; that's how it'll be done. It'll take a few weeks, I guess.'

'Will there even be a contest? Who'll oppose you after that?'

She looked at him, seriously. 'Who says I'm standing? Let's go and grab a coffee.'

They found their way into the deserted lounge, where Aileen poured two cups and brought them to two chairs by the fire. 'Why wouldn't you stand?' he asked at once. 'It's the natural progression of your career.'

'Not everybody might see it that way. I know my party: I scared a lot of people in there today. Sure, the west of Scotland lot might back me, but Tommy's cronies will be out to get even. Plus there's another factor: you and me, and how the press handle it. I laid a lot of personal stuff on the line in my speech, because I had to. I tried to lean as heavily as I could on the word "friend", but the red-tops won't take that at face value.'

'They'll have to,' said Bob, grimly.

'Oh, yes, and when they start probing into your marriage, what happens?'

'They get told to piss off. I'm not discussing that with any hack. Eventually, word will get out, but not yet.' He told her of Sarah's decision to settle in New York, and of the agreement they had reached.

'When will she go?' asked Aileen.

'She stays till Christmas, as we promised the kids. In January, she leaves for Manhattan.'

'And until then how do you co-exist?'

He laughed. 'Do you mean will we sleep together? Are you getting jealous already?'

'You haven't slept with me yet,' she pointed out, 'so I suppose I don't really have grounds for jealousy.'

'If you did, you wouldn't, if you get my drift. Sarah's chosen the spare room, and none of the kids is old enough to notice the difference. Anyway, I'm going to be away for a couple of weeks.'

'Where are you going?'

'London. I've been asked to head an independent investigation into some stuff that's been going on down there. I'm taking Neil McIlhenney with me as co-pilot.'

'Can I come and visit you while you're there?'

'That would be nice, but it's not a good idea. You have to stay visible up here. If you went down to London, the press might follow, and that would be bad news, for a whole lot of reasons.'

'Spooky.'

'Very. Anyway, you'll be too busy being elected First Minister.'