you.'
The Superintendent flushed bright red. Thank you very much, sir.'
`Don't thank me till you've thought it through. I know that I wouldn't fancy putting on a uniform for what could be the rest of my career.'
Higgins looked at her feet, diffidently. 'Actually, I have some long-term career ambitions, sir, and that move fits in very well with them. Chief Super at age thirty-nine would keep me on course. I come from Dundee, you see, and my secret wish is that I might go back there one day as an ACC.'
`Don't sell yourself short now, Ali,' said Skinner, smiling. `There's no point in aiming for the second top rung on any ladder.'
I'll bear that in mind, boss. Meantime, can I make a suggestion? How about Dave Donaldson as Andy's replacement?'
'A good thought, and one that's crossed my mind, too. I'll discuss it with Andy. But let's get this crisis over with before we get round to making that decision.' He paused. 'How were things yesterday, with your friend?'
Higgins winced. 'As you would expect, really. Poor Leona! She was numb at first. But it helped when Mark came home. Honest to God, sir, what a miracle that was, that he should survive, out of them all.'
`Did his mother tell him? About his dad, I mean.' Suddenly, a picture of Roland McGrath, as Skinner had seen him last, burst into his mind extinguishing for a few seconds all other sights and thoughts. The Superintendent, looking at him, thought she saw him shudder, but she knew better than to comment.
Instead she shook her head. 'No, boss, Leona didn't tell him. I volunteered for that. I reckoned that it went with the job of godmother.'
`So how did the wee chap take it?'
`Just as you'd expect from Mark, with a stiff upper lip. I told him that his Daddy had been taken away by God, which was probably a mistake. Although I did my best to make it clear that he was gone for good, I'm sure that somewhere in here. she tapped her forehead.. he's clinging to the idea that it's a return ticket.'
`He's bound to. Kids that small can't really deal with the concept of death. I remember when Myra, my first wife, was killed. Alex was only four at the time. I didn't let her go to the funeral, and afterwards I wished I had. She never called me a liar or anything, but I could see that she didn't believe me when I said that her mum wouldn't be back.
It didn't hit home until she was nearly eight. One evening she sat around without saying a word, which was unprecedented for her, till it was time to go to bed. Not long afterwards, I heard her crying her eyes out.
I went in to see her, and she said, 'Daddy, what does 'dead' really mean?' So I told her again, and this time she understood. I thought that some kid had said something to her, but that wasn't it. I found out that her pal's cat had been killed on the road, and that Alex had seen it. That reality was what brought it home to her.
`So a word of advice, Fairy Godmother. Think seriously about persuading your friend to let Mark go to his father's funeral. It could be the right thing to do. And something else.
Make sure that he's given the best counselling available, now and for a long time to come.
Sooner or later he'll start to think about his own experience. Long term, that could be harder to handle than his father's death, so you have to make sure that he's as well prepared I for it as can be.'
Higgins stood in silence for a while. 'I hadn't even begun to think of all that,' she said at last. 'But you're right. I'll talk to Leona about the funeral. And the other thing — do you have any idea who could help us?'
I know a psychiatrist, Kevin O'Malley. I'll ask him to recommend someone. And Sarah will make some enquiries up at the University. There are people who specialise in handling traumatised children. Okay, so this one doesn't even know yet that he's been traumatised: that'll just be an extra challenge.'
`Thank you, boss. As I said, I'll discuss it with Leona.' She paused. 'I don't suppose you'd like to call on her with me? I know that she'd like to thank you personally for rescuing Mark from the plane. And he'd like to see you again, too. Can you spare the time?'
Of course. I want to speak to Brian Mackie, but if you wait inmy office, I'll be with you in a few minutes.'
TWENTY-EIGHT
The Special Branch suite was on the same level as the Fettes Command Suite, in another section of the unattractive building,
Detective Chief Inspector Brian Mackie was in the midst of briefing Mario McGuire, his new recruit, on current activity when Skinner swept into his office.
`Good,' he said. 'You're still here. I've got a task for you guys.'
McGuire smiled. 'That's good, boss. I hate quiet Saturdays, and the DCI here's a Hearts supporter, so we both need something to occupy us!'
`You'll like this, then.' He jerked a thumb casually over his shoulder. 'What you heard back there from Adam and the American woman was classic MI6/CIA stuff. International intrigue, terrorist plots and all that. Sure, it happens-'
I know,' McGuire interrupted. 'I've got a bullet-hole in me to prove it!'
`You and-' Skinner began, cutting himself off short when he remembered that neither Mackie nor McGuire knew the story of his own wounding. They had been told at the time that his leg injury had been sustained in a domestic accident… a story neither man had believed for one second.
As I was about to say,' he went on, glowering at McGuire, international intrigue is one thing, but it shouldn't blind us to other possibilities, or deflect us from doing our job in the normal way, identifying all the options and investigating them all.
Special Branch can leave Arrow, the Americans and me to make the running in investigating the external candidates. I've got another job for you guys.
'I want you to run an entirely separate investigation into the late Colin Davey MP. I want you to find out everything there is to know about him. Who were his friends, who were his school- chums, was he popular or unpopular, did he drink, did he smoke, did he go with tarts? I want a complete background report on the man, not on the Minister. Most of all I want to know whether there is anyone in his private life who might have thought that the world would be a better place without him.'
`Don't you buy the General Yahic theory, sir?' asked Brian Mackie. 'Or the idea of an Iraqi agent in Whitehall?'
Oh no, Brian, I wouldn't rule them out. Yahic sounds like a prime suspect, and as for the Iraqis, they're complete effing nutters.'
McGuire smiled at the modification in the DCC's customary squad-room language, and Skinner caught his meaning.
`Sarah's warned me about swearing in front of the baby,' he muttered diffidently, 'but I can't change a career habit overnight.'
He went on: 'As I said earlier, investigating Yahic and Agent Robin is down to the Intelligence people. It'll be taken seriously, for sure. Apart from our own interest, the Americans will not allow Massey's death to go unpunished, whether or not he was a target. They'll want someone's head on a pole, and they'll give us all the help we need. My problem may be holding them back.
`But digging up the dirt on a member of our own Government is another matter entirely. I won't be sharing information with Joe Doherty on that side of things. If there is a home grown candidate, we have to investigate him discreetly and keep the knowledge away from the Yanks. I want a trial at the end of this investigation, not someone dead in a ditch with a bullet in his ear.'
Mackie's eyebrows seemed to rise halfway up his domed head. That's not Mr Doherty's style, sir, surely?'
Not personally, but Joe will be reporting back on this one and some of his zealot colleagues don't play by the same moral code as the rest of us! So, you two. Get yourselves off down to London.' He handed Mackie a sheet of paper bearing two handwritten telephone numbers, and a sealed envelope.
`Those are the home and mobile numbers of Cyril Kercheval, your contact in MI5, and a letter of introduction and authorisation from me. Cyril is an Assistant Director with unspecified responsibilities. He may or may not
