Skinner's Mission

himself.’

Martin was struck by Skinner’s expression. There was a hard, mean gleam in his eye that he had never seen before. ‘Christ,’ said the Chief Superintendent, ‘and here was me thinking that you were going soft on the guy.’

The DCC stared back, coldly. ‘That was yesterday. He’s had his moment. Now he’s back in the pond with the rest of the piranha and I’m after him.’

Andy Martin had always been keenly attuned to his friend’s moods. His forehead wrinkled in a frown as he sensed his underlying tension. ‘Bob, what’s up?’ he asked.

Skinner’s broad shoulders sagged, his grey-maned head dropped, and the anger left his blue eyes. ‘I’ve moved out to the cottage, Andy.’ He paused, as Martin gasped, surprise and concern mingling.

‘I told you that Sarah and I haven’t been hitting it off for a few months.’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘Last night we had a Premier League bust-up, and it left us with nothing else to do but put some space between ourselves.’ He slumped back into his chair.

Martin gazed across at him. ‘God, Bob, it’s got that bad?’ Skinner nodded. ‘What was the fight about?’

‘Andy, I’m sorry, but I don’t want to talk about it. Every time I think about it, I get so angry.’

‘How long is this separation going to last?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe for good.’

‘For Christ’s sake, man, you can’t mean that. This is you and Sarah we’re talking about. There’s nothing you two can’t sort out.’

Bob shook his head. ‘This is a different me, and a different Sarah, not the Scotsman couple of the month, as you called us once. She can’t cope with my need to investigate Myra’s death, I can’t cope with her . . .’ He stopped short. ‘Never mind sorting things out, Andy, at the moment we’re finding it difficult just to be in the same room as each other.’

‘What about the baby?’ asked Martin, anxiously. ‘You can’t just walk out on him.’

‘I’ll see the wee man every day, starting with lunchtime today. Longer term, we’ll have to see how it goes, but the way it is just now, he’s better off with his parents living apart than putting their arguments before his needs. Whatever happens James Andrew will cope.’

‘And what about you? The loss of Myra has caught up with you, all of a sudden. When you stop to think about it, the loss of Sarah is going to hit you as well. Jazz is just a baby, and babies are resilient: but you, will you cope?’

He smiled. ‘Oh yes, Andy, I’ll cope; if it comes to it, like I did before, by focusing completely on my work. It may not make me a nicer guy, but the villains of Edinburgh - or maybe somewhere else - will come to regret it.’

‘What do you mean, somewhere else?’

Skinner glanced across the desk. ‘Sir William Green retires next year as Metropolitan Police Commissioner. Just between you and me, Andrew Hardy - yes, the Secretary of State for Scotland, no less - called me in to see him just before I went to America.

‘He said that my name had come up in discussion, and he’d been detailed by the Home Secretary to ask me if I would wish to be a candidate. How about that, no experience in the top rank, yet I get an approach?’

Martin stared at him, his mouth hanging open in amazement. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said I’d think about it, and let him know when I got back. I had decided more or less to say “Thanks, but no thanks. I wouldn’t fancy the change in my family’s lifestyle”. Now, things are different. The way I’m feeling, I’m swinging towards saying “Yes, please”. I have to give him an answer next week, because they want to make the appointment before the General Election.

‘I’m sure there isn’t a cat’s chance they’d actually give me the job, but the approach started me thinking. It’s common knowledge that the Chief Constable’s job in Strathclyde comes up around the same time. I just might have a punt at that.’

Martin held up his hands. ‘That’s big stuff, Bob, but don’t do anything for the wrong reason, please. You have to take considered decisions on career moves like those, rather than just taking a punt, as you put it, because your private life has gone sour.’

‘I know that, Andy. Yet all of a sudden I need a new direction in my life. Either of those jobs would provide that for sure, if I, and other people, decide I’m up to it.’

‘Which they will,’ thought Martin. He began to move towards the door. ‘Look, there’s a hell of a lot happening to you right now, more than anyone can expect to handle alone. If you’d like, I’ll come out to Gullane and we can talk everything through, away from this place.’

Skinner nodded. ‘Yes, my friend, I’d welcome that. But not just yet. There’s someone I need to talk to, before I see anyone else. Do me a favour and ask her if she’ll come out to see me, tonight.’

16

Neil McIlhenney and Dougie ‘the Comedian’ Terry eyed each other up with an odd mixture of animosity and amusement. They had met professionally several times over the years, usually after a robbery, a violent assault or, once or twice, a death.

Each encounter had come after Bob Skinner’s intimidating cross-examination had persuaded, cajoled or simply terrified a suspect into letting slip Terry’s name in connection with the crime for which the subject had been caught red-handed.

Every time, he had been brought in for interview. But the man had his own interview technique, as effective in its way as that of the DCC. Whatever the question, however it was put, be it direct or indirect, softly spoken or shouted, Dougie Terry never answered.

That was not to say that he was silent. Throughout most of his interviews he had told jokes; quick gags, one-liners. ‘What’s the difference between parsley and . . .’, McIlhenney recalled, and had to suppress a smile. Occasionally he would lapse into a Chic Murray role. CID records still had a few interview tapes filled with the faultlessly replicated voice of the late, great, mystical Scottish droll.

Looking across the desk at Terry a memory jumped unbidden into the Sergeant’s thoughts.

‘I was driving past a farmhouse, and I ran over a cockerel. So I rang the doorbell and told the farmer’s wife.

‘“I’m terribly sorry,” I said. “Can I replace it?”

‘“Fair enough,” she said, “the hens are round the back”.’

Involuntarily, a chuckle escaped from McIlhenney’s lips, making Detective Superintendent Donaldson look round sharply.

Eventually the police had given up asking questions. Whenever the Comedian was implicated, detectives would bring him in, put the allegation to him, switch on the recorder and sit back to enjoy the entertainment. When, occasionally, Terry was fresh out of jokes, he had other talents. One of the CID’s most treasured tapes was known simply as ‘Sinatra’, a flawless forty-five minutes of the Maestro’s best loved songs.

Once the performances were over, Dougie Terry was always released. He knew full well, as did the police, that no criminal case can be laid on the basis of an uncorroborated allegation. Once, Sir James Proud had suggested that he might be charged with wasting police time. ‘How could we?’ Bob Skinner, then Detective Chief Superintendent, had replied. ‘His defence would be that it was time well spent!’

Terry’s unshakeable confidence that there was never a case to answer was based on the fact that the police informants were almost invariably men with short memories. They had not forgotten what had happened on earlier occasions to those who had told tales. Two had been stabbed to death in prison, another slashed and scarred for life, and three more simply beaten senseless.

‘What’ll it be today, gentlemen?’ the Comedian asked as the two policemen took seats at the side of his desk, in his small attic office in Stafford Street, and as his secretary closed the door as she left the room. Without warning, he switched to Chic Murray mode.

‘My doctor asked me the other day, “Are you disturbed by improper thoughts during the night?”

‘“Not at all,” I told him. “I enjoy them, actually.”’