‘Good morning, sir,’ she said, with, still, a little uncertainty in her tone.
‘Sorry I’m late, Pamela,’ said Skinner, approaching. ‘My son was at his most playful this morning. He’s cutting some more teeth just now, and kept his mother up all night in the process. When I got there the Bonjela had done its work. He was as bright as a button, but Sarah was sound asleep.’
He stopped beside her in the corridor, outside his office door. ‘Let me explain the layout to you. I’m in here, as you know, and ACC Elder’s office, at the top of the stairs, backs on to mine.’ He nodded to his left. ‘Mr Whitlow, our civilian Head of Finance and Administration, is in there, then there’s the Chief’s secretary’s room, leading into Sir James’ suite.’ He strode on up the corridor, beckoning to her to follow, and nodding to his right. ‘Ruthie’s in there, and beyond is your room.’ He opened the door and stood aside, allowing her to enter a square, bright office, around half the size of his own, furnished with a beech desk, side table, a swivel chair, and two occasional seats. The outlook from the room was the same as that of the DCC, and Maggie Rose had positioned the desk deliberately so that she could always see the Chief Officer’s car park.
‘We’ll settle you in here on Monday, but for now, come along to mine.’ He led the way back and into his office, only to disappear immediately with the jug of the coffee filter.
‘This place runs on coffee and adrenalin,’ he said, as he returned, measuring out three flat measures of grounds, and setting the machine in motion. ‘Oh,’ he added, ‘and paper; lots of paper.’
He ushered her, not to the desk, but to the low-slung leather chairs, set around the coffee table. As she sat down, as neatly and carefully as she had during their first meeting, he caught the scent of her perfume, not overpowering but apparent. He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her; a long, slow, easy smile.
‘Since I’ve been in this office,’ he began, ‘yours has been occupied by Brian Mackie and Maggie Rose. Both of them are DCIs now. Before them there was Andy Martin. They and a few others are all part of what I like to think of as my team, the people upon whom, when things are at their toughest, I can rely on above all the rest to get the job done. When the really serious stuff happens, you’ll find them involved. Welcome to the team.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, flushing slightly as she returned his smile.
‘Your job is to act as a barrier between me and the outside world,’ he went on. ‘As a rule, all the submissions, reports, correspondence and the rest which come to me, will be filtered by Ruth through you.
‘Where necessary, I want you to write summaries of their contents. Where particular sections seem important, I want you to draw them to my attention. Where decisions are called for, then in time, once you’ve settled in, I’ll welcome recommendations from you.
‘As well as all that - and it’s an onerous job, believe me - you’ll find me using you as a sounding board. I’ll let you into my thinking on some policy matters, to see if you agree with me. Sometimes I’ll ask for your advice. In fact, I’ll begin right now.
‘We have to sell the concept of public participation in the crime prevention effort. I want you to look at our marketing in that area, tell me in general how well you think we’re doing it, and give me a report on ways in which it could be improved.’
‘How quickly, sir?’ she asked.
‘I don’t want to overburden you in your first few days, so let’s say six weeks from now. Oh, and be sure that your recommendations are costed.’
‘What about funding from external sources, sir? Is that permissible?’
He smiled, again. ‘It is now, if you think we can attract any.’
He paused. ‘Going back to your role as a barrier, there are two exceptions, two areas in which Ruth will ensure that papers come straight to me. The first is material from the Chief. Anything coming up the ladder goes through you. Anything coming down the same way hits the top of my in-tray at once.’ He paused, glancing across to check the state of the coffee filter.
‘The other exception relates to my part-time job. In addition to what I do here, I am also security adviser to the Secretary of State for Scotland. Most of the time that doesn’t involve much, but if there is a major incident or, say, a terrorist alert, it can mean a hell of a lot. In that role I am effectively part of an organisation known popularly as MI5.
‘They, and the Secretary of State, contact me through a secure, unlisted telephone line. No-one else has the number, and you don’t need it, but there’s an extension on your desk. If it rings and I ain’t there, answer, take a message and contact me pronto. I’ll give you a list of the people who have the number. Every time you answer, ask the caller to identify himself, or herself. Okay?’
She nodded vigorously, her eyes wider than ever.
‘Good,’ he said. His eyes dropped to the table. ‘There’s one more thing I should tell you, since we’ll be working so closely. Although you may have figured it out for yourself, given what I told you about calling in to see my son.
‘Sarah, my wife, and I are living apart at the moment. We’re not at daggers drawn, but . . .’ he hesitated, ‘. . . things are not good. So until further notice, my off-duty contact number is the Gullane one on the list which you’ll find in your office, not Edinburgh.’
She nodded, frowning. ‘I understand, sir. I . . . I hope everything works out.’
‘It will, Pamela. One way or another, it will.’
His attention seemed to wander for a few seconds, until he snapped himself back to the present. He jumped to his feet and poured two mugs of coffee from the steaming filter. ‘No sugar, right?’
Returning, he placed the mugs on two coasters on the table. ‘Let’s get to the reason I asked you to come in today. Hold on to your seat while I explain it to you.’ She looked at him, eyes widening again.
‘Eighteen years ago, my first wife, Myra, was killed while she was driving my car. I won’t tell you how, because it’s too complicated a story, but recently, I’ve been faced with the possibility . . .’ he stopped and shook his head, ‘No, it’s stronger than that. I’ve come to believe that she was murdered by someone who sabotaged my car, thinking that I would be driving.
‘At the time, Myra’s death was declared accidental. I’ve read the report to the Fiscal, and there’s nothing there to help us. So what I have to do now is to go back through all the investigations which were running at the time, checking those in which I was involved, to see who it was that I upset so badly that he wanted me out of the way.
‘When Myra died, I was a Detective Sergeant in the Serious Crimes Squad at Headquarters. I want you to help me check their files.
‘As well as that, we’ll need to check the photographic unit. The attending officers took pictures of the car at the scene. The prints will have been destroyed, by now, for sure, and the Mini went into the crusher eighteen years ago, but with a fair wind, we might trace negatives.
‘Let’s get down to the Records Office, and see what secrets we can uncover.’
37
‘Aw come on, Tommy,’ said Neil McIlhenney, ‘don’t play the poor innocent with us.
‘It might say “Heenan Newsagent” over the door of this rat-hole, but we know the business you run out of this upstairs office. You are a loanshark, a tallyman, like they say in Glasgow, an illegal money-lender like they say in court.
‘You are the sort of bastard that infests places like Craigmillar and Peffermill, where the poor people live, lending them money when no-one else will, then breaking their arms and legs if they can’t meet your wicked interest payments, or if they won’t give you their Giros and their Child Benefit, or steal, or prostitute their wives to pay you off.
‘You know, if I wasn’t a conscientious public servant, I’d wipe my arse with the likes of you, Pierre Cardin blazer and all.’ He paused, eyeing the man fiercely.
‘What was the rate of interest you were screwing out of Carl Medina? Twenty per cent a week, was it, at the end-up.’
Thomas Maxwell Heenan looked back at him, blandly. ‘Who’s Carl Medina?’ he asked.
‘Jesus, and this is a paper-shop too,’ said McIlhenney, sadly. ‘Aged about thirty, five years or so younger than you. Lived in Slateford with his girlfriend. Borrowed a grand off you about six months ago. Last Saturday, you paid a call on him and told him you wanted the grand plus eight hundred interest within a week. You didn’t say “Or else”,