Murmuring the Judges

widow and three sons, aged between eighteen and twenty-seven.’

‘Is this the same Harry Riach who played rugby for Scotland back in the early seventies?’ Sir James looked across to the other side of the canteen, recognising the voice before he picked out the grizzled face of John Hunter, a veteran freelance from Edinburgh. ‘From the youngest to the oldest,’ he thought.

‘That’s right, John. He won nine caps, playing in the second row. He played club rugby for Gala. The other lock in the team was Detective Superintendent John McGrigor over there. He’s known Mr Riach all his life.’

‘It must have been terrible for the Superintendent, then,’ said Hunter, ‘when he got to the scene.’

‘It was, John,’ said Proud Jimmy, quietly. ‘It always will be.’

‘Where’s Bob?’ the old journalist asked, almost too casually.

‘DCC Skinner is on holiday with his family, but he was informed by fax. He called me an hour ago, to say that he is returning at once. He’s driving, so I expect him back tomorrow evening.’

If the Chief Constable had looked, he would have seen Andy Martin lean his head against the wall and close his eyes. He was imagining the next morning’s headlines, given the spin which his commander had added unwittingly to an already hot story. ‘Skinner rushes back to take charge of double murder hunt.’

‘Next question, please,’ Sir James invited, ponderously. Once again the forest of hands shot up. ‘Julian Finney, Scottish Television,’ he said, pointing to a man who stood at the back of the room, beside a camera and its operator.

‘Thank you,’ the reporter acknowledged. ‘Sir, do you know how much money was stolen?’

‘The bank staff are still checking the exact amount, but we know it’s more than seven hundred thousand pounds.’

A collective gasp sounded around the room.

‘If that’s the case,’ Finney went on, his tone quiet and inoffensive, ‘it can’t have escaped your notice that it will bring the total stolen in armed robberies in your force’s area over the last three months to around two million pounds, with over a million and a half taken in the last week.

‘Are these robberies the work of the same gang, Sir James?’

As Proud shifted in his chair, a muscle clenched at the base of Andy Martin’s jaw. He wanted to intervene, to give Finney a stalling answer, but he knew that he could not undermine his Chief. He closed his eyes once more and hoped. In vain.

Honesty is never a weakness, but an inability to prevaricate can be a fault. ‘We’re in no doubt that they are,’ the Chief Constable responded solemnly.

Finney’s eyes narrowed, very slightly. ‘In that case, can you tell us something about your strategy to protect banks and public from future attacks . . . particularly now that these people have shown themselves capable of murder.’

Proud Jimmy stared back at him. ‘I don’t know if I can discuss operational matters,’ he began, as the potential for disaster dawned on him.

‘Surely, Chief, when lives and property are at stake, the public has a right to know?’

Looking at the little man, Sir James knew suddenly the torment and fears of a baited bull. ‘Say nothing to start a public panic,’ his inner voice told him. He gazed at Finney for several seconds, unaware of anyone else in the room.

‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘we are in active consultation with the banks and building societies, and have offered them our advice on branch security. We are also scheduling our routine patrols so that as far as possible all bank premises will be under constant observation.’

‘That’s very reassuring, sir,’ Finney agreed. ‘But have you considered stationing armed police officers inside banks?’

Proud spluttered, in spite of himself. ‘We don’t have the resources, man.’

‘Well have you considered allowing the banks to employ their own armed guards?’

For once the Chief did not measure his response. ‘Not for a second,’ he barked. ‘That would just add to the public danger. Anyway, it would be against the law.’

As he looked at Finney, his mind’s eye saw him moving in for the kill; and he knew that his own honesty made him defenceless. ‘In that case, Sir James,’ the television reporter went on relentlessly, ‘what you’re telling us is that if armed men succeed in entering any bank, it, its staff and its customers will be completely vulnerable. Is that true? Yes or no, please.’

For Andy Martin it was too much. ‘I’m sorry, Julian,’ he said firmly, from the side of the room. ‘The Chief can’t get into a discussion with you or anyone else about the security arrangements within banks. But you can take it that anyone who stages an armed robbery in the future is in for a few very nasty surprises.’

‘Fair enough,’ Finney nodded, looked across at Martin then back at Proud.

‘May I ask one final question, Sir James?’

The Chief nodded his silver head.

‘Other than the man currently awaiting trial for his alleged part in the first robbery, do you have any clue to the identity of these men?’

All that Proud Jimmy wanted to do now was to clear the room, to escape from the sharp-toothed questioning. ‘No, Julian,’ he said, weariness in his voice. ‘As of now, we do not.’

‘Thank you. Sir,’ replied Finney, sincerely, his sound-bite secured.

Before another hand could be raised, the Chief Constable rose and swept from the canteen, Martin, McGrigor and Royston following behind.

Proud led the way into the Station Inspector’s empty office. As the door closed, he turned to face the Head of CID, his eyes blazing. McGrigor and Royston each glanced at the exit.

‘That fucking wee ferret Finney!’ he exploded. Inwardly, each of his three colleagues breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Mr Nice, but all the time he’s at your throat.’ His expression softened. ‘Thanks, Andy, for jumping in when you did.’

‘I’m sorry about that, Chief, but I just felt I had to.’

‘I know. Christ, all the time I sat there looking at him with tomorrow’s headlines, Police powerless to stop killers, swimming before my eyes.’ He paused. ‘Mind you, I felt I had to give him a straight answer to his last question.’

The Chief Superintendent nodded. ‘I agree. If you had come out with something even as innocuous as “Following several lines of inquiry”, you’d just have dug a hole for us.’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought. Anyway, that’ll be my last press briefing for a while. They’ll be down to you from now on.’

‘Or to Bob.’

‘That’s for you to decide, between you,’ said Proud Jimmy. ‘By the way,’ he added, after a pause, ‘what did you mean when you said the gang would be in for “a few very nasty surprises” if they tried again?’

‘Ah,’ said Martin. ‘That was a device that I use very occasionally with the press in a tight spot, if I think it’s in everyone’s best interests.’ He smiled, grimly. ‘Even though Alan here cringes when I do.

‘It’s called a lie.’

11

‘D’you ever wish sometimes, Andy, that you’d settled for being an engineer, after you graduated?’

‘Or you a lawyer?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. Anyway, does the thought ever cross your mind?’

‘Yes, it does, and it goes straight out the other side.’ There was a sigh, audible on the clear line. ‘Same here. With our sort of polisman, it’s for life, or for as long as your head lets you stand it. How are you feeling?’

‘Okay, I suppose.’

‘That’s good, but don’t go suppressing anything, son. There’s no worse experience in the job than looking at the bodies of innocent bystanders, be they colleagues or civilians.’

‘So I’ve learned.’ He heard the faint echo of his own words, feeding back from the satellite. ‘Whereabouts are