26
For Bob Skinner, the rare occasions on which he was obliged to wear uniform were among the few unappealing aspects of Command rank. Nevertheless, awareness of his duty as Sir James Proud’s deputy, and a sense of respect for the bereaved, had made him struggle into the uncomfortable blue serge trousers, and into the high-buttoned tunic, emblazoned with badges of rank.
There were ribbons too, among them that of the Queen’s Police Medal, awarded in the wake of his recovery from his near-fatal stabbing. He guessed that Proud Jimmy would have worn his medals to a funeral, but he had stopped short of that.
Normally, he would have driven his own car to Galashiels, but for this occasion he had asked for a police driver, to avoid the inconvenience of parking. As he stepped out of the car a battery of TV and press cameras homed in on him. A young woman stepped forward with a microphone, but he ignored her and strode off.
John McGrigor was in uniform also as he met the DCC at the entrance to the tall-spired parish church. It might have fitted once, but now the silver buttons strained to contain the beefy Superintendent.
Skinner looked up at the red sandstone building. ‘So this was Big Harry’s church,’ he mused.
‘Very, very occasionally,’ whispered McGrigor. ‘But now he’s a hero, the minister’s welcomed him back with open arms.’
The policemen stepped inside, where they were met by an usher and shown to a pew reserved for VIPs. Skinner recognised the local MP, the Parliamentary Under Secretary of State for Home Affairs, and Councillor Marcia Topham, Chair of the Police Advisory Board. He nodded briefly to all three as he sat on the hard wooden bench seat, next to the Councillor.
She leaned her head towards him. ‘How’s the investigation going?’ she whispered.
‘Positively,’ he replied, emphatically, in a tone which invited no further questions. He glanced towards the altar, where Harry Riach’s massive dark wood coffin stood on trestles, with a single wreath on top and others laid before it.
‘The big one in the middle’s from us,’ McGrigor muttered. ‘The big fella would have appreciated the irony in that. It’s as if we were saying goodbye to a valued customer.’
Skinner looked sideways at him and was surprised to see a tear in the corner of his eye. However at that moment the organ burst into life and the congregation rose to its feet. The family entered, led by a stocky middle- aged woman in black, leaning on the arm of a tall, solidly built man in his twenties. He was wearing an army uniform, with sergeant’s stripes. Two other men, younger than the first, followed behind, each supporting an elderly relative.
‘The three sons?’ the DCC whispered.
‘Aye. The old folk are Harry’s parents.’
The service was formal and relatively short, typical of Scottish Presbyterian funerals: the twenty-third psalm, a prayer, a eulogy delivered by the minister, full of unconscious signs that he was not too well acquainted with the man he was burying, a hymn and a benediction.
It seemed no time before the congregation was filing out behind the family mourners, to form a cortege of cars behind the hearse, as it wound its way to the nearby ceremony, where, it seemed to Skinner, around half of the town of Galashiels was waiting.
The gathering parted to allow the two policemen to move to the graveside. As they approached the burial site, McGrigor touched the arm of the DCC’s uniform. ‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment, sir.’
Slowly and deliberately, the Superintendent stepped forward, handed his uniform hat to the undertaker, and took up the position of the second mourner, at the foot of the coffin as it was lowered on to two bars across the waiting grave.
As Skinner watched the scene, his mind swept back almost twenty years, to another funeral, that of his first wife, in Dirleton Cemetery. He saw himself standing at the head of her coffin, Myra’s father directly opposite him, in the position where McGrigor stood now, three of their nearest and dearest on either side. He almost felt the cord in his hands and the sudden weight as the burden was lifted first, to allow the supports to be withdrawn, then lowered reverently into the earth.
The undertaker’s instructions were the same as they had been on that day, the worst of Bob Skinner’s young life. ‘Drop your cords, gentlemen.’ Involuntarily, he lowered his eyes as the eight bearers allowed the tasselled ropes to fall into the grave, seeing again the brass name plate with its simple lettering, ‘Myra Skinner, wife and mother’.
It seemed like an age to him, but barely two minutes had elapsed before McGrigor was back by his side. The two men stood as the congregation dispersed, waiting for an opportunity to express their condolences to the widow, who sat in the funeral car with Harry Riach’s aged parents, being consoled by friends through the open door.
‘Thank you for doing that, Uncle John. My Dad would be pleased.’ Skinner looked away from the car to see the oldest of the Riach brothers standing with the Superintendent.
‘
The sergeant nodded. ‘I’d like to believe that, Uncle John. I’m trying; I really am.’
The Superintendent turned. ‘Sir, this is Henry Riach, Harry’s oldest son. Henry, DCC Skinner.’
‘Pleased to meet you, sir,’ said the tall young man. ‘I’m pleased that you came.’
‘It’s an honour, believe me.’
To the policeman’s surprise, the young soldier smiled. ‘Aye, and appropriate too. You had him often enough in his time. It’s only right that you should be here to see him off.’
For once in his life, Skinner was lost for a suitable counter. Instead he said, ‘Look, could you pass something on to your mother for us. There are channels through which she can receive compensation for her loss. Inadequate, I know, but still. There’s Criminal Injuries, and there’s also the possibility that the bank might like to express sympathy, too.
‘I had a word with their head office before I came here, and as a first step, they’d like to meet the cost of the funeral.’ He took a card from his pocket. ‘I won’t intrude further today, but that’s my number at Fettes. If I can help or advise you and your mother in any way, don’t hesitate to give me a call.’
‘That’s very kind of you, sir,’ said Henry Riach.
‘Not at all, Sergeant. Your father died a hero.’
The young man’s eyes misted over. ‘My Dad lived as a hero too, sir. All his life, he was a hero to me. A rough diamond, for sure, but a diamond nonetheless.’
He shook Skinner’s hand and walked away, towards the car.
The DCC looked at his colleague. ‘Uncle John, eh. I didn’t realise that you were so close to the family.’
For the second time that day, a tear showed in the eye of the big bluff Superintendent. ‘Harry and I were brothers in arms, sir, from the age of five, when we started school on the same day. I arrested him three times when he was raising hell and threatening to dismantle the pub, yet in all our lives, there was never an angry word passed between us.
‘Young Henry, there; he’s my godson.’
McGrigor replaced his peaked hat, which, like Skinner, he had been holding in his hand. ‘I tell you, sir, suppose no one else catches these bastards, I will.’
‘Come on then, John,’ said the DCC, nodding. ‘Let’s the two of us get on with it.’
27
If Skinner had returned to Fettes to change out of uniform, he would have been at least fifteen minutes late for his meeting with the Lord Advocate. So instead, sitting stiffly in the hated serge, he instructed his driver to head straight for the Crown Office in Chambers Street.
He frowned as he stepped from the car, as he recalled his last visit to the recently completed headquarters of the Scottish criminal prosecution service, as an interviewee rather than as a policeman. But putting the memory aside and concentrating on the matter in hand, he strode into the building.
