into the ministerial office area. ‘She’s ready for you. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you in.’ She led him a short way along the corridor, stopped at a massive, varnished door, rapped on it with her knuckles and swung it open.
The deputy justice minister stood up behind her desk as he came in. The windows were uncurtained, he noticed, and the room was back-lit to an extent by the sodium globes outside in Waterloo Place. ‘Hello,’ exclaimed Aileen de Marco, moving round to meet him and extending her hand. He shook it, his smile seemingly automatically activated by hers. ‘This is a surprise,’ the minister continued. ‘I didn’t expect you to deliver the programme personally. I thought a biker would drop it off.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s not a problem,’ he told her. ‘Besides, I wanted to update you on what’s happened since our meeting this morning . . . and to break some bad news in person. I wasn’t certain that I’d find you here, though. I thought you might have been off home to Glasgow by now.’
‘I don’t commute,’ she said. ‘Lena has a spare room in her flat. I rent it from her so that I have somewhere near the parliament and the office where I can crash. It’s an unusual relationship between minister and private secretary but it suits us both. So what’s this bad news you have to break?’
Skinner explained to her that there would indeed be two more guests throughout the papal visit, and that as a result she no longer figured in the platform seating plan.
She laughed. It was a pleasant laugh, not a bray, but strong, musical and infectious. ‘You think that’s bad news, do you? It might be for my brother . . . he’s coming with me . . . but it isn’t for me. I don’t mind giving up our places for the Prime Minister and his wife. In fact, making them happy is all I live for.’
Skinner looked at her and saw the mischief in her eyes. ‘Not a fan, then?’ he asked.
The young MSP smiled back at him. ‘Come on,’ she chided. ‘That would be heresy, would it not?’
‘If I was the investigating officer, I’d press for full-blown blasphemy on the charge-sheet.’
‘Aah, but I’m an atheist, remember.’
‘I don’t think that would be a legitimate defence. It would be like saying that you didn’t believe in traffic lights, so you have a right to drive through them. There are jails up and down Scotland that are jammed full of people who think like that. You should know. You’re a justice minister; you’re responsible for them.’
‘Mmm,’ she mused, ‘I never thought of that. Maybe I had better guard my tongue in the future.’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether it’s politically correct within your ruling group to be for the Prime Minister or agin him. From what I’ve observed the antis are probably in the majority.’
She looked at him in surprise, half sitting on the edge of her desk, knee slightly raised, calf curving attractively. ‘Is this Bob Skinner talking?’ she challenged. ‘The man who, or so the legend goes, once had a Secretary of State for Scotland by the throat? The man who’s famous for his dislike of politicians? Is this the same man standing in my office talking like one of them?’
‘Sure it is,’ he replied easily, wondering when he had last felt so relaxed with someone who had been elected to office. ‘You cannot conquer your enemies, Aileen, or even control them, unless you know how they think.’
‘If you can’t beat them, join them?’
‘If necessary.’
She whistled softly. ‘You are definitely not the product as advertised, Mr Skinner.’
‘I’ve learned to adapt over the years. I’ve studied the beast in captivity.’
‘And what have you learned?’
‘I’ve observed that on occasion you come across one that you can let out of its cage to roam around freely, without worrying if it’s going to bite you on the arse. They’re the good ones: the ones who are there to make a difference for the people who gave them the job, not to preserve their own power base: the ones who’ll steer the ship through heavy seas if they have to, not tie up and wait for the storm to pass. The trouble is, they’re almost always found on the back benches or the cross benches, because their colleagues realise they’re too dangerous to be trusted with the tiller.’
‘And how do you spot them?’
‘Small signs,’ he replied. ‘For example, they refer to politicians in the third person rather than the first, “they” instead of “we”, as if they themselves realise they’re not run-of-the-mill, not just another nose in the trough. You did it yourself, a couple of minutes ago.’
‘Are you saying you’d open the door of my cage?’
He nodded. ‘But don’t tell anyone. Watch yourself. Guard your tongue. Go with the tide . . . until your chance comes. When it does, you grab the tiller and steer for the white water.’
13
Big Malky Gladsmuir was not particularly tall. His size was in his shoulders, which were as wide as a doorway, and in his chest, which resembled one of the barrels in the cellar of the Wee Black Dug: when that was allied to a disposition that was said to suck sunlight out of the brightest day, he inspired a reaction similar to that of sailors spotting a mine bobbing on the surface of the ocean.
Nonetheless, for all his outward ferocity, Big Malky appeared to be an exemplary citizen. As Tarvil Singh drove down Leith Walk, George Regan had taken the precaution of calling his CID colleagues in Queen Charlotte Street, headquarters of the division that took in Granton, and making enquiries about him. He found that he had never been accused of any offence, nor had he been detained by police for any reason.
‘Man’s a fucking bear, though,’ he had been advised by his near namesake, DS George Grogan. ‘He runs a quiet pub, mainly because he looks so ferocious that none of his regulars ever chance their arm; any strangers who look like bother don’t get a second drink.’
‘And he’s really never been done for anything?’
‘Malky’s been a friend to us over the years: he understands the value of keeping on good terms with the CID. The one time we could have done him for something, we turned a blind eye; that was when he caught a smack dealer from Muirhouse trying to move stuff in his place. He broke the guy’s jaw, nose and both his arms, then chucked him out in the street. When we asked about it, nobody had seen a thing, but there was still blood all over the bar. We could probably have matched it, but the drugs squad had been trying to nail the victim for about three years, so we didn’t bother.’
‘Is there stolen gear handled in his place?’
‘No danger. The Wee Black Dug belongs to a chain, and it does tidy business; they wouldn’t appreciate their licence being put at risk. If wee Moash says Malky bought something off him I’d take that with a pinch. Wee Moash is not the most reliable witness.’
‘Most witnesses are reliable when Stevie Steele’s squeezin’ their balls, George. Thanks.’
The pub was busy when they arrived; they stood just inside the doorway for a while, eyeing up their surroundings. Regan did a quick head count and reckoned that there were over forty punters in there. A man and a woman . . . the only member of her sex in the place . . . were hard at work behind the bar; they refilled glasses on the nod, a sure sign that they knew their customers well, took the money and dispensed change with a minimum of conversation. Behind them a squat, heavy-browed figure stood by the till, ringing up the purchases; he was in his forties, with a greying crew-cut, and a dimple in the middle of his heavy chin. Regan moved close to the bar and caught his eye. As Singh followed him, one or two heads turned, glanced at him, read him for what he was and turned away again quickly.
Malky Gladsmuir called across to the female steward; she came across to take over the till, and he moved to the furthest corner of the bar, where there was a little space.
‘You’re the two guys were in earlier,’ he said, in a voice that was quiet and not at all threatening. In Regan’s long experience, that meant nothing at all. Tony Manson, Dougie Terry and Lenny Plenderleith had all been quietly spoken, and all quite lethal. Jackie Charles, on the other hand, had been loud, but had relied on people like Dougie the Comedian to back him up.
‘Well remembered,’ said the sergeant. ‘I’m sorry we had to huckle one of your punters.’
Gladsmuir shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Wee Moash is not a big contributor to my profits,’ he said. ‘Guys like him are a fucking drain on the rest of us.’
‘So why do you let him in?’
