Mawhinney nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve been asked to study the way that your uniform and detective bureaux work together.’
‘I’ve been studying that for twenty years,’ said Bob Skinner from the side. ‘I still find myself with more questions than answers.’
‘Is Maggie Rose’s promotion to uniformed chief super meant to improve that?’ asked Hunter, switching his attention to the DCC.
‘That wasn’t the reason for it, and it’s not what we’re here to discuss, but I’m sure it’ll be of benefit. Maggie’s a fine officer, and I’ve got no doubt that her CID experience will help her take a broad view of her divisional responsibilities.’
‘Is she the first woman to command a division?’ The DCC looked across at his new questioner, Sally Gordon, the
‘She is, but she won’t be the last. If her appointment and that of Mary Chambers send out any signal, it’s that this is an equal opportunity force. The days when the promotion ladder for female officers had snakes alongside it are well and truly over. The policy of this force, as established by Sir James, is quite clear: we appoint the best person for the job in question, regardless.’
‘Does that mean that you’re going to follow the example of the NYPD and recruit more people from ethnic minorities?’
‘I don’t believe in tokenism, Sally; we’re going to recruit the best, and that’s it. No arbitrary restriction ever works in the public interest. When I was a very young man,’ he told her, ‘there was a legend about a village in the west of Scotland, where there was no crime.’
John Hunter smiled; he had heard the story before, over several beers. The old journalist had known Bob Skinner for a long time; their relationship was entirely professional, but it was close and based on respect. He had seen a change in the DCC over the last few months. He had never asked but his impression had been that for the first time in his career, and maybe even in his life, the absolute inner certainty that made him exceptional had been shaken. Skinner was approaching the final step in his journey through the ranks of the police force; every reporter in town knew that, and all but one of them assumed that it would take him into Jimmy Proud’s office. The exception was John Hunter. He sensed Skinner’s reluctance to step across the corridor, and to put on a uniform for the rest of his professional life. When the SDEA job had come up, he had expected the Big Man to move into it, but he had not; it was then that the change Hunter perceived had begun. Yet as he listened to him expound to Sally Gordon, he sensed a new, if suppressed, excitement in him, as if a new door, one that nobody else knew about, had somehow opened up.
‘No crime at all?’ asked the woman from the
‘No reported crime,’ said Skinner. ‘If the police didn’t see it, it never happened. The thing was that virtually the whole population of that village was Catholic, and all the coppers were masons to a man . . . and I mean to a man. Those were the bad old days, when a gifted woman like Maggie Rose would have had to leave the force for committing the career-ending offence of getting married. So in that village, the housebreakings, the petty thefts, the assaults went unreported, and were sorted out within the community.’
‘Vigilantes?’
‘No, just people. The legend continues though; finally the age of enlightenment dawned and the first Catholic officers were recruited. One of them was stationed in that village as its local bobby and, hey presto, people started to talk to him. It remains probably the only time in history that a chief constable has won universal praise for presiding over a quantum leap in recorded crime.’ The laughter of the crowd made him pause for a few seconds. ‘So to come back to your question, Sally,’ he continued, when he could, ‘we’re not following anyone’s lead in our recruitment policy, not even the NYPD, we’re doing what we believe to be right. We’re recruiting from the whole community because we serve the whole community, and because every senior police officer in Scotland is determined that an instance like that village . . . which could have been called Northern Ireland but wasn’t . . . never arises again.’
‘Does that mean that you think freemasons shouldn’t be police off icers?’
Skinner laughed out loud, and looked over at Hunter. ‘I asked for that one, John, did I not?’
‘Aye, you did,’ the old man agreed. ‘Now answer it.’
‘Okay. If a mason wants to join this force, he won’t be excluded, any more than will a Buddhist, a Rotarian, a train-spotter, or a collector of rare and exotic orchids. If a police officer wants to join the masons, that’s fine by me, and I won’t expect the fact to be reported. It’s a hobby, an interest, and maybe even for some it’s a way of life. But my rule’s the same for it as for any other leisure pursuit. Don’t bring it to work and, especially, don’t get together with a bunch of like-minded people and try to use the police to impose your personal values on society. I’ll be your enemy if you do, and my enemies tend not to last long.’
He turned to Mawhinney. ‘Do you think that’s a fair basis for running a police force, Inspector?’
‘No sir,’ said the New Yorker. ‘I believe it’s the only basis for running a police force.’
‘A man after my own heart.’ The DCC looked back at the media. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse us, lady and gentlemen, we have to explain to our guest how we put all that into practice.’
28
‘What made you decide to pull the plug early, Manny?’ asked McGuire, raising his voice above the noise in the crowded Torphichen Place briefing room.
For the first time in more years than anyone could remember, the retiring chief superintendent was in shirtsleeves in the office; half an hour earlier, he had been presented with a set of golf clubs, the result of a quick collection organised throughout the division, and he had made his farewell speech. At its conclusion he had surprised his colleagues by unfastening the silver buttons on his jacket, and taking it off for what he declared would be the last time.
‘Your wife was running me ragged,’ English replied, clutching a can of Tennents lager. ‘That was a joke,’ he added quickly, and wisely, for it had passed by Mario completely. ‘I’ve never had a problem with Margaret. I’m a bit surprised that she’s moving into my job, but she’ll do very well there. She’s a very capable officer, but I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.’ The man was trying to shed his pomposity with his uniform, but it promised to be a tough task.
‘No, the truth is,’ he continued, ‘that it was my own wife who gave me a hard time. She’s been pressing me to give up for a while, ever since it was made clear to me that my face didn’t fit in the command corridor.’
McGuire considered telling him that it was his inflexibility that had held him back, but decided instead to stir the pot a little. ‘Who made that clear to you?’ he asked mischievously.
English killed his can, reached out to the table and took another. ‘Since I’m on my way through that door, I’ll tell you. The deputy chief constable did. He runs this fucking force now, and old Proud Jimmy lets him. You’re all right; you’re in his circle, you, and Margaret, and Brian Mackie, and that big pal of yours, Skinner’s hatchet-man McIlhenney. But those of us who are not favoured, we’re just filling in time.’
‘Come on, Manny. We’ve all got an important job to do, even though only one of us, every ten years or so, is going to make chief constable. You know that.’
‘I’ll tell you what I know, son.’ If there was one thing that usually triggered McGuire, it was being called ‘son’ by people like English, but he let it pass. He knew that the man had been summoned to the chief’s office for a formal farewell and, even over the lager fumes, he could tell from his breath that whisky had been on the agenda. ‘I know that I had seniority over every other superintendent in this force. I was in the rank before Skinner, or Dan Pringle, or Greg Jay or any of them. I know that there was no more meticulous officer than me on the strength, and that nobody ran a tighter division. Yet when Jim Elder decided to chuck it, and I applied for the vacancy, I was called in by the deputy and told point-blank that he could not have anyone hold command rank who didn’t have the potential to be chief constable. And then he went ahead and appointed that roughneck from Glasgow, that man over there, that Willie Haggerty. And what a time I’ve had with him. Do you know, he actually questioned my judgement on occasion?’
The ex-commander’s indignation was almost comic to watch, but McGuire kept his face straight. ‘I’m sure that Margaret will get on better with him than I did; she’ll be under the great man’s protection, for a start. But you
