And then three instincts kicked into action. The first was one he rarely used: common decency. He took from his jacket pocket the mobile phone that he had stolen the day before, but had been unable to sell, and dialled nine, three times. ‘Emergency services,’ an operator answered. ‘Which service do you require?’
‘Nane,’ he answered, ‘but ye need the police in the Meadows. Fit o’ the walkway, ahent the old Royal.’
He ended the call and responded to his second instinct: opportunism. He retrieved his fallen bike and leaned it against the trunk of the tree from which the dead man hung. Then he used it to clamber high enough to reach the body, unbutton the overcoat, and ease it off the shoulders until it fell to the ground. He jumped down, retrieved it and slipped it on. It was at least a couple of sizes too big for him even over the jacket that he was wearing, but he knew a couple of guys who might part with fifty quid for it.
Finally, self-preservation took its turn. Moash slipped the boots round his neck, seized the only other saleable item that he saw around, remounted the bike and pedalled along Meadow Walk where it turned left, away from any road by which the police might approach. This time, he pedalled as fast as he could.
5
Sir James Proud’s uniform had never fitted him better. The extra girth that once he had carried had disappeared under a regime of diet and exercise; Lady Proud had even said to him that he looked as if he had lost years in age as well as pounds in weight.
His deputy was there, and so was the assistant chief constable, Willie Haggerty, the rough-edged Glaswegian who had shaken up the uniformed side of the force since his arrival. They flanked him, as he coughed quietly, to clear his throat, and to end the quiet chatter and set the meeting going.
They were gathered together at eight a.m., an hour that the veteran chief constable regarded as ridiculously early, but it had been forced on him by the politicians, or, to be fair, their managers. He knew from decades of experience that civil servants never had regard for anyone’s diary or convenience other than those of their masters.
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘I suggest we begin by introducing ourselves. You know me, and, I think, DCC Skinner on my right and ACC Haggerty, who’s responsible for all operations in the city of Edinburgh, on my left. We also have the honour . . .’ He was sure that his deputy twitched in his seat, for a split second, at his use of the word. ‘. . . to welcome Scotland’s deputy justice minister, Ms Aileen de Marco, MSP. She’s sitting next to Willie, and beyond her is her private secretary, Ms Lena McElhone. Next to Bob Skinner is Chief Superintendent Brian Mackie: he heads a specialist team that we’ve set up to take executive control of major state and public events, operating across our divisional structure. His people will have a key role on the day.’ The dome- headed man on Skinner’s right was wearing a uniform that was almost as sharp as that of the chief constable: he nodded and threw a diffident smile to the table.
‘Beyond Brian, there’s DI Neil McIlhenney, head of Special Branch.’ The big detective, whose private views on the early scheduling of the meeting mirrored those of the chief, raised a hand.
‘Now,’ Sir James continued, ‘I suggest that we go round the table, with everyone else introducing himself. Let’s go clockwise. ’ He looked at the man seated next to Lena McElhone.
‘Thank you,’ said the bearded, bespectacled visitor. ‘My name is Godfrey Rennie; I’m in charge of the part of the Justice Department that deals with the police.’
The man on his left, slight, owlish: ‘Mike Munro, head of the division responsible for Edinburgh.’
A stocky figure in a dark suit, expensive, but worn over the collar of a priest. ‘Monsignor Eduardo di Matteo: I represent the External Relations Division of the administration of the Vatican State.’
Another priest, his suit dark also, but more worn. ‘Father Angelo Collins, private secretary to His Holiness.’
Gold-rimmed spectacles, silver hair cut in military fashion. ‘Giovanni Rossi: Vatican logistics.’
Angular, patrician, sandy hair swept back from his forehead, eyeing the rest through Gucci spectacles perched on the bridge of a long nose. Skinner knew the type and liked them even less than he liked politicians. ‘Miles Stringfellow, Her Majesty’s Foreign and Commonwealth Office.’
And finally, black leather jacket, open-necked white shirt. ‘Jim Gainer, Archbishop of St Andrews and Edinburgh.’ Across the table, Lena McElhone blinked; her mouth fell open slightly. His Grace smiled at her, and winked. ‘I like to go incognito, sometimes,’ he said.
The chief constable turned to de Marco. ‘Aileen,’ he said, ‘I know that you have to be off fairly soon, so would you like to begin by addressing us.’
‘Thank you, Sir James.’ The deputy justice minister laid down the pen with which she had noted every name on the pad in front of her. At first sight, Bob Skinner thought as he looked at her, she was a typical member of the new Scottish parliament, and of its executive. Not only was she female, she was blonde, perfectly groomed and attractive, somewhere around thirty-five, politically correct, a Glasgow councillor who had stepped up to the national stage, and smart enough to know that her idealism was nothing unless it was harnessed by realism. He might have been inclined to distrust her, but Willie Haggerty knew her from his Strathclyde days; he rated her too, and that was recommendation enough for him. There was something else the ACC had said about her; now, meeting her for the first time, Skinner saw what he had meant. She had that indefinable extra spark, not the charisma of a pop star, or even of a Jim Gainer, but a quiet sense of her own ability that communicated itself to those she met.
She had very attractive pale blue eyes, too, and they made contact with everyone as she began to speak, passing a little personal warmth each time. In spite of himself, Skinner returned her soft smile. ‘I’m not here to issue any orders, or even make any requests,’ she said. ‘I promise you that; I’ve come simply to give you a message. The visit which we’re gathered here to discuss is the most important this country has had in many years, maybe the most significant ever.
‘We are welcoming home . . . and I say this as a practising atheist . . . the greatest living Scotsman. Be sure that the executive will give you all the support you need, of whatever kind, to ensure that everything goes smoothly. This will be a great, emotional occasion.’ She paused. ‘But it will be even more than that. It’s true to say that the election of Cardinal Gilbert White as Pope was as big a surprise in Scotland as it was everywhere else in the world. It was greeted with a spontaneous public celebration, the like of which I have never seen. Now, beyond that, the reign of John the Twenty-fifth offers us a unique opportunity. Religious intolerance has been the curse of Scotland for four hundred years, but here, for the first time, we have an event that can draw divided communities together, and heal all those old wounds. We in government will be doing our damnedest to make sure that happens. As far as we’re concerned . . . and this is the personal message that I bring from Crichton Griffiths, the justice minister, endorsed by Tommy Murtagh, the First Minister himself . . . that means that people must have open access to His Holiness, so that they can see him for the man that he is, and so that he in turn can reach out to them. That’s all I have to say.’
The ageing chief constable nodded to the young minister. ‘Thank you, Aileen. As always, the executive’s support is welcomed. It’s good to hear that we’re being watched from on high too.’ An attentive listener might have picked up a trace of sarcasm in his tone. ‘Yet as always, there’s a counter side. Bob, would you like to continue?’
Every eye in the room, save those of his colleagues, turned towards Skinner. The big DCC leaned forward slightly, his big hands flat on the table in front of him. A lock of steel grey hair fell across his forehead; he frowned, only for a second, but the gesture caused the scar above his nose to deepen suddenly into a trench-like feature. But then he looked up at the minister and smiled, his clear blue eyes catching hers.
‘Yes, thanks, Ms de Marco. You’re right, as Jimmy says, and I’ll be among the first to sign up for your vision. The papal visit is an opportunity, if not to bring about love-ins at every Rangers- Celtic game, because there will always be ultras at either end of those grounds, but at least to create a new climate, and to isolate them as far as we can. But it’s an opportunity for other people too. I’ve been in this job for a few years now: until a couple of years ago my principle was, if it can happen, plan for it as if it will. That’s all changed, though. Now we have to think the
