14 - Stay of Execution

‘Not yours.’

‘I’m its guardian at least. Maybe I should appoint you to the next vacancy.’

‘You’d have to wait a long time for that, till after I retire, and even then, if there was a remote possibility that I might be interested, I’d need to be chairman.’

‘You’re a passionate man, aren’t you?’ said the minister. ‘I’d never have suspected that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re iron-clad.’

‘I’m passionate about justice,’ said Skinner, ‘and in particular about its impartiality. My father was a family solicitor, but he was a bit of a constitutional lawyer too. If he was alive, although he voted for your party all his life, he’d be dead against anything that eroded the essential distinction between the people who enact legislation . . . that’s you lot . . . and the people who interpret it . . . that’s the Bench.’

‘Where do you fit in?’

‘In the middle; we enforce it . . . the parts that relate to crime and public order.’

‘And should you be independent of government too?’

‘I think we should be removable by government, as ultimately we are, but I do not think you should have day-to-day supervision over us. Who investigates you?’

‘Nobody, if we don’t want it to happen. Isn’t that the case?’

He smiled. ‘So how come you didn’t know you’d been vetted?’

She shivered. ‘Spooky.’

‘Listen,’ he said, suddenly serious. ‘However liberal a society may be, if it is to be safe, there have to be dark areas. All countries operate that way. Because of who I am and what I do, there are few doors if any that are locked to me in Britain. But this morning, in another European country, one was slammed right in my face.’

Aileen de Marco’s eyes widened. ‘Do tell!’ she exclaimed.

‘I might . . . since you’ve been vetted . . . but I thought you mentioned something about dinner. I had about a quarter of a fairly inedible salad eight hours ago; I am seriously hungry.’

She glanced at her watch. ‘God, you’re right; we should be upstairs.’ She stood, smoothing her grey skirt, picked up its matching jacket, and led him once more, this time up a flight of stairs to the club’s dining room. ‘I’ve kept the menu plain and simple. Tomato soup, grilled sole, and ice cream.’

A waiter showed them to their table, left for a few moments, then reappeared with their ice bucket and glasses. Skinner glanced across the room; there was a party of two couples at a table in the furthest corner. He recognised both men: one was an actuary and the other was chief executive of an insurance company.

‘When I changed the booking I was told we’d have company,’ Aileen said. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all,’ he replied, giving the group a nod of acknowledgement. ‘If they were lawyers it would be all over town in twenty-four hours, but the only things actuaries ever tell people have numbers in them.’

They sat in silence as the waiter served their first course; home-made, he noted. ‘So,’ the minister whispered as soon as he had left, ‘what was your sudden trip all about?’

‘Dead Belgians. I wanted some information, and I thought their government would be helpful.’

‘But they weren’t?’

‘They treated my colleague and me to dinner in the best hotel in town. Then this morning they gave us the bum’s rush.’

‘I can’t imagine anybody giving you the bum’s rush.’

‘It isn’t over. I will find out what they’re covering up.’

‘Who’s going to tell you?’

‘That I can’t say, not at this stage, anyway.’ He picked up his spoon.

They did justice to dinner for the next half-hour, talking trivia about movies and music, discovering that they were both Lord of the Rings devotees, and Skinner admitting that his off-duty reading consisted mostly of crime fiction.

‘Can’t get away from it?’ Aileen asked.

‘What did you read last?’ he asked her.

‘First Among Equals,’ she confessed. ‘Okay, I know it’s about politics, and I know it was written by a Tory, but it’s still a first-class read.’

The coffee was poured and cooling before the minister steered the discussion back to business. ‘The First Minister came by my office this morning,’ she said. ‘He asked me if I’d heard anything about that poor American policeman.’

Skinner frowned. ‘Aileen,’ he murmured, ‘I’m happy to talk to you all night about policing, but I’m uncomfortable when you get into active investigations . . . especially when Tommy Murtagh’s name’s mentioned.’

‘You really don’t like the First Minister, do you?’

‘Not a lot. I told you, when it comes to my view of politicians, you’re one of the few exceptions to the rule. I don’t trust them, and you should learn to do the same. Do you think Murtagh knew you were seeing me tonight?’

‘It never occurred to me.’

‘Well, it’s the first bloody thing that occurred to me. As it happens we’ve got a strong lead in that investigation, but I don’t want you telling him so. If he wants to know anything of that nature, he should be asking the Lord Advocate, not you, and he’s well aware of that fact. He’s testing you, just to see how compliant you are; watch him.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘I’d certainly never be compliant for him,’ she murmured, with a smile. There was a movement in the doorway behind her. ‘Bob,’ she said, ‘I think they want to close up.’

He looked round and saw that the other table was deserted. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise how the time had gone.’ He glanced at her. ‘Aileen, taxis can be hard to find at this hour. Can I run you home?’

She paused, for maybe half a second. ‘Well, since it’s on your way . . .’ She stood up and slipped on her jacket. ‘Wait for me downstairs, while I sign the bill and pay a visit.’

‘Where are we going?’ he asked her, as she eased herself into the passenger seat.

‘We’re heading towards Portobello. Lena’s place is just off King’s Road.’

‘Fine.’

Skinner was not given to mixing conversation and driving: he found it too easy to concentrate on neither. As they drew away he switched on his CD player, and let Maria Callas fill the car. Aileen de Marco sighed. ‘Ohhh! I just love her.’

‘Unfortunately Onassis didn’t. So she got fat and died. Silly woman.’

‘Are you always such a cynic?’ she asked.

‘No, I just find it astonishing that someone who gave the world so much more than he ever did should have wound up pining away after he dumped her.’

‘Thank God!’ she exclaimed.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Thank God that you don’t understand everything.’

He let the music take over and drove east. Lena McElhone’s flat was in a modern block in a quiet side-street. He pulled up at the front door and turned down the volume on the great diva. ‘Thanks for dinner,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ she replied, ‘for making me realise how much I’ve got to learn, and for helping me shed my political blinkers.’

‘Hah! That’s what I’m doing, is it?’

‘Absolutely. You’re contributing to the better governance of Scotland.’

He shuddered. ‘That’s a horrible Harold Wilson word; you’re from another era. I prefer “administration” myself. It implies more regard for the people.’

‘Why, you’re a closet socialist, Mr Skinner!’

‘Aren’t we all, if we care about people?’

She looked at him. ‘Bob, the coffee was lousy back at the club. Would you like another?’

He glanced at the car clock. It showed ten thirty-six, and he always kept it fast. ‘Yeah, okay. If Lena’s not in her curlers, that is.’