14 - Stay of Execution

She looked puzzled. ‘No. What?’

‘His boss . . . I don’t mean the Foreign Secretary; I mean everybody’s boss, the one with the smile . . . wants to be front and centre, alongside the Pope at all the events. With his wife, of course; especially with his wife. Best seats in the house.’

‘It’s news to me.’

‘And to Tommy Murtagh, I’ll bet. I don’t hear any outraged denials from along the table, though.’ He looked at Stringfellow again; the man was tight-lipped, angry, but the look in his eyes confirmed the truth of the DCC’s guess.

‘I’m sure they’ll sort it out between them,’ said the deputy justice minister, cautiously. ‘But what will that do to your security planning?’

‘Nothing. I’m used to working in tandem with the close-protection teams. We protect the area, they protect the individual, just as Giovanni and his logistics team protect the Pope. I’ll let you have a copy of the final programme for the visit, and a summary of the security plan, once Jim’s cleared it.’

‘Thanks. Give Lena a call when it’s ready.’ She turned to her private secretary. ‘You got a card?’ The woman nodded, fished in her handbag for a business card, and handed it to Skinner. Then she turned and left the room, escorted by the chief constable, with her assistant in their wake.

As the DCC went back to his seat, it seemed to him that with her absence the room was just a little more drab, a little more dull. He glanced out of the window and saw that the fog was still thick outside, encircling the Fettes headquarters building like a wall. Daylight seemed to be fighting a battle with the enveloping darkness, one in which it was no more than holding its own.

The summer had been blazing, unnaturally hot, and autumn balmy until, as if to complete the cycle, October had brought a sudden cold snap, culminating in a fog which the Evening News swore . . . and no one was about to argue . . . was the worst seen in Edinburgh for forty-seven years. It had arrived half-way through the previous afternoon; it had not been unannounced, but its density had taken the weather forecasters by surprise. Since early morning, as soon as it had become clear that it would not lift with the dawn, television and radio stations across central Scotland had been broadcasting emergency messages announcing school closures and bus, rail and flight cancellations, and advising everyone to stay indoors, until they could venture out in relative safety. Skinner had been grateful for Neil McIlhenney’s offer of his spare bedroom rather than driving the twenty miles to Gullane at no more than walking pace, then having to leave home before six to reach the office in time. Sarah had understood when he had phoned her; in truth she had sounded indifferent.

‘Gentlemen,’ he called out as he sat, bringing the meeting back to order, ‘the chief has to prepare for a board meeting this morning. He won’t be back, so I’ll take over the chair.’ He looked at Stringfellow. ‘Let’s tie up any loose ends. This visit has been arranged from the start in association with the Executive rather than Westminster. If . . . and it wouldn’t be the first time . . . there are tensions between Downing Street and the First Minister’s office because of it, I don’t want to know. All I want is a final guest list. For what it’s worth I think that having two of the world’s highest profile targets side by side on a series of public platforms is a fucking horrible idea.’ He threw a glance at the Archbishop. ‘If I was wearing your mitre, Jim, I’d advise against it. That said, I do remember His Holiness as a man who doesn’t like to say no. So, if it happens, I’ll protect them. But Mr Rossi and I need to know, and damn soon, because until we do, we can’t finalise our plans.’

He leaned back, feeling suddenly irritable, and uncomfortable in yesterday’s shirt. ‘In fact,’ he said heavily, ‘it’s pointless going on here.’ He pointed at the Foreign Office man. ‘You,’ he pointed at Rennie, ‘and you. Go away and speak to your respective ministers and get this sorted out. I want a final decision on the VIP list, and I want it by close of play today.’

He reached across Willie Haggerty and picked a document off the top of a pile that lay in front of McIlhenney. ‘We’ve spent valuable time preparing this,’ he exclaimed, waving it in the air. ‘If any of it’s going to be knocked on the head, I need to know.’ He felt a final burst of exasperation. ‘And I need to know now!’

6

The high screens that had been erected were, for that moment, mostly unnecessary. Nobody could have seen the thing they were hiding, unless they were less than twenty yards away, and the police had cordoned off an area one hundred yards in diameter to keep the casually curious public and the professionally curious media at a safe distance.

Police Constable Harold ‘Sauce’ Haddock was not a happy young man. He had been on patrol duties for no more than a few months and all of them had been purgatory. For all that older officers assured him that everyone had unlucky runs, it seemed to him that whenever the brown stuff . . . Sauce’s grandfather had been a policeman, and a Free Presbyterian, and he had been forcibly discouraged from swearing . . . hit the fan, it always seemed to splatter on him.

Two days into his time on the panda cars there had been a rail incident, a jumper on to the line from the small footbridge behind the castle: technically it had been one for the transport police, but Sauce and Charlie Johnston, his mate, had picked up the call. Barely a week after that, he had been called to a house in Dalry where a man had been found dead. The unusual difficulty had arisen from the fact that he had been dead for a fortnight. Not long after that there had been a drunk who’d fallen out of a window during a party and impaled himself on railings below. Then there had been those two kids . . . but he didn’t like to think about that.

When they had taken the call, five minutes into the start of their shift, he had known that whatever it was, it would not be the high point of his day. All that the control room had told them was that there had been a call from an agitated but anonymous member of the public asking for police to come to Meadow Walk. The caller had been asked to wait at the scene, but even Sauce was experienced enough to know that there was little chance of that.

For a while, they thought that the call might have been a hoax. They had been edging along George IV Bridge when the shout had come in: it had taken Sauce ten minutes to drive the short distance to George Square, adjacent to Meadow Walk and relatively safe to park in the darkness. They had checked the stretch up to Lauriston Place, but found nothing; they had retraced their steps, going carefully, one on either side of the cycle path and walkway, torches lit as they searched, yard by yard, all the way down to the Meadows.

‘A comedian,’ Charlie had exclaimed at the foot of the walk. ‘Just what we did not fucking need on a morning like this.’ PC Johnston’s grandfather had been a miner and a Communist, given to intemperance in all things, including language. He had been on his way back up to the car when Sauce had called him back, his voice hoarse, not from the fog but from fright.

It had almost been out of his vision, the heavy fruit of the tree: almost but not quite. They approached it inch by inch, almost comically, as if there was a chance of the dark shape leaping down on them. Their torches were useless until they were up against it, or rather him. When he had shone his beam directly into the purple face, with its bulging eyes and its swollen, protruding tongue, he had realised in that same instant that he was adding one more image to his private catalogue of things never to be forgotten as long as he lived.

The body was still hanging from the thick bough as Chief Superintendent Manny English and Detective Inspector Stevie Steele looked up at it, but two constables on ladders were supporting it, one on either side, while a third used a screwdriver as a lever to untie the thick belt that suspended it. The senior officers were close enough to see what was happening, but not directly under the tree, keeping disturbance of the immediate area to a minimum.

They watched as the PCs took the weight, and carefully lowered the burden to the ground, beside the pathway. As soon as they were finished, the on-call medical examiner stepped forward, and knelt beside the stiff, still form. He shone a light into each eyeball, loosened the leather noose and drew it over the head, then tested each of the limbs. Within a minute he jumped to his feet, nodding emphatically to himself.

‘He’s been up there since last night,’ he announced. ‘Rigor mortis is fully established; that indicates that he’s been dead for around twelve hours . . . or more, of course.’

‘It’s feasible,’ said Steele. ‘In the darkness of last night you could have walked past within a couple of yards of him and never have known he was there.’

‘Aye,’ muttered English, ‘but who was he, and why didn’t anyone come looking for him?’