Dead And Buried

been no mention of them on the younger Skinner’s original application to join the police service. At the time, Proud had found this slightly strange: it was some years later that he discovered that Skinner himself had been unaware of his father’s distinctions until after his death.

His imposing deputy was on the chief constable’s mind as he sat at his desk that Friday morning, staring at Kevin O’Malley’s ‘Eyes Only’ report. The psychiatrist was not one to mince his words.

Deputy Chief Constable Skinner [Proud read] has come through another testing operational situation with flying colours. He shows no sign of emotional or psychological damage; indeed, the calmness and detachment which he showed in discussing the events which led to his discharging his weapon mark him out once more as an exceptional person.

In my years in practice, during which I have counselled many officers following potentially traumatic experiences, I have never encountered an individual, not one as rational as he is, at any rate, with such self-control. And yet, that in itself gives me cause for concern. Every person has an emotional breaking point. With most, it is easy to predict when this is likely to occur. With someone who is as tightly wrapped as DCC Skinner it is virtually impossible.

I am aware, since he was willing to discuss it during our session, that he is facing the imminent, and apparently irreversible, break-up of his marriage. I have to say that he appears to be handling this with the same calmness that he shows in professional situations. He and his wife seem to have reached an amicable parting of the ways in which the interests of their children will be paramount, and this is to be welcomed. Nevertheless, the arrangements which he described mean that he is about to become, for the second time in his life, a single parent, throughout the school term at least. Even with domestic assistance, this will impose a further burden upon him.

Mr Skinner has done a great deal in his career, for his force and indeed for his country. He is at an age and in a position of seniority where any other individual would be content to stand back entirely from any operational role that might place him at risk. Yet he is unwilling to do this, arguing that if a situation similar to that with which he has just dealt were to arise again, it would be his duty to assume field command in the absence of anyone with equal experience and skill. It would be easy to say that it is unlikely that such a crisis will occur again in this area, but given the times in which we live such a prediction would be foolish.

I have known Mr Skinner for many years. I would not like to be in a position of having to counsel or, worse, treat him, after he has found where his breaking point lies. I believe that it is in his interests for him to be taken away for a period from any chance that he might have to lead another active operation. I understand from our discussion that he is about to go, for a short period, on special assignment to London. This is timely, and may serve the purpose, but from what I gather it is not likely to be enough. Short of a complete reorganisation of your command structure, and reallocation of responsibilities, I recommend that DCC Skinner, on his return to Edinburgh, be given sabbatical leave for a period of six months.

Proud Jimmy sighed as he finished the report and tossed it into his pending tray. ‘Certainly, Kevin.’ He groaned. ‘Maybe you’d like to try telling him.’

Yes, this was a Chrissie moment, all right, one of those times when his wife’s wish, unspoken but crystal clear nonetheless, seemed very attractive. He enjoyed gardening. His golf clubs were gathering dust in his locker at the Royal Burgess . . . not that they had ever seen much use, but he had always promised himself that there would be a time when they did. There was the book that he wanted to write, the one about the history of policing in the city of Edinburgh. And there was Lady Proud herself, above all, and the time that he knew he owed her.

The moment when he would have no choice but to retire would come soon enough, in a little more than a year, in fact. Christmas was on the way: he would have, potentially, one more of them in post, but by the Easter after that, he would have to be gone. What more could he achieve, he asked himself, between now and then?

Nothing, he answered.

Nothing, other than his most cherished wish: to see Bob Skinner appointed his successor. Normally a deputy would never succeed in his own force, but Proud’s diplomacy had overcome that hurdle years before, by having Skinner’s spell as security adviser to the Secretary of State recognised officially as outside experience.

So what had kept him in the job? Paradoxically, it was Skinner himself, and his ambivalence, his refusal to commit himself to applying for the position. For a while it seemed that he had decided firmly against it, but a wise counsellor had persuaded him to consider where his duty really lay. But still, Proud could not be sure whether, when he did give up the baton, his anointed successor would pick it up.

And now here was Kevin O’Malley, throwing a spanner into the works. Sabbatical leave, indeed; he respected O’Malley, and he saw the merit in his proposal, but the timing was just plain wrong. It was an open secret that the name of Willie Haggerty, his assistant chief constable, was pencilled in for the newly announced vacancy in Dumfries. When that happened a successor would have to be appointed, and he would want to consult his deputy about the candidates. Then there was the unexpected vacancy in the head of CID’s office, brought about by Dan Pringle’s retirement. That would accelerate an intended shake-up of the divisional CID commanders, and Bob would want to be around for that. Indeed, he had already mentioned turning down the London assignment, but Proud had been able to persuade him that it was too important.

He looked at Chrissie’s photograph on his desk. ‘Sorry, love,’ he whispered.

He had just turned back to his morning’s workload when Gerry Crossley, his secretary, buzzed him. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Sir James,’ the young man began. ‘I have a caller on the line who’s asking if she can speak to you, personally.’

‘Police or civilian?’

‘Civilian, sir. She says her name is Trudi Friend, and that it’s a highly sensitive personal matter.’

The chief constable gasped. ‘I’ve never heard of the woman. She’s asking for me personally, you say?’

‘Yes, sir. I asked her if she could give me a little more detail, but she declined. She says that because of the nature of her request she can only explain it to you.’

‘Tell her to explain it in writing, in that case: if it’s a complaint against one of my officers it has to be handled formally.’

‘I’ve told her that already. She assures me that it isn’t; she says that the matter is private and not professional.’

‘How does she sound? Is she hysterical in any way?’

‘Not at all: she’s perfectly calm, and perfectly polite.’

Proud sighed, then looked at the pile of work before him. What was getting him down, if not the routine? ‘In that case, Gerry,’ he said, ‘I’d better be the same. Put her through.’

As he waited, he realised that he was curious. It was an unusual feeling for him. He spent his life being bombarded by briefings, reports, committee minutes, and assorted other facts. Most of the time, people told him things that he already knew. He was protected, expertly, by his secretary and others, from callers outside his circle. He tried to remember the last question he had needed to ask at work, before the three that he had just put to Gerry, and failed.

‘Mrs Friend,’ Crossley announced. He heard the usual click on the line.

‘Sir James?’ The woman’s voice sounded fresh and vigorous.

‘It is. How can I help you?’

‘It’s very complicated, but what it boils down to is this: I’m trying to find my mother.’

The chief constable felt a bristle of indignation, but he controlled it. ‘Mrs Friend,’ he said, ‘there are routine channels for reporting missing persons. You can approach them directly, and save yourself quite a bit of time.’

‘It’s not like that, I assure you; it’s not that simple. I’ve come to you because I believe that you are the person best placed to help me.’

‘How long has your mother been missing?’

‘Forty-one years.’

‘Forty-one . . .’

Trudi Friend cut across his exclamation. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, but there are circumstances. Sir James, does the name Annabelle Gentle mean anything to you?’

The chief constable frowned as his mind travelled back to his teenage years. ‘Annabelle Gentle? No, I’m