Mackenzie grinned. 'She has an extra incentive.'
'What might that be?'
'She fancies a transfer to Edinburgh. I told her you could swing it for her.'
The DCC laughed at his sheer audacity. 'And she believed you?'
'Of course, because it's true. You can do that, boss … you did it for me.'
'Hah! You flatter yourself: I brought you through here to take a load of trouble off the hands of my chief officer colleagues in Strathclyde. I was doing them a favour, not you.'
'That's not what my ACC said when he approved my transfer; he called you a thieving bastard, sir, as I recall.'
Skinner grunted. 'Ungrateful sod. She's good is she, this DS Gwen Dell?'
'I rate her.'
'Tell her to apply for transfer, then. I'll keep my hands off it, though; I'll arrange for the new head of CID to process it.'
'Eh?' Neil McIlhenney exclaimed, sharply.
'Within this room for now, please, till there's an official announcement.' Skinner told the two chief inspectors of Dan Pringle's decision. 'I have to respect his wishes,' he said. 'I thought about trying to talk him out of it but, honest to God, he's a broken man.'
'So who…?'
'I haven't had time to think about that, Neil. It's an appointment I didn't think we'd have to make for another year or two. For the moment, I'll do the job myself, till the present crises are over.'
'What?' Mackenzie intervened. 'We've got more than one?'
'Always,' Skinner shot back, covering his slip of the tongue. 'Did you think you'd come to a cushy number?' He leaned on the desk. 'Let's concentrate on this one for now, though. Frankie Jakes.' He jabbed a finger at one of two images on the desk: it showed a man with dark, scowling eyes, a low forehead, and a scar on his stubbled chin. 'This ugly boy. What did Dell tell you about him?'
'Age twenty-nine, or at least that's what his asylum documents said. They also gave his real name as Branko Janevski, and his home city as Skopje. He was granted asylum five years ago, on the ground that he'd been ethnically cleansed, but the view in Strathclyde CID is that you couldn't cleanse Frankie with a high-pressure hose.'
'Do they know of any Albanian connection?'
'That's why he was allowed to stay. A lot of Macedonians have ethnic Albanian origins; when things went nasty in the break-up of Yugoslavia, they were persecuted. A lot were killed; the younger guys like Frankie got out any way they could and headed for Calais.'
'What about his criminal activity?'
'Small time; that's what I was told. He's suspected of dealing, as we knew already, and of being hired muscle for gangs across the river. His name was mentioned in connection with a shooting in Paisley a while back, but only in the passing, and he wasn't even interviewed. He has a couple of arrests on his record, but no convictions. The closest shave he had was two years ago, when he was caught with a supply of ecstasy tabs. He was going to be charged with possession with intent to supply, but the drugs got nicked from the evidence room before he got to court.'
Skinner tapped the other photograph. It showed a much younger, less menacing man, clean-shaven with slightly frightened eyes. 'Who's the other guy? 'Bobby Jakes', it says here.'
'That's right; his real name's Bobi Janevski, Frankie's wee brother, said to be nineteen years old. He came over with him, and he's never far from his side. They share a flat in Dumbarton Road. He was lifted along with Frankie on the ecstasy thing, but that's the closest call he's had.'
'Okay, those are the guys; what about the pub?'
'The Johnny Groat's an old-fashioned boozer in Cameron Street, not far from where they live. The owner has half a dozen small pubs, with a manager in each. He lives in Skelmorlie and he doesn't give a shit about them. It's run-down and shabby and so are the punters. The local CID look in every so often, but they can't be everywhere, and there never seems to be much happening.'
'What's your cover story when you're in there?'
'If anyone asks, we're night-shift porters at the Western Infirmary,' McIlhenney told him. 'We've just been transferred from the Royal; that's why we're not known around there.'
'Sounds okay,' the DCC conceded. 'So, when will you be in there?'
'Tonight. I've got someone to see here, and then we'll be off.'
'Have you told your wives what you're doing?'
'No detail, obviously. Stake-out is near enough to the truth.'
'How did Lou take it?'
'She didn't press me on it, but I can tell she's worried.'
'How about your wife, Bandit?'
The chief inspector shot him his most disarming grin. 'Her exact words, boss? 'Jesus Christ and General Jackson, David, not another weekend up the bloody spout!' She's well used to it by now.'
Forty-five
Andy Martin had respected Rod Greatorix from their first meeting in his own early days as head of CID in Edinburgh. They had both been detective chief superintendents then, opposite numbers in their respective forces, and he had found his colleague to be a ready and valuable sounding board.
If Greatorix had ever resented the younger man's appointment to the Tayside deputy chief constable post, he had kept it to himself, and their good working relationship had continued in their new circumstances. Thus when Martin invited him to lunch with him in his office, there seemed nothing unusual about it.
As they ate, their conversation across the table had been restricted to golf, and to the unlikelihood of either being able to play that weekend as the weather closed in. It was not until they had reached the coffee stage that the DCC turned to what was on his mind. 'How long have you been in post, Rod?' he asked.
'Twelve long bloody years, Andy. Your old colleague, Dan Pringle, is the same age as me, to within a month, and he's only had his job since you left it. Are you going to tell me I've been in it too long?'
The question took Martin by surprise. 'God, no!' he replied. 'You're one of the biggest assets this force has got. The chief and I are only sorry that you can't do another twelve long bloody years.' He paused. 'You should be sitting in this office, you know. It didn't occur to me when I applied for the job that my conscience would bother me after I got it.'
'Then let it rest in peace. Nobody was ever going to appoint someone my age to chief officer rank, and you know it.'
'Maybe I do, but maybe also I don't agree with that, as a matter of principle. You earn things in this life. You earned the silver braid on your hat and the lift in your pension. It's not your fault that my predecessor was only a couple of years older than you and chose to sit out his career here until the last possible moment'
'There was nothing to be done about it, though, was there? And anyway, it was my own fault: I could have had an ACC job in Inverness ten years ago, but my wife didn't want to move up there. So don't you worry about that; I'm content.'
'I'm glad for you,' said Martin, 'for I'm not'
Greatorix was taken aback. 'Why the hell not? You're on a fast-track to the stars, son. What have you got to be worried about?'
'The future, Rod; not mine in particular, but everybody's in this service. Have you heard any talk about a new bill that's coming up in the Parliament?'
The older man chuckled. 'I'm long past bothering about those things. Let them get on with it, I say.' He sipped his coffee. 'But I thought this new Justice Minister was supposed to be a good act. With her in post, why are you concerned?'
'Because she's not calling the shots. This new bill, Rod, it'll be introduced next week. Let me tell you what it
