State Secrets Read online

  Copyright © 2017 Portador Ltd

  The right of Quintin Jardine to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2017 by

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  First published as an Ebook in 2017 by

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire

  Cover photograph © Tim Daniels/Arcangel Images

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 0577 3

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Praise for Quintin Jardine

  Also by Quintin Jardine

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  About the Author

  Quintin Jardine was born once upon a time in the West: of Scotland rather than America, but still he grew to manhood as a massive Sergio Leone fan. On the way there he was educated, against his will, in Glasgow, where he ditched a token attempt to study law for more interesting careers in journalism, government propaganda and political spin-doctoring. After a close call with the Brighton Bomb, he moved into the riskier world of media realtions consultancy, before realising that all along he had been training to become a crime writer.

  Now, more than forty published novels later, he never looks back. Along the way he has created/acquired an extended family in Scotland and Spain. Everything he does is for them.

  He can be tracked down through his website www.quintinjardine.com.

  Praise for Quintin Jardine

  ‘A masterclass in how murder-mysteries ought to be written’ Scots magazine

  ‘Well constructed, fast-paced, Jardine’s narrative has many an ingenious twist and turn’ Observer

  ‘A triumph. I am first in the queue for the next one’ Scotland on Sunday

  ‘Very engaging as well as ingenious, and the unravelling of the mystery is excellently done’ Allan Massie, Scotsman

  ‘Remarkably assured, raw-boned, a tour de force’ New York Times

  ‘The perfect mix for a highly charged, fast-moving crime thriller’ Glasgow Herald

  ‘[Quintin Jardine] sells more crime fiction in Scotland than John Grisham and people queue around the block to buy his latest book’ The Australian

  ‘Engrossing, believable characters . . . captures Edinburgh beautifully . . . It all adds up to a very good read’ Edinburgh Evening News

  By Quintin Jardine and available from Headline

  Bob Skinner series:

  Skinner’s Rules

  Skinner’s Festival

  Skinner’s Trail

  Skinner’s Round

  Skinner’s Ordeal

  Skinner’s Mission

  Skinner’s Ghosts

  Murmuring the Judges

  Gallery Whispers

  Thursday Legends

  Autographs in the Rain

  Head Shot

  Fallen Gods

  Stay of Execution

  Lethal Intent

  Dead and Buried

  Death’s Door

  Aftershock

  Fatal Last Words

  A Rush of Blood

  Grievous Angel

  Funeral Note

  Pray for the Dying

  Hour of Darkness

  Last Resort

  Private Investigations

  Game Over

  State Secrets

  Primavera Blackstone series:

  Inhuman Remains

  Blood Red

  As Easy As Murder

  Deadly Business

  As Serious as Death

  Oz Blackstone series:

  Blackstone’s Pursuits

  A Coffin for Two

  Wearing Purple

  Screen Savers

  On Honeymoon with Death

  Poisoned Cherries

  Unnatural Justice

  Alarm Call

  For the Death of Me

  The Loner

  Mathew’s Tale

  About the Book

  The twenty-eighth Bob Skinner mystery . . .

  Former Chief Constable Bob Skinner is long out of the police force but trouble has a habit of following him around. So it is that he finds himself in the Palace of Westminster as a shocking act befalls the nation.

  Hours before the Prime Minister is due to make a controversial statement, she is discovered in her office with a letter opener driven through her skull.

  Is the act political? Personal? Or even one of terror?

  Skinner is swiftly enlisted by the Security Service to lead the investigation. Reunited with Met Police Commander Neil McIlhenney, he has forty-eight hours to crack the case – before the press unleash their wrath.

  There are many in the tangled web of government with cause to act. But the outcome will be one that not even Skinner himself could predict . . .

  This is in memory of Our Liz; God bless and keep her.

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks to Baron Foulkes of Cumnock for taking me back to where much of this book is set, to the great Ian Rankin for reminding me of the existence of Soor Plooms, sugar free, at exactly the right moment, and to Kirsti for providing me with the means and the inspiration.

  While some of the setting
s are real, the events and characters in this novel are entirely the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any real person is purely coincidental.

  One

  Did I really want to be ennobled? Did I see myself as Baron Skinner of Gullane?

  No I didn’t, when the question had been put. Being Chief Constable Skinner gave me a higher profile than I liked, and I’ve been happy to be shot of that title. However, I’d been invited to discuss the possibility, in good faith as far as I knew, so it would have been churlish of me to reject it out of hand . . . even though the invitation had come to me via my ex-wife.

  And also, as I said to Sarah, the potential Lady Skinner, while I had been a visitor to the Westminster village several times in the later years of my police career, I had never been in their lordships’ House; the chance to cross that off my bucket list was too good to pass up.

  Not so long ago, I wouldn’t have had time to fit it in, not when I was a serving officer, head of Scotland’s largest force before it was replaced by one even larger, the controversial and almost universally unloved Scottish Police Service.

  My critics, and there were plenty of them, rounded on me when I decided not to pursue my application for the position of chief constable, but it isn’t a decision I’ve ever regretted. The truth of the matter was, I was well past my ‘best before’ date as a cop when I quit; most of my close colleagues knew that, but none of them ever told me. I like to believe they were too loyal, rather than too fearful, to suggest it.

  Any post-career visions or fears I might have entertained of becoming a house parent and scratch golfer were soon blown away, by a couple of private commissions from friends and acquaintances with problems that needed sorting, and another from my older daughter Alex, who is beginning to make a name for herself as a criminal defence lawyer.

  They helped me keep my hand in, so to speak, and led me into a couple of situations that got my investigative juices flowing again. One day, chewing the fat with some pals in the golf club, I said I might set up a website and call it ‘Skinner Solutions’; they knew I was joking, but a journalist in the bar overheard me and took me seriously. He ran the story; I might have had the devil’s own job knocking it down, had I not been well placed to do so.

  As a bonus, the first of my private investigations led to me being appointed a part-time executive director of an international media group called, appropriately if unimaginatively, InterMedia. That gives me an office in central Edinburgh, and pays me an almost embarrassing salary, for a theoretical one day’s work per week, although in practice I enjoy it so much that I give it much more than that.

  Most days you’ll find me there, on the executive floor of the building that houses the Saltire, the group’s Scottish flagship, the only title in the land that maintains its circulation in print form in the face of an all-out assault by digital media.

  Not that morning, though, not that fateful morning, as I passed patiently through the detailed but very necessary security process that protects the centre of the British state from the mad, the bad, the fools and the fanatics. It isn’t perfect, though; no system ever will be. For example, it didn’t find the blue plastic Victorinox SwissCard that I had forgotten was tucked away in a pocket of my Filofax.

  There isn’t much to it, only a rectangle not much bigger than a credit card, but there are a couple of things in it that should not have evaded the check. I only remembered about it as I was walking into the Central Lobby, but since I had no intention of killing anyone, it didn’t matter.

  Being Monday, the parliamentary gathering place was less busy than it had been on my previous visits, for security meetings or, once, to appear before a powerless but self-important select committee of grandstanding backbench MPs. There was still some action, though. It was autumn, the party conference season was over, parliament was back from its extended holidays, and political warfare had been resumed.

  A Scots voice floated through the rest and caught my ear. I turned towards it, thinking for a moment that it was my one-woman welcoming committee, but saw instead the BBC’s political editor recording a piece to camera for the midday news.

  In the event, Aileen de Marco was late, ten minutes late. I didn’t mind, for I spent the time chatting with a couple of the new breed of Scottish members who recognised me and introduced themselves. Both of them knew all about me, or thought they did. One was my constituency MP, a sharp guy; the other was blunt, and just plain curious. It took him only a couple of minutes to ask me flat out what I was doing there, since I wasn’t a cop any longer.

  I told him I was down on a lobbying mission. It wasn’t a lie; I didn’t say who was being lobbied, that’s all.

  He was trying to frame a supplementary question when Aileen arrived, calling out her apologies for the delay. ‘Sorry, Bob, I was collared by the Chief Whip.’

  She was the Opposition as far as my new acquaintances were concerned, more so than the sitting government. The nosy guy turned on his heel and walked away. His companion was rather more polite. ‘Ms de Marco,’ he murmured, raising an eyebrow.

  She smiled at him; there was no malice in it, only amusement. ‘It’s okay, George,’ she said. ‘My former husband and I do still speak on occasion.’ Then she frowned, switching to business mode. ‘How does your leader intend to react to the defence statement this afternoon?’ she asked.

  ‘He hasn’t told me. It’ll depend on what’s in it, I suppose. Have you been briefed?’

  ‘No.’ Her frown deepened. ‘That’s becoming typical of the ruling cabal. They see us as severely wounded and hope to finish us off next time around, so the old courtesies are in abeyance. Have you been given any clue?’

  ‘No, but we wouldn’t be,’ my constituency member replied. ‘We’re still the hooligans in the eyes of the PM and her hatchet man, the Home Secretary. They think we’d leak it if we were briefed in advance.’ He winked. ‘We bloody would too.’

  ‘Nobody’s being briefed on this one,’ Aileen complained, ‘not even the political editors. I’m not sure what that means. I called Mickey Satchell . . . the Prime Minister’s pumped-up, self-important little PPS,’ she added, for my benefit, I assumed, ‘and not even she knows . . . or so she assured me.’

  ‘I tried her too,’ her colleague said. ‘Same result. Yes,’ he chuckled, ‘Mickey is up herself, isn’t she. Boots on the ground in the Middle East was the speculation I heard on Radio Four this morning.’

  Aileen shook her head. ‘No. I have a friend on the Army General Staff. They’d know if that was happening and they don’t.’

  ‘In that case we’ll have killed another terrorist with a drone missile. That’s my best guess.’ He glanced up at me. ‘What do you think, Bob?’

  ‘More likely they’ve killed civilians by mistake,’ I suggested, ‘but that would probably have been leaked by the victim’s side by now. Seems to me it’s either something very big or something very small. If you like, I could call the Saltire news desk and find out what they’re speculating . . . if anything.’

  My new friend pointed across the Central Lobby. ‘I’ll save you a phone call,’ he said. ‘I’ll just walk across and ask its political editor; whatever their reply is, it’d be coming from him.’

  ‘Collared by the Chief Whip, eh?’ I murmured as he left us. ‘Parliamentary language never ceases to amuse me.’

  ‘You could be a whip yourself if you come on board in the other place,’ she countered.

  ‘If,’ I repeated. ‘I still don’t get this, Aileen; this invitation out of the blue. You know I didn’t vote for your lot, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve always assumed you didn’t,’ she admitted. ‘But you fell out with the SNP as well over the national police force. So I figured that you were at best neutral.’

  ‘And at worst, Tory?’ I countered, smiling.

  ‘I never thought that for a second.
Have that lot offered you a peerage?’ she asked.

  ‘I was offered a knighthood,’ I replied, ‘which I turned down, twice; a peerage, no.’

  ‘The K is routine for your police rank, regardless of politics, and you know it. If you were a Tory you’d have been offered a seat in the Lords by now.’

  I had to challenge her assumption, right or wrong. ‘Hold on a minute; you know very well that through all my police career I was politically neutral. A senior cop has to be.’

  ‘Of course I know that, but we were married, Bob. We got drunk together and you let your real self out, more than once.’ She tapped her chest. ‘In there you’re left of centre. Not very far left, I’ll admit, but it’s there.’

  ‘Privately, yes,’ I conceded, ‘but I always steered clear of public politics . . .’ I stopped myself, just in time, from adding, ‘. . . until I married you.’ That would have taken the encounter in a direction that I wanted to avoid.

  Aileen sensed it and nodded. ‘But you voted. You said more than once that it’s your duty as a citizen.’

  ‘Yes I voted,’ I agreed, ‘until last time, the last Scottish parliament elections. Then, I gave myself a day off, because none of the parties were saying anything that I wanted to hear.’

  ‘But you’re prepared to hear what we’ve got to say to you today?’

  ‘Out of politeness, yes, and a bit of curiosity too. Who am I meeting? You and who else?’

  ‘Not me,’ she said, quickly. ‘Not for the business discussion. I’m just the honey trap they used to get you down here. You’ll be met in the other place by Baroness Mercer, our leader in the Lords, and by Lord Pilmar, the senior Scottish peer. Do you know either of them?’

  ‘I’ve heard of her, but that’s all. Paddy Pilmar I know quite well from his days as an MP in Edinburgh. What’s the lady like?’

  ‘Academic,’ Aileen replied, ‘with a journalistic background. She was economics editor on one of the broadsheets . . . I can never remember which . . . then had a chair at a red-brick university in the north-west. Intellectually she’s top drawer; she’s capable on her feet in the chamber, but she’s remote from her troops. Her main job is to keep the party on message in the Lords and to keep Merlin’s feet on the ground in the shadow Cabinet.’