07 - Skinner's Ghosts Read online

  Skinner's Ghosts

  QUINTIN JARDINE

  headline

  www.headline.co.uk

  Copyright © 1998 Quintin Jardine

  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.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

  in which it is published and without a similar condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2008

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  eISBN : 978 0 7553 5359 0

  This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachettelivre.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Quintin Jardine was a journalist before joining the

  Government Information Service where he spent nine

  years as an advisor to Ministers and Civil Servants.

  Later he moved into political PR, until in 1986 he

  ‘privatized’ himself, to become an independent public

  relations consultant and writer.

  This book, like those which went before, and those

  which will follow, was inspired by my wife.

  Catherine Campbell ‘Irene’ Jardine

  1946-1997

  Kate, my lovely Kate.

  1

  The woman walked, at a steady unhurried pace, down the middle of the village road.

  She was wearing the wig and gown of one of Her Majesty’s Counsel, a formal, enveloping uniform which served to emphasise, rather than mask, her advanced years. She was small, and bird-like in her features, with a few grey whiskers sprouting among her wrinkles; clearly, she was very old.

  Yet for all that, she walked straight-backed and steadily in front of the hearse, and its burden, as she led it down the main street, down the short distance from the great grey castellated house to Aberlady’s churchyard, and to the grave which awaited. As she approached, in the doorway of the church a lone piper played a lament.

  ‘Who is she?’ asked Pamela Masters.

  Beside her, at the wheel of the white BMW as they sat at the head of the queue of waiting traffic, Deputy Chief Constable Bob Skinner smiled.

  ‘Don’t you know, Sergeant?’ He paused. ‘But then I don’t suppose you would. It’s been a long time since even I’ve seen her in action.

  ‘She is Christabel Innes Dawson, QC; in her heyday, the only woman silk in Scotland, and one of the very finest too.’

  ‘And who’s . . .’

  ‘Who’s in the chest? That is Lord Orlach, Senator of the College of Justice, and Lord Justice Clerk for what seemed like about a hundred years. Old Orlach was the last of the Supreme Court judges not to be subject to compulsory retirement. He finally did step down though, last year.’

  ‘And Christabel’s his widow?’

  Skinner drew in his breath, and shook his head. ‘Christ no! Orlach’s wife died donkeys’ years ago, but he and she never married. He had his town house in Heriot Row, and latterly his country seat out here, while she had her establishment in India Street, with the brass plate on the door saying “Miss Dawson, Advocate”. They had a relationship though, that lasted fifty years, until the old boy died last week.

  ‘When he was plain John Stevenson KC . . .’

  ‘KC?’ Pamela interrupted.

  ‘Aye, King’s Counsel; it was that far back . . . and she was a junior, admitted to the Faculty of Advocates almost over the dead body of the Dean of the time; he took her on to assist him in a capital murder trial. Their affair began back then.’

  He glanced across at the pretty, dark-haired woman in the passenger seat. ‘It was never admitted, or discussed, though.’ He smiled, at a memory. ‘They really did think they were being discreet, too. There’s a story about Orlach, that once, in the New Club, an Outer House judge asked him how Christabel was . . . as innocently as that. Orlach froze him with a look, and afterwards, every time one of that judge’s decisions came before him on appeal, the old boy would reverse it.’

  ‘Why didn’t they marry?’ she asked him.

  Skinner laughed again, softly. ‘Well at first, Mrs Stevenson wouldn’t have approved. Then, by the time of her death, Orlach was on the Bench. It was never said of course, but the feeling was that if they had got hitched, Christabel would have had to leave the Bar. The rules were such that you could never have been sure that she wouldn’t have wound up pleading a case before her husband, and that wouldn’t have done at all.’

  He smiled at the black-gowned figure as she drew nearer, then suddenly and spontaneously stepped out of the car and stood beside it. As she turned to lead the hearse into the churchyard, Christabel Innes Dawson, QC, glanced
sideways and gave him the briefest nod of recognition.

  ‘Of course,’ he said as he folded himself back into the driver’s seat, ‘the fact that they didn’t marry meant that she could and did appear before him without restraint.’ He laughed again, out loud this time. ‘I remember she cross-examined me once in a criminal trial, with Orlach as presiding judge. Andy Martin too. He was raw at the time and she knew it. At the end she was screaming at him like a banshee, and old Orlach let her get on with it.’

  ‘Did she try it on with you too?’ Pamela asked.

  ‘No, fortunately. She had a degree of respect for DI rank and above, but detective constables and sergeants . . . she chewed ’em up and spat out the bits.’

  He looked at her mischievously. ‘She still appears, you know. A few times a year she’ll take on the defence in a High Court trial. More often than not she gets an acquittal. Maybe we can fix it for you to be a police witness in one of them.’

  She snorted, and flounced her dark hair. ‘No thank you!’

  As the hearse passed through the churchyard gates, the uniformed police officer who had stopped the traffic turned to Skinner, saluted and waved him on. The DCC nodded an acknowledgement and slipped the car into gear.

  He glanced to his left as he passed the church, as the old lady moved to join the congregation inside.

  ‘All these years maintaining their discreet front,’ he murmured, ‘yet when the time comes she leads him to the grave. There’s a nobility about that, though, Pam, is there not?’

  She looked at him, as the BMW snaked though the chicane exit from Aberlady, heading for Gullane. ‘Maybe there is. What I can see though is a situation that’s a bit close to home. I’m as big a secret as old Christabel there . . . or so you think.’

  ‘What d’you mean . . . so I think? I haven’t told anyone, not even Andy. So who would know?’

  ‘Ruth McConnell, your secretary, for a start. D’you think she hasn’t guessed? DCI Rose for another. God, her eyebrows went up when you made me your Exec six months ago!’

  Skinner shrugged his shoulders. ‘But I replaced you with Neil McIlhenney after two months.’

  ‘Sure, and DCS Martin was delighted to have me added to his personal staff, wasn’t he?’ she said ironically.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘He never said a word to me. I told him that we had agreed you’d be better working for him and he accepted that at face value.’

  She twisted in her seat to look at him. ‘Okay, so tell me why, when she called into the office two days ago to see Mr Martin, your daughter . . . his fiancée . . . froze me like a block of ice with a single look. Not, I suggest, because she thinks I fancy Andy.’

  Skinner frowned at her. ‘You don’t think Ruth’s been talking, do you?’ He sounded genuinely shocked.

  ‘Of course not,’ she said at once. ‘DCS Martin’s figured it out, and told Alex. He’d do that, wouldn’t he?’

  Her companion sighed. ‘Well they live together, so I guess so. Those two have no secrets from each other. But, hold on. Even if Andy and Alex have guessed, they wouldn’t let on to anyone else.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Pamela, demurely. ‘But are you as confident of Sergeant Boyd, from the Haddington nick, who stopped the traffic back there in Aberlady, and recognised both you and me: in casual clothes heading towards Gullane, where you have a cottage . . . and on a Friday afternoon to boot? Even a plonker like him will have put two and two together from that. Jesus, he’s probably been on the radio to HQ already.’

  He nodded. ‘Touché. You’ve got me there.’ He fell silent as he swung the car round a long left-handed bend, and drove them past the small stone cairn, marking the entrance to Luffness Golf Club, settling deep into brooding thought, until long after he had closed the door of the cottage behind them.

  Finally, as they sat on wooden chairs in the secluded garden, enjoying the warm summer sun, he turned to her.

  ‘So,’ he said, with the beginning of a frown, ‘are you giving me the message, Pam, love? Do you want me to put us on an official footing? Or do you just want out?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, out is certainly not what I want . . . unless you’ve decided you want your wife back. If that’s the case then I’m off like a shot. To tell you the truth, when you went off to the States in May for your wee boy’s first birthday, I was more than half expecting you to bring them back with you.’

  Bob frowned more heavily, and fell silent once more. ‘To be as honest with you,’ he said at last, ‘I thought that might have happened too, despite what you and I have together. Coming home and leaving the wee fella behind was one of the toughest things I’ve ever had to do. But there’s a wall between Sarah and me that we couldn’t break down. I guess she’s gone native again, gone back to being an American. Somehow she isn’t the woman I met and married.’

  Pamela laughed, suddenly and with a trace of mockery. ‘Nonsense!’ she said. ‘Of course she is. It’s just that you’ve never seen her in her native environment before. Also, for the first time in your lives you’re seeing her take up a position which isn’t exactly in support of yours. You can add to that the fact that she’s probably never seen you on the defensive before.’

  ‘Well okay,’ he said, wearily. ‘So we’ve both seen each other in a new light, and neither of us could handle it. Whatever the case, I won’t get back together with her just for the baby’s sake. That wouldn’t be right for any of us. Anyway, she’s made it clear where she wants to be. Remember what she said in her goodbye note about not wanting to be stuck in Edinburgh for the rest of her life. She has a hospital job in the States now, and she’s doing scene-of-crime work for the local police.’

  ‘Is she seeing anyone, do you think?’ she asked, softly.

  The question took him by surprise, so much that he was unable to keep the hurt from showing in his eyes. ‘Possibly,’ he said, quietly. ‘I’m not sure, but I think she could be.’

  ‘But you didn’t tell her about us?’

  ‘No. Like I said, I didn’t. I thought it was maybe too soon for that.’

  ‘You mean you thought you’d keep your options open?’

  ‘No! I didn’t want to kick her in the teeth, that’s all.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Or maybe I was just chicken.’

  She raised an eyebrow, a gesture denoting scepticism. ‘Chicken? The great Bob Skinner was chicken?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘We all run from something,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Come on, what are you saying to me, Pamela? Like I asked you before. Is all this too heavy for you? Do you want us to chuck it?’

  She pushed herself out of her chair, knelt on the concrete paving, at his feet, and laid her head in his lap for a few seconds, rubbing her face from side to side against his thighs. Finally she looked up at him, still shaking her head. ‘No I don’t want that . . . although God knows I should. You’re the DCC; I’m a sergeant. You’re married, even if you are legally separated. Madness, sheer madness.

  ‘But no, what I am saying is that you and I don’t have the option of being like Old Christabel and Lord So and So. We can’t keep that sort of secret.’

  He frowned at her again, knitting his brows heavily, accentuating the deep vertical line above the bridge of his nose, and the scar which ran alongside it. ‘Why not? I always tell my troops that their private lives are their own as long as it’s consistent with duty and discipline. We’re not working together any more, so why are we different?’

  She squeezed his thighs, hard. ‘Because we are, man! Look, are you or are you not the Secretary of State’s security adviser? Were you or were you not a candidate for the top job in the Met until Sir Derrick Raymond agreed to do another two years? Do you or do you not want Chief Constable rank somewhere? Three Yes’s: don’t you tell me differently.

  ‘Bob, you’ve got that ambition, and that potential, and here you are, sleeping with a detective sergeant under your command!’

  ‘Not in the office, I ain’t,’ he said doggedly. He almost ad
ded, ‘Besides, maybe I care more about you than about all that stuff,’ but something held him back.

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Fine. So why haven’t you told your daughter about me? Or Andy Martin? Or the Chief? Or am I wrong? Have you briefed the Command Corridor, off the record?’

  He threw up his hands. ‘Okay! Okay! Okay!’

  ‘Well!’ She sighed, and paused. ‘Look, I’m not asking for a public declaration of undying love. I like it the way it is, as long as you’re completely and genuinely separated from Sarah. I love being with you. You excite me more than anyone I’ve ever known. But your companionship . . . and great sex, of course . . . for now that’s enough for me. As long as it doesn’t do you harm, and as long as it doesn’t compromise your future career. So think about it, eh?’

  Skinner sighed. ‘Okay sweetheart. I know you’re right, and I’ll do something about it. I’ll tell the Chief, Andy and Alex . . . probably in reverse order. But in my own time . . .’ He pointed a finger at her, suddenly, ‘. . . and mind, I won’t be seeking their advice or approval.’

  ‘What if Andy Martin wants me off his staff once you’ve told him?’ she asked him.

  ‘I’ll deal with that if it happens.’ Abruptly he stood up, gathering her in his arms. ‘Meantime . . . what was that you were saying about great sex?’

  2

  The telephone rang four times, before the automatic answering machine picked up the call. As she heard Bob’s recorded voice giving the response, Pamela sat up in bed, a sheen of perspiration glistening lightly on her back.

  A few seconds later, the caller left the invited message. Neither she nor Bob could hear what was said, but both recognised the inflections of Detective Chief Superintendent Andy Martin’s even, steady baritone.

  She nodded in the direction of the bedside telephone. ‘Go on, pick it up,’ she urged him.

  He grinned at her, tugging at her arm to draw her back down beside him. ‘Later. Chances are it’s work. If it is, I’m not letting it in here.’