14 - Stay of Execution Page 3

  He had not been deterred, though, and had continued to ply his trade, without further serious mishap.

  Where others might have been reluctant to go to work in severe weather conditions, wee Moash regarded them as windows of opportunity. People were distracted and tended to be even more careless than usual. Frost made them bundle up in thick overcoats, which could be easily nicked from restaurant waiting rooms, while rain made them keep their heads down, and much less likely to notice him as he went about his business.

  Where the sudden fog that had clamped down was nothing short of a public emergency to others, to him it was a gift from above. He had always been able to steal successfully in broad daylight, and a city where nobody could see him was a laden vine waiting to be stripped of its grapes.

  Marchmont and its environs had always been one of his favourite pitches. Many of the tall grey terraces still lacked secure entrance doors, and people, especially those idle bloody students that seemed to inhabit the place like rabbits in a warren, were daft enough to think that if something was out of sight in a stairwell or back court, then it was out of the mind of someone like him. Wrong.

  He had a girl-friend in Lochview . . . Moash Glazier had no permanent address, but he had two lady acquaintances and split his nights between them, when not enjoying free board and lodging elsewhere. He crept from her house just after six a.m., made his way up across the Pleasance, being careful to give St Leonards police station a wide berth even in the fog, and made his way up Nicolson Street and Clerk Street towards his hunting ground.

  He did not like to hang about: ‘in and out quick’ was his motto, in all things. That morning, he was especially lucky. In the first building he visited, he found a pair of almost new, if muddy, boots on a front step . . . ‘Thanks very much, yah daft radge’ . . . a case of tools . . . ‘Aye, that’ll be right’ . . . and an unsecured mountain bike . . . ‘Lady’s tae go by the size, even if it dis hae a crossbar.’

  Sixty seconds later, wee Moash Glazier was pedalling along Warrender Park Road, the boots hung round his neck, with their laces knotted together. He knew better than to touch the tools. In any event what he had was easily saleable, and enough to keep his elbow on the bar top for a while. There was no need to hurry. No one was going anywhere that morning, so as soon as he was out of sight of the building . . . after a couple of seconds . . . he was safe. It was only when he started drawing deeper draughts of air that he realised how cold it was. The temperature was around freezing, but seemed much colder in the thick greyness. The roadway was treacherous too, so he took extra care, and went even more steadily than at the outset.

  He stuck to the middle of the carriageway, since there was more danger of hitting a parked car than being hit by a moving one; he was almost across Marchmont Road before he knew it, and turned left.

  The traffic lights at the junction with Melville Drive shone dim red through the fog; he laughed as he rode through them and crossed over into the Meadows. There was a pathway at the entrance to the broad fields; even if he had known that it was called Jawbone Walk, it would never have occurred to him to wonder why. It was white with frost, and so rather than risk his limbs on it, he used it as a guide and cycled on the grass alongside it.

  Moash had stolen more than a few bikes in his time, and as a result was a good cyclist. He could handle the gears on the most complicated modern machine, and on occasion kept one that he had nicked for a few days as a getaway vehicle. For all the cold, as he rode across the Meadows, he was actually enjoying himself. He laughed maniacally in the gloom, then threw back his head, slapped his saddlebag with his right hand, and cried out, ‘Hi ho, Silver! Awa . . .’

  He was in mid-yell when something hard hit him full in the chest. He was knocked backwards off his faithful steed, landing on his shoulders on the cold, hard, wet ground and turning a full somersault before coming to rest face down.

  Wee Moash was not a fighting man; he knew the basics, but experience had taught him that flight was usually more expedient. But he was so taken aback by his involuntary dismount that he jumped to his feet, fists raised and ready to square up to his attacker.

  ‘Ya bass!’ he shouted, advancing on the dark figure, stopping in his tracks only when he realised that it seemed to be hovering in mid-air. In an instant his natural caution returned. He took a closer look, the figure was dark indeed, and as he drew closer he realised that this was due in part at least to the fact that it was wearing a heavy Crombie overcoat. It was also wearing black leather shoes.

  Moash advanced until he could reach out and touch the thing; he did, and as it swung slowly round, he looked up and into its face.

  ‘OhmyGoad!’ he screamed. He backed away in panic, tripping over something that lay on the ground and landing heavily on his backside, jumping up again as he felt the wetness soak through his jeans, thinking for a moment that he had pissed himself, until he recognised to his relief that it was only the hoary frost on the ground.

  ‘OhmyGoad!’ A whisper this time, tinged with awe as his fear evaporated.

  And then three instincts kicked into action. The first was one he rarely used: common decency. He took from his jacket pocket the mobile phone that he had stolen the day before, but had been unable to sell, and dialled nine, three times. ‘Emergency services,’ an operator answered. ‘Which service do you require?’

  ‘Nane,’ he answered, ‘but ye need the police in the Meadows. Fit o’ the walkway, ahent the old Royal.’

  He ended the call and responded to his second instinct: opportunism. He retrieved his fallen bike and leaned it against the trunk of the tree from which the dead man hung. Then he used it to clamber high enough to reach the body, unbutton the overcoat, and ease it off the shoulders until it fell to the ground. He jumped down, retrieved it and slipped it on. It was at least a couple of sizes too big for him even over the jacket that he was wearing, but he knew a couple of guys who might part with fifty quid for it.

  Finally, self-preservation took its turn. Moash slipped the boots round his neck, seized the only other saleable item that he saw around, remounted the bike and pedalled along Meadow Walk where it turned left, away from any road by which the police might approach. This time, he pedalled as fast as he could.

  5

  Sir James Proud’s uniform had never fitted him better. The extra girth that once he had carried had disappeared under a regime of diet and exercise; Lady Proud had even said to him that he looked as if he had lost years in age as well as pounds in weight.

  Appearances can deceive, though, Chrissie. The thought ran through his mind as he looked around the conference table. He estimated that he was the oldest person there by around fifteen years, and the thought chilled him, more than a little. For the first time in his police career, he wondered whether he should get up from his chair and tell Bob Skinner, ‘You do it, son. It’s your turn now.’

  His deputy was there, and so was the assistant chief constable, Willie Haggerty, the rough-edged Glaswegian who had shaken up the uniformed side of the force since his arrival. They flanked him, as he coughed quietly, to clear his throat, and to end the quiet chatter and set the meeting going.

  They were gathered together at eight a.m., an hour that the veteran chief constable regarded as ridiculously early, but it had been forced on him by the politicians, or, to be fair, their managers. He knew from decades of experience that civil servants never had regard for anyone’s diary or convenience other than those of their masters.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘I suggest we begin by introducing ourselves. You know me, and, I think, DCC Skinner on my right and ACC Haggerty, who’s responsible for all operations in the city of Edinburgh, on my left. We also have the honour . . .’ He was sure that his deputy twitched in his seat, for a split second, at his use of the word. ‘. . . to welcome Scotland’s deputy justice minister, Ms Aileen de Marco, MSP. She’s sitting next to Willie, and beyond her is her private secretary, Ms Lena McElhone. Next to Bob Skinner is Chief
Superintendent Brian Mackie: he heads a specialist team that we’ve set up to take executive control of major state and public events, operating across our divisional structure. His people will have a key role on the day.’ The dome-headed man on Skinner’s right was wearing a uniform that was almost as sharp as that of the chief constable: he nodded and threw a diffident smile to the table.

  ‘Beyond Brian, there’s DI Neil McIlhenney, head of Special Branch.’ The big detective, whose private views on the early scheduling of the meeting mirrored those of the chief, raised a hand.

  ‘Now,’ Sir James continued, ‘I suggest that we go round the table, with everyone else introducing himself. Let’s go clockwise. ’ He looked at the man seated next to Lena McElhone.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the bearded, bespectacled visitor. ‘My name is Godfrey Rennie; I’m in charge of the part of the Justice Department that deals with the police.’

  The man on his left, slight, owlish: ‘Mike Munro, head of the division responsible for Edinburgh.’

  A stocky figure in a dark suit, expensive, but worn over the collar of a priest. ‘Monsignor Eduardo di Matteo: I represent the External Relations Division of the administration of the Vatican State.’

  Another priest, his suit dark also, but more worn. ‘Father Angelo Collins, private secretary to His Holiness.’

  Gold-rimmed spectacles, silver hair cut in military fashion. ‘Giovanni Rossi: Vatican logistics.’

  Angular, patrician, sandy hair swept back from his forehead, eyeing the rest through Gucci spectacles perched on the bridge of a long nose. Skinner knew the type and liked them even less than he liked politicians. ‘Miles Stringfellow, Her Majesty’s Foreign and Commonwealth Office.’

  And finally, black leather jacket, open-necked white shirt. ‘Jim Gainer, Archbishop of St Andrews and Edinburgh.’ Across the table, Lena McElhone blinked; her mouth fell open slightly. His Grace smiled at her, and winked. ‘I like to go incognito, sometimes,’ he said.

  The chief constable turned to de Marco. ‘Aileen,’ he said, ‘I know that you have to be off fairly soon, so would you like to begin by addressing us.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir James.’ The deputy justice minister laid down the pen with which she had noted every name on the pad in front of her. At first sight, Bob Skinner thought as he looked at her, she was a typical member of the new Scottish parliament, and of its executive. Not only was she female, she was blonde, perfectly groomed and attractive, somewhere around thirty-five, politically correct, a Glasgow councillor who had stepped up to the national stage, and smart enough to know that her idealism was nothing unless it was harnessed by realism. He might have been inclined to distrust her, but Willie Haggerty knew her from his Strathclyde days; he rated her too, and that was recommendation enough for him. There was something else the ACC had said about her; now, meeting her for the first time, Skinner saw what he had meant. She had that indefinable extra spark, not the charisma of a pop star, or even of a Jim Gainer, but a quiet sense of her own ability that communicated itself to those she met.

  She had very attractive pale blue eyes, too, and they made contact with everyone as she began to speak, passing a little personal warmth each time. In spite of himself, Skinner returned her soft smile. ‘I’m not here to issue any orders, or even make any requests,’ she said. ‘I promise you that; I’ve come simply to give you a message. The visit which we’re gathered here to discuss is the most important this country has had in many years, maybe the most significant ever.

  ‘We are welcoming home . . . and I say this as a practising atheist . . . the greatest living Scotsman. Be sure that the executive will give you all the support you need, of whatever kind, to ensure that everything goes smoothly. This will be a great, emotional occasion.’ She paused. ‘But it will be even more than that. It’s true to say that the election of Cardinal Gilbert White as Pope was as big a surprise in Scotland as it was everywhere else in the world. It was greeted with a spontaneous public celebration, the like of which I have never seen. Now, beyond that, the reign of John the Twenty-fifth offers us a unique opportunity. Religious intolerance has been the curse of Scotland for four hundred years, but here, for the first time, we have an event that can draw divided communities together, and heal all those old wounds. We in government will be doing our damnedest to make sure that happens. As far as we’re concerned . . . and this is the personal message that I bring from Crichton Griffiths, the justice minister, endorsed by Tommy Murtagh, the First Minister himself . . . that means that people must have open access to His Holiness, so that they can see him for the man that he is, and so that he in turn can reach out to them. That’s all I have to say.’

  The ageing chief constable nodded to the young minister. ‘Thank you, Aileen. As always, the executive’s support is welcomed. It’s good to hear that we’re being watched from on high too.’ An attentive listener might have picked up a trace of sarcasm in his tone. ‘Yet as always, there’s a counter side. Bob, would you like to continue?’

  Every eye in the room, save those of his colleagues, turned towards Skinner. The big DCC leaned forward slightly, his big hands flat on the table in front of him. A lock of steel grey hair fell across his forehead; he frowned, only for a second, but the gesture caused the scar above his nose to deepen suddenly into a trench-like feature. But then he looked up at the minister and smiled, his clear blue eyes catching hers.

  ‘Yes, thanks, Ms de Marco. You’re right, as Jimmy says, and I’ll be among the first to sign up for your vision. The papal visit is an opportunity, if not to bring about love-ins at every Rangers- Celtic game, because there will always be ultras at either end of those grounds, but at least to create a new climate, and to isolate them as far as we can. But it’s an opportunity for other people too. I’ve been in this job for a few years now: until a couple of years ago my principle was, if it can happen, plan for it as if it will. That’s all changed, though. Now we have to think the unthinkable, we have to use our imagination in ways we’ve never really used it before. We cannot underestimate the determination of those who see us, our institutions, and our people, from our leaders to our very babes in arms, as mortal enemies. I will do everything I can to ensure that those who want to see the Pope get to see him, but there have to be limits. I’d be grateful if you would thank the First Minister and your boss for their interest in us, but I’d be even more grateful if you’d tell them from me not to use the phrase “open access” in public.’

  ‘And from me,’ Gio Rossi interrupted. He had introduced himself as logistics officer, but the police at the table knew that his real function was security.

  ‘I’m not in a position to tell them anything, Mr Skinner,’ said Aileen de Marco, quietly. ‘That’s how they want it to be.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll tell them myself, if I have to. Pope John the Twenty-fifth is indeed the greatest living Scotsman, and it’s my job and the job of my colleagues to see that he stays that way. He’s also among the leading living targets in the world, and probably, because of his style, the most vulnerable. Don’t worry, the public will see him and they’ll hear him, but they’re not going to be touching the hem of his robes. This will be the tightest security operation you have ever seen. Your bosses might get to kiss his ring, but only after they’ve been through the metal detectors.’

  The minister smiled. ‘Do you really see them as potential assassins?’

  Skinner nodded. ‘Absolutely.’ He did not smile.

  ‘Oh, come on.’

  He leaned further forward. ‘Remember what I was saying about thinking the unthinkable? There’s a scenario: it was found among some al Qaeda papers in Afghanistan, and circulated throughout the intelligence community by the CIA. A deep-cover terrorist gets close to someone in the moments leading up to a major event, someone who’s going to be in proximity to the target. He slips something into his pocket. The explosives available these days mean that it doesn’t need to be very big to do the job. It could be no bigger than a cigarette case, a calculator, or eve
n a fountain pen. Once it’s done, the innocent First Minister, or Mrs First Minister . . . her handbag’s an obvious place to stash a device . . . has become a walking bomb. As soon as he’s next to the target, it’s detonated remotely and, boom, it’s raining sticky bits of President, or Queen, or even bits of you. Get the picture? Everyone is searched.’

  ‘Even the Pope himself?’ Godfrey Rennie asked, a hint of outrage in his voice.

  ‘No one will get near his person, but yes, his robes will be searched.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’ the civil servant protested.

  Skinner threw him a long, cold look. ‘And why on earth would I do that?’ he asked quietly. He knew Rennie from crime-prevention committee meetings in St Andrews House, and blamed his nit-picking for their seemingly interminable length.

  ‘That’s standard practice,’ Monsignor di Matteo interrupted. ‘We take security very seriously, even if that means that we have to do things that in the past would never have occurred to us. His Holiness understands, and leaves such matters entirely in the hands of Signor Rossi and his logistics department.’

  ‘And their qualifications are . . .?’

  The chief constable blinked at Miles Stringfellow’s interruption. He made to reply, but Skinner beat him to the retort. ‘. . . are not to be discussed around this table, sir,’ he snapped. ‘You should know better than to ask a question like that.’

  ‘Her Majesty’s Foreign Secretary tends to ask whatever questions he likes,’ the man countered. His voice was as smug and unctuous as his smile.

  Almost in unison, as if on cue, Willie Haggerty, Neil McIlhenney and Brian Mackie leaned back in their chairs. They were waiting for the DCC to explode, but for once Sir James Proud was able to head off the storm before it burst upon the head of the visitor from Whitehall.