20 - A Rush of Blood Page 3

  ‘Then long may it last.’

  Bob’s mouth fell open. ‘Aw, Jesus,’ he exclaimed, ‘listen to me. What a clown! You’re the last person who should be hearing this.’

  ‘No,’ she said, firmly, ‘I’m the very person, because I’ve had the same experience. I’ve lost Stevie, yes, but do you think that makes me wish I’d never met him? The opposite: it makes me all the happier that I did. The truth, Bob, is that you and Aileen are both going to die, and barring accidents . . . literally . . . one of you is going to die before the other. You’re in the same boat as Stevie and me, as every other lifetime partners on the planet, and I’m here to tell you to grab every good moment you can.’

  He threw his head back. ‘I’ve never thought of it that way, you know,’ he sighed. ‘You’re right, of course. We are on the same journey.’ He looked at her. ‘You’ve got an extra passenger too, the wee one, wee Stephanie.’

  ‘So . . . ?’

  ‘Hey, I’ve already got four of those, even if one of them is grown up, and one’s adopted.’

  ‘But Aileen hasn’t.’

  ‘She’s got her career.’

  ‘So have I.’

  ‘Kids aren’t on her agenda.’

  ‘They weren’t on mine either, as you know very well. Maybe I should bring Stephanie out to see you at the weekend, and you should ask Aileen again after that.’

  He shook his head, smiling. ‘Wonders of the world, Maggie Rose Steele, advocate for motherhood. You do that, Mags; you and your sister come for lunch on Sunday, about one o’clock. Bring wee Goldilocks and watch us trying to keep our three bears in check.’

  The chief constable rose from his chair, stepped across to his desk, and pressed a button, his signal to Gerry Crossley that he was ready for the other participants in his routine morning meeting. After a few minutes they filed in, led by Brian Mackie, the tall, bald, deputy chief. He was followed by the command corridor adjutant, Superintendent David Mackenzie, his uniform immaculate, as it always was, and by the massive, dark-haired Mario McGuire, jacketless, wearing a pale blue shirt and black cords.

  ‘Should we turn down the heating?’ Skinner asked him.

  ‘Early morning call,’ the head of CID replied, an explanation that was understood immediately.

  ‘Ah, you got dressed in the dark. Man, you look frozen.’

  ‘To the marrow, Chief. I’ll tell you about it in a minute.’

  The group joined Steele at the chief constable’s meeting table, while Skinner pulled his leather swivel chair from behind his desk and rolled it across the floor. ‘Morning, all,’ he began. ‘Let’s go through the day. ACC Steele is on a tour of the city, she tells me. Mags, do the divisional commanders know you’re coming?’

  ‘Yes, although I haven’t tied myself down to a specific time with each of them.’

  ‘Fair enough, since it’s your first visit in your new post, but I’d suggest that as a general rule you’re a bit less courteous than that. Everywhere you go today you’ll see tidy desks and full out-trays. That’s fine, but is it the norm? Remember when I was deputy and I used to drop in occasionally, just to say “hello”?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Can you ever remember me calling you to tell you that I was coming and to put the kettle on?’

  ‘Now you mention it, no.’

  ‘Exactly. I rush to say here that your desk was always neat and your out-tray was always bigger than your in-tray, but you were the exception rather than the rule, and that’s one reason why you’re sitting here today. I was at a do with Aileen a few weeks ago and I met one of the Police Board members there. She gave me this nice smug smile and told me that it was time we had a woman at chief officer rank. I told her . . . fairly abruptly, I’m afraid . . . that any organisation that allows gender bias or tokenism of any kind to influence its promotion policy is doomed to failure, sooner rather than later.’

  ‘Was Aileen within earshot?’ asked Brian Mackie. ‘I seem to remember her party doing something like that not too long ago.’

  The chief constable nodded. ‘Oh yes, she was there, and she backed me up. She told the woman that the only positive discrimination she believes in is in favour of talent.’

  Steele frowned. ‘So what are you saying to me, Bob?’

  ‘I’m getting round to saying that there will be one or two of your colleagues who will mutter behind your back that you are where you are because you’re female. They’re irrelevant, although anyone who says it to your face, you should refer to me. The rest, the great majority, are your friends and know your qualities; but there lies another difficulty. You don’t have pals at the office, not in our service.’ He looked round the group. ‘All of you are my friends outside this building, in my private life, but here you’re colleagues and your performance is measured in exactly the same way as every other member of this force. Mags, you’re now in line command of many people who outranked you only a couple of years ago. Some of them you like, some you don’t, but treat them all the same. You have to be that wee bit aloof; your authority has to be clear to them and to others. If any of them are reluctant to call you “Ma’am” in front of junior officers, deal with it, for this is a disciplined service and your rank requires it. What they call you in the privacy of their own offices is for you to determine.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘I know you have. It might lead to some awkward moments . . . hell, no, it will . . . but it’s the next step to being a chief constable,’ he glanced around, taking in Mackie, McGuire and Mackenzie, ‘for all of you. So,’ he smiled, ‘no more scheduled visits to your divisions.’

  His gaze locked on Mackie. ‘Brian, what’s on your plate?’

  The deputy rolled his eyes. ‘The joint working party with the local authorities, fire and rescue and the ambulance service on traffic management; ten thirty, Edinburgh City Chambers, and I know from experience that it’ll go on all day.’

  ‘You better leave now,’ Skinner growled, ‘if you want to get there on time. Speaking as a commuter, I’m fucking hacked off with it.’

  ‘Any message for them?’

  ‘Yeah, tell them from me that presiding over an unfolding disaster does not count as any sort of management in my book. Tell them they should suspend all work on the trams in the city centre, and switch to laying the line from the western end inwards. That might give some people a bit of respite, or at least share the grief. Tell them that the chief constable will not have gridlock in the city and that if this fucking project falls further behind schedule, I will arrest the senior managers and have them shot!’ He sighed. ‘Failing that, just do your best to get people to work on time.’

  ‘I take it you were held up this morning,’ said Mackie.

  ‘You take it right. Seriously, it’s one thing for me to be late for the office, but it’s another for ambulances and fire appliances to be stood still in traffic. That’s where the focus has to lie.’

  ‘I’ll emphasise that. I was planning to say that our traffic cars are going to crack down on improper use of bus lanes. Emergency vehicles, top priority, taxis and scheduled buses second; I’m also going to suggest that city tour buses and private hire coaches should be banned from using them.’

  ‘Can we do that?’

  ‘We can amend the regulations.’

  ‘How will that help rush-hour motorists?’

  Mackie allowed himself a thin smile. ‘It won’t,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Bob.’

  ‘Bugger. Anything else?’

  ‘One thing.’ The DCC glanced at Mackenzie. ‘David flagged it up for me. The Serious Crime and Drug Enforcement Agency is on the lookout for a new deputy director, and from what he’s heard there’s a degree of urgency about it.’

  ‘Interested?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Quite right, but if the director’s job comes up and you fancy it . . .’

  ‘I’m happy where I am . . . unless that was an unsubtle hint.’

  ‘Far from it. But you’d be perfect f
or the job.’

  ‘I’ll settle for imperfection for now. However, there’s a second job on offer; national drugs co-ordinator, open to chief inspectors and above.’

  Skinner’s eyes settled on Mackenzie. ‘David. You’ve got drugs squad experience, and you were damn good at it. Fancy it?’

  The superintendent’s eyebrows came together. ‘There was a time when I might have, Chief, but even then I wouldn’t have been right for it. I’m a recovering addict myself; my problem might have been alcohol, but still, that’s an environment I’m better off avoiding.’

  ‘That’s good. I’m selfish; we need you here.’ He paused, then turned to the head of CID.

  ‘Mario: what was that wake-up call about?’

  McGuire grinned. ‘It was to a suicide, would you believe?’

  ‘Eh? What did you do to the guy who called you out to that?’

  ‘The guy was McIlhenney. He was called before me, by Ian McCall.’

  Skinner leaned back in his chair. ‘Right, Ian’s a sensible guy. So do I take it that death wasn’t self-inflicted?’

  ‘No. Subject to forensics and the post-mortem report, it almost certainly was. What gives us an interest is the identity of the dead man: Tomas Zaliukas.’

  The chief constable gasped in surprise. ‘The Lithuanian? Tommy Zale? What did he do?’

  ‘He climbed Arthur’s Seat at some point last night and shot himself, with a sawn-off.’ The DCS opened his mouth and touched his palate with the first two fingers of his right hand. Beside him, Maggie Steele shuddered. ‘McCall saw that tattoo on the back of his hand, and knew who he was. We left Dorward and his team to gather him all together.’

  Skinner closed his eyes, as if he was picturing the event. ‘Tomas always saw himself as a hard man. Not without cause, I must say; he even took a swing at me once, when he was a young gang-banger. I’d to hit him four times to convince him to stop; only Lennie Plenderleith ever did better than that.’

  ‘Did you do him for assault?’

  ‘There was nobody else around at the time; no witnesses on either side.’ He chuckled. ‘Besides, it would have been awkward; I broke his cheekbone.’ He thought for a few seconds. ‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘it fits. I can see that if Tomas decided to do himself in, it wouldn’t be any overdose, it would be done in the most macho way he could imagine. I wonder why he chose Arthur’s Seat.’

  McGuire’s eyes glinted. ‘If he’d done it at home, his wife would have been annoyed at the mess.’

  ‘Are you sure he was sporting one of those?’ the chief constable asked. ‘I heard a whisper at the golf club at the weekend from a surveyor who works with his property side that Regine had taken the kids and left.’

  ‘Where did he hear that? Paulie and I were in Indigo last Monday and she was there, as usual.’

  ‘From Tomas himself; last Friday.’

  ‘Do you know where she is now? I suppose we’ll have to get in touch with her.’

  ‘No, I don’t. She’s French, though, so I guess that might be a good place to start. Do you know their story?’ he asked, looking around the table, at four shaken heads. ‘They’re quite a couple; well matched. They met when Tommy was downmarket; he’d been involved in a couple of low-grade rackets, protection, fencing stolen fags and alcohol, a dodgy security company, usual things. But he’d started his move upwards, into his first couple of pubs, the kind with go-go dancers, before they gave them poles. Regine was a proper dancer; she applied for a job. When Tomas asked her to audition, and told her what was required, she told him she wasn’t a stripper, and walked out. A couple of days later, he met her in the street, apologised, and offered her a job managing a place he’d just bought. And they went on from there.’

  ‘You must go back a bit with Zaliukas, Bob,’ Brian Mackie commented.

  Skinner nodded. ‘Yes indeed. I remember him from the time when he first pitched up in Edinburgh, back in the late eighties. He was only a kid, not much more than twenty; it was just before the collapse of the Soviet Union. He was a merchant seaman, on a Lithuanian vessel; he jumped ship down in Leith, walked into the first Catholic church he could find and asked for sanctuary, would you believe. He got it too, in a way; the parish priest took to him and helped him get leave to remain in Britain. Not that the Lithuanian regime of that time gave a shit about one wee sailor. It was too busy clinging to power by its toenails. Tommy was still cautious, though; he decided that he needed more effective back-up than the priest who’d helped him out, so he went to work for Tony Manson, driving him, running errands, doing security at some of his massage parlours. He was a gopher, really.’

  He paused, reflecting. ‘He fancied himself, though, and when his country finally got its independence, Tomas brought some of his old mates across, and set up his own team. That’s when he got the tattoo, by the way, to show that he was the boss. Manson was OK with the new operation. If you remember, Tony didn’t like too many people close to him, and in truth with big Lennie Plenderleith as his right-hand man he didn’t need them either. He made a habit of contracting stuff out, and the Lithuanian boys came in very handy for that. If somebody had crossed him and he wanted to keep Lennie out of it, he’d give the discipline job to Tommy Zale . . . as most people called him then. I also know for a fact that a couple of times Tony took on contracts for associates of his in Newcastle and in London, and passed the work on to those boys; cash down and a bonus on completion.’

  ‘No chance of a prosecution?’ Steele asked.

  ‘It was a while afterwards before I found out, but anyway, there was no chance of any physical evidence. I had inquiries made in both cities, and the people involved were being treated as missing, no more. No bodies were ever found, but there must have been proof of some sort that the jobs had been done for Manson to have paid out.’

  ‘Unless your source was spinning you a tale,’ Mackie suggested.

  ‘No chance. My source is unimpeachable; he had no reason to lie to me, nothing to gain, nothing to lose. The stories showed what the Lithuanians were capable of in those days. They didn’t just work for Manson either. They freelanced, they did security work, unlicensed but more or less legitimate, they fenced stolen goods, and once a couple of them were fingered as team members on an armed robbery put together by Jackie Charles. Again, though, it couldn’t be proved.’

  He smiled, and his eyes seemed to focus on a point back in the past. ‘I was a DCI at the time, and Alf Stein was head of CID. He told me to sort it out. That was all the instruction he gave me. I went to see Tommy, one on one, and we had a wee chat. I leaned on him, and told him that I was not going to have hooligans with guns running around on my patch, and that if he didn’t bring his people into line I would show him what hard really meant. He thought it was a challenge; found out it was a promise.’

  The chief constable paused. ‘He got the message, though. He knew that if he kept on the way he was going, I’d see him in the jail, so gradually he changed. He focused on the security business, and if he was still fencing, I never heard about it. He bought a pub in Leith, then another in Slateford. When the transfer of the licences came up before the board, I was asked to comment on his suitability. I took a chance; I gave him the nod. Having done that, I kept a bloody close eye on them. They did well; both had been pretty scruffy, but Tommy invested money in them and took them upmarket. Sure, he had the go-go girls at lunchtime and in the evenings, but they were top-end talent, no sexual simulation, and definitely no interaction with the customers. He installed two of his boys as managers, and employed his own firm to handle security, so there was no trouble. That was a big change; before he took over, our uniforms were never out of those places.’

  ‘And now when they go in, they’re off duty,’ said Mackie.

  ‘That’s right,’ Skinner concurred. ‘Tomas set up his company then, moved the pubs into them and started to expand. The next place he bought was a rundown disco down at Abbeyhill. That’s where Regine took over as manager; between them they did another complet
e makeover, and turned it into the most popular nightspot in the city, a club, instead of a disco. She’s managed it ever since, and supervised all the other places.’

  ‘Indigo,’ said McGuire. ‘Yes, Paula and I go there quite often.’

  ‘She doesn’t mind, given who owns it?’

  The head of CID stared at him, his eyebrows rising. ‘Why should she?’ he asked, slowly.

  ‘Ah well,’ Skinner smiled. ‘That’s another story I heard on this grapevine of mine. The way it went, although Tomas was concentrating mainly on what he called his “entertainment division”, he couldn’t quite kill off some of his old Tommy Zale habits. One day, Paula’s dad, your Uncle Beppe, had a visit from him in his office. Tommy told him that the Viareggio family had a very nice, broad-based business, with great growth potential and that he’d like a piece of it. Beppe thanked him very politely, but said that he didn’t need or want any outside investors. Tommy told him that wasn’t quite what he had in mind, and gave him a couple of days to think it over. As we both know, Papa Viareggio, your grandad, would have chucked him out the window, second floor or not, but Beppe wasn’t cut from that cloth. He crapped himself and went running to Paula.’ He paused. ‘With me so far?’

  Impassive, McGuire nodded.

  ‘Good. As always, Paula knew what to do. Next day, Tommy was in his own office, when two fucking monsters came in unannounced, having walked right through the two bodyguards outside. They showed him warrant cards, which identified them as police. One of them didn’t say anything, but the other, a guy with black curly hair and a wicked smile, told Tommy that he’d just done something incredibly fucking stupid by threatening his uncle, and that any repetition would have the most severe consequences. Beppe never had any more trouble; in fact he never heard a word from Zaliukas again.’

  ‘And where did you hear all this?’ the DCS asked quietly. ‘Has our pal Neil been indiscreet around the dinner table?’

  ‘Hah!’ Skinner laughed out loud. ‘You should know him better than that. No, I heard the tale from none other than Tommy Zale himself. Priceless: the silly bugger thought I’d sent you to warn him off! He called me within the hour and asked if he could come and see me. He began by apologising for what he said was a complete misunderstanding, and for not making it clear to Mr Viareggio that his visit was simply to see whether they might have had any business interests in common. At first I hadn’t the faintest fucking idea what he was talking about, but I let him go on, and kept my face straight as I pieced it together. When he was done, I gave him the glare and asked him if he’d taken the warning to heart. He assured me that he had, but that it hadn’t been necessary.’