14 - Stay of Execution Page 5

  When, finally, it had happened, McGurk found himself wondering about the wisdom of that decision. He did not know Bob Skinner well but, like everyone else in the force, he knew of his legend as a crime-fighter, and as a leader who earned respect and loyalty rather than demanding it. The reality turned out to be a short-tempered, menacing figure, intolerant of the slightest error, delay or omission.

  He had taken the job in the belief that if the DCC liked you, you were made, and with the assurance of Neil McIlhenney that there was no better man in the force for whom an officer could work. With every day that passed, the less secure the sergeant felt in his job, the more he wondered how he had displeased Skinner, and the more he missed his former boss, the dour, quirky, but likeable head of CID, Chief Superintendent Dan Pringle.

  After a few weeks of rockets and reprimands he had gone to Pringle and had asked what he could be doing wrong. ‘I can’t help you there, son,’ the veteran had told him. ‘If it’s any consolation, you’re not alone. I got a right bollocking the other day because Greg Jay’s clear-up rate had gone down. I even heard him shouting at McIlhenney one day, and he’s his best pal in this place now that Andy Martin’s gone.’

  ‘He yelled at Neil? How did he take that?’

  ‘Oh, he yelled back, because he was right. But don’t you try it, son: you’re not McIlhenney, not yet at any rate. The best thing to do is make allowances for him. He’s been ill, although he tries to pretend it never happened, and on top of that his brother died. Big Bob’s human just like the rest of us; if he’s no’ himself, maybe it’s not that surprising.’

  McGurk had taken his advice, but he had come close to forgetting it on a couple of occasions. With the Archbishop and his colleague at the door, and within earshot, he swallowed the latest rebuke impassively, stood aside and ushered them in. He made to leave, as the guests sat on the soft leather couch, opposite the window, but the DCC called after him: ‘No, Sergeant, you stay here. I may need a note of this meeting.’

  Grateful of the recognition, McGurk took a pad from the desk and a pen from his pocket, and pulled across an upright chair. He was almost six and a half feet tall, and he had found that he could not fit comfortably into the DCC’s reception seating.

  ‘Anyone want coffee?’ Skinner asked. The Archbishop shook his head; Rossi, the Italian, looked across at the filter machine on a table in the corner and made a face.

  ‘Would you like some, sir?’ McGurk volunteered.

  His boss frowned at him. ‘I’m not bloody helpless, son. If I did I’d get it.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Yes, well . . .’ Suddenly Skinner stopped; his frown deepened. ‘No, Sergeant, I’m the guy who should apologise. That was plain rudeness. I’ll tell you what, maybe you could fetch some bottles of water from the fridge beside my desk, and some glasses from the table.’ He looked back at his visitors. ‘Or would you guys like a beer?’

  Archbishop Gainer put his hands together in supplication and glanced upwards for a moment. ‘You see,’ he said, with a grin, ‘prayer does work sometimes. I thought you were never going to ask.’

  McGurk fetched two bottles of Becks and two of Highland Spring and handed them round, then took his seat. ‘So,’ Skinner began at last, ‘let me do some guessing. My outburst this morning has got a result. Number Ten’s stopped pussying about and horned in on the visit.’

  ‘Got it in one,’ Gainer replied. ‘I had a call from the man himself less than an hour ago, asking, very humbly, you understand, and appreciative of the great honour it would be, you understand, if the Holy Father would be prepared to allow him to attend the public events on the visit.’

  Skinner smiled, not least at the accuracy of the Archbishop’s mimicry. ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I told him that he was a bit late in getting off the mark, and that technically it was an informal visit, but after that I said that His Holiness would welcome his presence. I told him that he’d even hear his confession if he wanted. That drew an uncertain laugh, I should tell you.’

  ‘I’ll bet it did. I’d like to hear that confession myself.’

  ‘Sure, with two tape-recorders running.’

  ‘I doubt if I’d hear much more than I usually do in those circumstances. I’d be better off bugging your box.’

  ‘My dark side might let you,’ Gainer muttered. He looked at Rossi, then winked. ‘You didn’t hear that, Gio.’

  ‘I hear nothing, Your Grace,’ the logistics man replied. ‘And everything,’ he added, with a grin.

  ‘Have you broken the news to Tommy Murtagh, Jim?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘I didn’t have to. He’d already been, ahem, consulted by the time I spoke to him.’

  ‘How did he sound?’

  ‘Enthusiastically and loyally underwhelmed would just about describe it.’

  The DCC’s smile was his broadest of the day. ‘His loss is our fledgling nation’s gain.’ He sipped his mineral water. ‘What do you need?’ he asked Rossi.

  ‘I’d like to meet with his people,’ the Italian answered.

  ‘You will,’ Skinner promised. ‘Someone will come up within a couple of days to do a recce; when that happens we’ll do final visits to each venue.’

  ‘Can we go firm on a date for that?’

  ‘I guess so. This is Wednesday, so let’s try for Friday.’ He glanced at his assistant. ‘Jack, will you set that up please? Contact the PM’s protection officers and tell them what we want. They’ll go along with it.’

  ‘Even at such short notice?’ Rossi sounded doubtful.

  ‘Their boss is late to the table,’ the Scot growled. ‘They’ll take what’s put in front of them.’ He looked at the Archbishop. ‘Is anyone going to be chucked off the platform at any of the events because of this?’

  ‘How many extra bodies are we talking about? I’m assuming it won’t just be him and her who turn up.’

  ‘You assume correctly,’ said Skinner, ‘but I can keep it to a minimum. There’ll be his private secretary; she has to go everywhere. Then there’ll be his official mouthpiece; they’re joined at the hip. It’ll be par for the course if the Cabinet Secretary tries to elbow his way in, but I’ll tell him he’s not on.’

  ‘In that case I’ll only have a problem at the main public rally and mass at Murrayfield Stadium. The stage we’re setting up there has as many seats on it as we can fit in. Much of the rest of the programme has His Holiness on the move.’

  ‘I’ve noticed. Is he up to that? He’s not a young man.’

  ‘He thinks he is: he calls sixty-nine “middle-aged”. Don’t you worry about him, he had a medical a couple of months ago and they declared him good for another fifteen years.’ Jim Gainer laughed. ‘That would disappoint a few of the younger cardinals if they knew about it. He feels that not only could he kick off the Hibs-Celtic game on Saturday week, if he’d been able to stay for it, he could play in it.

  ‘Nothing’s all that strenuous anyway. He arrives next Thursday afternoon at Edinburgh airport; he’ll be welcomed formally by the Lord Provost, who’ll introduce the rest of the official party. Nobody sits down there so the PM and his wife can just get in line with the rest.’

  ‘Before or after the First Mini-car?’ the DCC asked.

  ‘What do you think? What’s the protocol?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any established. Personally, I think they go after, and sod ’em if they can’t take a joke, but we’d best ask them.’

  ‘Elegantly put, sir. I share your inclination, but I’ll have di Matteo or Angelo Collins consult the First Minister’s office about precedence at that and all the other events. I’m assuming that they’ll want him to go everywhere.’

  ‘That’s a cert, Your Grace. This is the biggest photo opportunity of all time for these guys, and there’s always an election around the corner. The only one they might duck out of is the council reception at the City Chambers, once he’s driven into town from the airport. That’s private, and the Lord Provost does not l
ike Mr Tommy Murtagh. On the other hand, once he hears that the PM’s coming he might invite him specially, just to annoy the wee man. If that happens he’ll go there too. Are you still happy with the time they’re spending there?’

  ‘If we can get him out of there on time, it won’t be a problem. If we can’t . . . and he’ll be meeting a lot of people he hasn’t seen since his elevation . . . well, if the cathedral mass is a bit late in starting it won’t be the end of the world. The congregation won’t walk out on him. We don’t have any political problems there, or at the Royal Infirmary visit on Friday. I know that he wants Lord Provost Maxwell and his wife there, though. He married them, you know, and he gave the Provost his first communion wafer, too, thirty-five years ago. No, the only problem I have is at Murrayfield.’ He opened his briefcase and took out a copy of the document Skinner had prepared for that morning’s meeting, and flicked through it until he found the page he sought. ‘Looking at the platform party . . .’ He paused. ‘Too bad the deputy justice minister admitted to being an atheist,’ he said. ‘It’s cost her and her partner their seats on the stage.’ He took out a pen and scored through their names, then added two more at the top of the page.

  ‘Can I ask a question, sir?’

  The DCC glanced up at his assistant, involuntarily irritated. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘What exactly is planned for Murrayfield, sir?’

  ‘A celebration, Sergeant,’ replied the Archbishop. ‘The city of Edinburgh is staging a rally to celebrate the election of Pope John the Twenty-fifth. It’s being held in Murrayfield Stadium because it’s the biggest venue we have; we won’t fill it, but forty thousand tickets have been allocated. All of them will go to Scottish secondary-school students, but not to Roman Catholic kids alone. His Holiness is insistent that this should be an interdenominational event. The entertainment will be a selection of the Pope’s favourites; the programme was announced six weeks ago. We’ll have music by a school choir, Scottish dancing, pipes and drums, a marching band from Belgium . . . I’m not entirely sure why, but he asked for them specially . . . operatic arias performed by Donald O’Brien, the tenor, and a couple of songs by that lad who won a television competition a couple of years ago. It’s all very homely and, if you like, parochial, but it’s his style. It’ll conclude with mass being said, and a sermon by His Holiness.’

  ‘And afterwards he goes straight to the airport?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the Archbishop. ‘He has to be back in Rome that evening. It’s a pity for he’d have liked to stay on for the Hibs-Celtic game on Saturday. Father Gibb’s had a seat in the stand at Easter Road for years, even if it’s me who uses it now.’

  ‘What did you call him?’ asked Skinner.

  ‘Father Gibb; it’s a name his friends used, before his elevation. His name’s Gilbert, but his family called him “Gibb” for short; those of us who were close to him got to call him Father Gibb. We all regarded it as an honour.’

  ‘Maybe the Hibs will win for him on Saturday, then,’ said McGurk.

  Skinner snorted. ‘You’re into the realm of miracles there, Sergeant.’ He looked at his visitors. ‘So, gentlemen, in addition to kicking Ms de Marco and her man off the stage and into the grandstand . . . I’ll advise her of that . . . what other changes does this new presence impose on our operational plan?’

  ‘It may raise the stakes a little,’ said Rossi, ‘but if nobody knows that he’s coming until the day . . .’

  Skinner shook his head. ‘That’s not the way it’s played. Downing Street will brief the press well in advance; you can be sure of that. They won’t be surprised either, any more than I was.’

  ‘That’s regrettable, but even then I feel that the level of protection we are giving His Holiness does not need to be increased.’

  ‘In truth, I doubt if it could be,’ said the Scot. ‘All the same, I think I’ll arrange for reinforcements to be handy.’

  ‘More police?’

  ‘No, military. I have a contact in the Ministry of Defence who can arrange for a special forces platoon to be in place. We’ll distribute them round all the entrances.’

  ‘What will they do?’

  ‘Their job will be to look out for known terrorists. We’ve already agreed that we can’t put forty thousand kids and their teachers through metal detectors, or we’d wind up frisking everyone with a belt buckle or a brooch. Only those people who will be close to the Pope will have to go through them. We’ll have enough people inside the ground, watching the crowd constantly for any wrong moves, and we’ll have close personal protection. We’ve also got our escape plan. But if I can stick guys in black suits at every entrance, each with a mental file of all the faces from the FBI and MI5 wanted lists, it’ll give us a bit of added insurance.’

  ‘Will they be armed?’ asked Gainer. ‘The Pope wouldn’t like that.’

  ‘They won’t be obviously armed, Jim. It’s best if we don’t discuss who’s armed and who isn’t.’

  ‘The Pope won’t like anyone being armed in any way.’

  ‘Except his potential attackers? Is that what you’re saying? I’m sorry, but I’m not putting my officers at avoidable risk. Look, I really do think it would be best if we don’t discuss this subject, Your Grace, and if you accept that such decisions are mine alone. You can trust my discretion.’

  ‘Fair enough. If the Holy Father asks me, I’ll tell him to talk to you.’

  ‘Tell him to talk to Proud Jimmy. The chief’s more of a diplomat than me.’

  The Archbishop smiled. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ He picked up the document. ‘Do we need to amend this, then, before it’s circulated to the need-to-knows?’

  ‘Only to add in the new VIP names and to relegate Aileen de Marco. Jack’ll take care of that, and we’ll handle the distribution.’

  ‘That’s it, then,’ exclaimed the Archbishop, briskly. He stood, and the rest followed his lead. Rossi and McGurk went ahead as Skinner showed them to the door. He held it open but Gainer took his elbow and whispered, ‘A word in private, please, Bob.’

  ‘Of course, Your Grace. Jack, please look after Signor Rossi till we’re done.’

  He closed the door once they were gone, and went back to his desk. ‘What can I do for you, Jim?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe it’s more a case of what I can do for you, Bob.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The churchman flexed his big shoulders and settled into a chair facing the DCC’s own. ‘Is anything troubling you?’ he asked.

  Skinner blinked. ‘Why do you ask that, man?’

  ‘I’m prompted by over twenty years’ experience as a priest. I didn’t actually need to ask: I can bloody well tell that something’s bothering you. The way you spoke to your assistant shocked me, even though you had the grace to apologise. We were joking about confessions earlier. Would you like me to hear yours? Informally, as a friend, if nothing else.’

  The big policeman leaned back in his chair, then swivelled round until he was looking out of the window into the fog. ‘Is that stuff never going to clear?’ he murmured.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Gainer. ‘I was being presumptuous. Stop me, for my own sake, next time I start talking to you like a priest.’

  Skinner swung back round at once to face him. ‘No. Not at all, Jim; that’s not the case at all. Even though I’m not an adherent of your church, I appreciate your concern as a friend.’ He sighed. ‘Ah shit, do you fancy another beer?’

  The Archbishop smiled. ‘This time I wasn’t praying for it, but okay. I’ll tell Giovanni to get a taxi back to the residence on his own.’ He stood and walked to the door, as Skinner bent in his seat for another Becks and more bottled water.

  ‘Are you off the lager, then?’ his guest asked, when he returned. ‘You’ve always liked a pint in all the time I’ve known you.’

  ‘It doesn’t improve my temper.’

  His Grace laughed. ‘Could it make it worse?’

  ‘Jack McGurk would probably
say “no” to that.’

  ‘Would he now? And your family, what would they say?’

  Without a word, Skinner replaced the water in the fridge, and took a beer instead. ‘I hope they would say nothing,’ he replied. ‘My children’s nursery is where I go to get away from everything else in the world. There is nothing in this life that I love as much as spending time with Seonaid, Mark and James Andrew.’ He smiled. ‘My younger daughter’s a handful, I’ll tell you. Now that she’s fully mobile, she’s developed a new hobby: hiding things. It’s a game with her, but the trouble is that sometimes she forgets where she’s hidden them. We spent an hour the other night looking for a silver bracelet. Eventually we found it in an old tea caddy of my mother’s that she fancied as her jewel box. As for Mark, he’s showing signs of real excellence in maths. It’s always been his hobby, but now he’s about five years ahead of his contemporaries, and picking up pace. We tried getting him special tuition, but he made his teacher feel inadequate.’ He looked across at Gainer. ‘You know, I was genuinely determined that all my kids would be educated at the local schools, like Alex, my daughter from my first marriage, was, but Mark’s a specially gifted child. So he’s starting at Fettes College prep school, just up the hill there . . .’ He pointed out of the window. ‘. . . after Christmas; they have the flexibility to let him develop at his own pace in his area of excellence, and work alongside the other kids at the rest. And if he goes there, so will Jazz and Seonaid; they’ll have to; it’s only right.’ He grinned, and suddenly he seemed twenty miles away, in a house by the seaside. ‘You know, Jim,’ he continued, ‘one of the things I admire about you and about men like you, is the strength of your vocation, in that it denies you the pleasure and the fulfilment of family life.’