08 - Murmuring the Judges Page 6

  ‘Or to Bob.’

  ‘That’s for you to decide, between you,’ said Proud Jimmy. ‘By the way,’ he added, after a pause, ‘what did you mean when you said the gang would be in for “a few very nasty surprises” if they tried again?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Martin. ‘That was a device that I use very occasionally with the press in a tight spot, if I think it’s in everyone’s best interests.’ He smiled, grimly. ‘Even though Alan here cringes when I do.

  ‘It’s called a lie.’

  11

  ‘D’you ever wish sometimes, Andy, that you’d settled for being an engineer, after you graduated?’

  ‘Or you a lawyer?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. Anyway, does the thought ever cross your mind?’

  ‘Yes, it does, and it goes straight out the other side.’ There was a sigh, audible on the clear line. ‘Same here. With our sort of polisman, it’s for life, or for as long as your head lets you stand it. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Okay, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s good, but don’t go suppressing anything, son. There’s no worse experience in the job than looking at the bodies of innocent bystanders, be they colleagues or civilians.’

  ‘So I’ve learned.’ He heard the faint echo of his own words, feeding back from the satellite. ‘Whereabouts are you just now?’ he asked.

  ‘Pulled up in a service area near Macon. Jazz is asleep in his car seat, and Sarah’s taken Mark to the cafeteria to pick up sandwiches. We’re making good time. It’s ten-forty-five here, so I reckon to make the Tunnel by seven a.m. Look for me at Fettes between four and five.’

  ‘If you insist, but go easy. See you whenever.’

  Andy Martin put the phone back in its cradle, and looked at Alex, sat on the sofa. ‘How did he sound?’ she asked.

  ‘Angry. As you’d expect.’

  ‘That’s him all right. He’s a funny mixture, you know. As a dad he was the calmest, quietest man you’d ever meet. I don’t remember him ever shouting at me, even when I was being a right wee tick. Yet at work, he can be so volatile. He hates sloppiness, and avoidable mistakes. He hates crime, especially crime against people.’

  ‘Don’t I know it.’ He slumped down beside her. ‘I envy him, you know, in the way he can just let it all out. You say he’s volatile, and there isn’t a man in the force who would cross him, yet no one’s afraid of him. He can be ruthless with inefficient people, yet no one resents him. He has the ability to tear strips off folk, even bust them out of CID, yet have them thank him at the end of the conversation.

  ‘Everyone describes Bob as a great detective, which he is, probably the greatest of his time, yet what they don’t realise is that he’s a great manager too, of people.’ He smiled. ‘A rotten delegator, but a great manager.

  ‘And part of the reason for it is that he cares, and he shows it. I wish . . .’

  Alex put her hand lightly across his mouth. ‘Shh. Don’t wish for anything. Be content to be different. You’re everything my dad is, only you show it in different ways. Where he’s explosive, you’re calm. Where he can be impulsive, you’re always logical.’

  She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Think of this, my love. I’ve inherited my dad’s volatility gene, and no mistake. If you were like that too, how long would we last as a couple?’

  ‘Maybe so, but that’s not what I’m worried about.’ His forehead ridged into a deep frown. ‘I know I can’t change my nature, and I’m concerned that through it, I’m becoming brutalised. I have to stay controlled because that’s my way. Now Bob, he’s seen terrible things . . . he’s done terrible things . . . yet through it all, because his emotional make-up allows him to let it out, he remains essentially a very gentle man.

  ‘Yet look at me. Tonight for example. I get home late, you have dinner ready, you talk about your day, I tell you about my frustration in not having any real leads to these robbers, and about the Chief’s stumbling performance with the press, we put away the plates and that’s it.’

  ‘That’s fair enough,’ she murmured, taking his hand.

  ‘But, Alex! Harry Riach’s guts were all over the floor. I saw young Annie Brown at the hospital. Those shotgun pellets tore her to pieces. What sort of a guy am I becoming if I can look at things like that and still be calm, unflappable Andy? Why don’t I cry for the victims?’

  ‘What do you think you’re doing now?’ she asked him, very gently. ‘You have a very strong mind, my love. You should be grateful that it lets you deal with things like you saw today in that way. It helps you be good at your job and there’s nothing wrong with that. If I can help you, by being your listening ear, and letting you unwind, that can only be good too. I’m not afraid of the details. I’ve seen things too, remember.’ She paused, and shivered, momentarily.

  ‘D’you know what Sarah told me about Pops?’ she continued. ‘Every time he goes to a murder scene these days, he has to make a conscious effort not to chuck his breakfast, and not to let the troops see any sign of weakness. He copes by being volatile, you cope by being controlled. You’re different men, neither of you any the worse for it.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘Thanks, love. You’re a wise wee soul, aren’t you. I’ll let you be my sounding board from now on. But still, don’t underestimate the effect of this bloody job. When you do it as your dad and I do, it can create a monster inside. We need Sarah and you, to help keep it at bay.’

  12

  Brian Mackie closed the door of his office and sat behind his desk, looking out on to the early-morning Haddington traffic. He took a small address book from his desk and opened it at the letter S, then picked up his telephone and dialled a number.

  ‘DCI Afhtab speaking.’The voice at the other end had a strange mixture of accents; it was strongly Glaswegian, but with Asian lurking underneath.

  ‘Morning Salim, Brian Mackie here, from Haddington.’

  ‘Ah Brian,’ said Afhtab cheerily. ‘No’ Edinburgh any more then?’

  ‘Not any more. I’ve been promoted out of Special Branch just like you.’

  ‘Superintendent it’ll be, then. Congratulations. What can Ah do for you?’

  ‘I want to consult the Criminal Intelligence Unit you’re running now. Can you give me some assistance?’

  ‘Of course I can. I’ll deal wi’ it myself; I need to practise using the technology. Who’s the target?’

  Mackie paused, as if to restrain Afhtab’s eagerness. ‘The name is Bernard Grimley. He used to own a pub on the South Side of the Clyde, before he sold up and bought a place through here. I’ve asked my lads, but he’s not known to them.’

  ‘I’ll check. What’s he lined up for?’

  ‘I can’t say, Salim. It’s sort of unofficial, like in the old days. In fact I’d be grateful if you didn’t keep a record.’

  The Chief Inspector laughed. ‘Ah don’t know. Special Branch habits die hard, right enough. You got a secure fax there?’

  ‘Yes. Right in this office.’ Mackie turned and read the number from a machine on a small table behind him.’

  ‘Okay. Leave it with me. I’ll ask the Oracle and send you a report . . . one way or the other.’

  ‘Thanks, mate. I’m due you one.’

  ‘Guinness’ll be fine.’

  Mackie put down the phone and went back to the reports in his in-tray. He worked his way through them in half an hour, then made a call to confirm a lunch appointment with the Area Manager of the Bank of Scotland. Just as he agreed the time, the fax behind him rang and a connection was made.

  He watched until the machine had finished excreting a single sheet of paper, picked it up, and read it through. He was smiling thinly to himself as he dialled the Head of CID’s direct-line number.

  ‘Martin.’ The Chief Superintendent’s voice sounded tired, Mackie thought.

  ‘Andy, it’s Brian. About that other matter you asked me to look into yesterday. There’s nothing known locally, but I’ve had some feedback from Strathclyde. It’s not going to help
Alex, I’m afraid.’

  There was a sigh. ‘Ach well. Give me it anyway.’

  ‘Grimley is known to our colleagues, right enough. He ran a pub called the Fireman’s Lift, in Jeffrey Street. It was a right thieves’ kitchen, and was known to be a contact place for Loyalist paramilitaries over from Northern Ireland on fund-raising trips.

  ‘Both Special Branch and CID had the place under constant observation, and this resulted in a number of arrests. They also picked up several leads which led the security forces to Loyalist arms dumps in and around Belfast.

  ‘The single link in all these successes was Bernard Grimley. For most of the time he owned that pub, he was a police informer, until he stopped co-operating around three years ago.

  ‘Our colleagues reckoned that he’d lost his bottle. When he sold the place it was on their advice. They were scared that sooner or later someone in Ireland, or Glasgow for that matter, would put two and two together and come up with the right answer.’

  ‘Ahh,’ Martin growled. ‘That cracks it for Alex’s case, I fear. I have a feeling that Mr Grimley’s going to end up quite a bit richer.’

  ‘Unless you tip off the UVF,’ said Mackie, drily.

  13

  Most prisons in Scotland are grim-faced places, with a tendency to cast a blight on their surroundings. During his career, Andy Martin had visited Glasgow’s massive, forbidding Barlinnie, the grey-walled institution which embarrasses Perth, and the top-security establishment at Peterhead.

  Compared to those three Victorian citadels, he found Edinburgh’s Saughton less intrusive upon the city, in its discreet location, tucked away on the outskirts. Yet it was a prison nonetheless, a place of incarceration, and the policeman experienced a feeling of despair every time he walked through its doors.

  In his eyes, every man there marked a success for his force, but a failure for humanity.

  He announced himself at the gate-house, showing his warrant card to the guards, and was escorted through a succession of corridors to the interview room set aside for his meeting.

  It smelled of stale sweat and cigarettes. As he waited alone, shouts from the exercise yard outside drifted through the barred window. Eventually, after around five minutes, the door swung open and the tall red-haired figure of Nathan Bennett shuffled into the room, ahead of two prison officers, each one bigger than him.

  ‘Thanks, lads,’ said Martin. ‘Would you stand guard outside, please. I want to talk to Mr Bennett in private.’

  One of the warders eyed him doubtfully. ‘Ah’m no sure about that, sir.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about me. Mr Bennett says he’s an innocent man. In that case, he’s hardly going to take a swing at me, is he?’ He smiled evenly at the prisoner. ‘Unless he fancies a transfer to the hospital wing, that is.

  ‘On you go now. I’ll give you a shout when we’re finished.’

  The two uniformed officers looked at each other. The doubter was unpersuaded. ‘Ah’ll still need to ask the Principal Officer about that, sir.’

  Martin gave up. ‘Okay,’ he agreed. ‘Stand over in the corner there, and chat to each other. Just don’t be ear-holing me.’

  As the men obeyed, Martin turned to Bennett, motioning to the red-haired man to sit at the small square table in the centre of the room, and taking a seat opposite. For a while, they gazed at each other, the policeman smiling lightly, the prisoner glowering, nervous and unsure.

  The former broke the silence. ‘We haven’t met before. I won’t say that it’s a pleasure, but it’s fascinating, all the same. It’s not often that I’m privileged to be in the company of a genuine, fully qualified idiot.’

  For a second there was a spark of reaction in the dull lifeless eyes, before the head dropped. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been reading the transcript of your trial. If you think that any jury’s going to fall for that, you have to be daft as a brush. We both know that you’re as guilty as sin, so let’s cut the crap.’

  ‘Ah never done it,’ Bennett protested. ‘It’s mistaken identity. Ah wis at home in bed at the time. I’d been to the bank in the mornin’. That must have been when I dropped my card.’

  The detective shook his head. ‘Fuck me,’ he sighed. ‘This gets better. I’m dealing with the Invisible Man now. That must be a hell of an advantage for a bank robber. Nathan, we didn’t get to that bit of the prosecution case before the judge popped his clogs, but we’ve looked at the tapes of the bank’s customers that day, and the day before. You don’t appear in any of them.’

  ‘The camera must have been faulty, then.’

  ‘Not till you sprayed paint on it. We’ve got a great shot of that, incidentally. You shouldn’t have used your left hand, not with those fingers missing.’ He nodded towards the table, where the man’s hands rested, the third and fourth fingers of the left severed at the knuckle.

  ‘How did you lose them?’ he asked casually.

  ‘In the Falklands. Fuckin’ Argies shot them off.’ Bennett was animated for the first time. ‘We fuckin’ sorted them though. Ah got five for each finger.’ He held up his right hand with its full complement.

  ‘How many had their hands up?’

  As Bennett flushed and his gaze dropped once more, the detective wondered whether his aside had hit the mark.

  ‘Got any fags?’ the prisoner asked.

  ‘That the tradition, is it? I chuck you twenty Bensons and you talk to me. Forget it, pal. I don’t smoke, and I don’t hand out presents to the likes of you. I’m here to give you life, Mr Bennett, that’s all.’ The red-haired man shot a look at him, suspicion in his dull eyes.

  ‘There’s two ways that can work,’ Martin went on. ‘One way I give you back your life. For that to happen, you turn Crown evidence, you name the other guys on the robbery, and you give us the man in charge, the guy who did the planning.

  ‘We’ll deal with you separately, let you enter a guilty plea, and advise the judge that you co-operated willingly. You’ll do some time, of course. I guess you’ll get five years, but I can fix it with the Parole Board so that you only do half of that.

  ‘That’s the best offer you’re ever going to get. In fact, some of my team would be really pissed off if they knew I was making it. How does it strike you?’

  Bennett gazed at him across the table, but said nothing.

  ‘Okay,’ said the Head of CID, ‘this is the other way. Did you hear what happened in Galashiels yesterday?’

  Slowly, hesitantly, the prisoner nodded.

  ‘Right, so you know that your gang shot and killed two people. I was there, Bennett. I saw them both; the man with his insides on the carpet, the girl with the top half of her body in ribbons. You never came across worse than that in the Falklands, pal, I promise you.’

  ‘Nothin’ tae do with me,’ the man said, hoarsely.

  ‘Oh yes it was, Bennett. We know that your team did it. The method was just the same, and they used the same weapons; different masks, that’s all. Two of the witness descriptions match the two guys who were with you in Dalkeith. You might be in here, but you’re still part of it.

  ‘This is how it’s going to work. At your retrial, we both know that it will take the jury about ten minutes to convict. Even with the best brief in the world . . . whom you don’t have, by the way . . . you haven’t a fucking chance. You never had.

  ‘But this time,’ Martin continued, ‘things will be different. I’m going to give evidence, and I’m going to tell the judge that you are part of a conspiracy which has led to a string of well-planned robberies, with murder involved. I’m going to tell him that your total haul is upwards of two million. Finally, I’m going to tell him that this is the most brutal and ruthless gang that I’ve ever seen in my police career, and that you were an active member.

  ‘In short, I’m going to tell the judge that he should give you twenty years. And that’s exactly what he’ll do. You won’t do it in this cushy nick, though. You’ll be in Peterhead A Hall, freezing your balls off in t
he winter and roasting alive in the summer. You’ve got a sister, haven’t you? How often d’you think she’ll be bothered to travel all that way up there to see you? Oh yes, and if you’re still thinking about parole, forget that. I can also fix it with the Board that you don’t get any.’

  He paused, to let his threat sink in. ‘How old are you, Nathan? Thirty-seven, isn’t it. Fifty-seven by the time you get out. Think of it! Boiled potatoes, cabbage and chewy beef for your next twenty Christmas dinners.

  ‘That’s your choice, my friend. Your life back, or your life taken away. No bullshit, that is it. Now...’

  Bennett sat, head bowed, shaking slightly from side to side, hands clenching and unclenching on the table. His mouth worked as he gnawed his lip. When at last he looked up his eyes were glistening.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ he muttered, plaintively. ‘Ah dinna have a choice. I’m pleading Not Guilty.’

  ‘You really are that afraid?’ asked the detective, shocked beneath his calm exterior.

  He nodded his red head. ‘It’s no’ just me,’ he said.

  ‘Who is it then?’ the detective shot back. But the prisoner fell silent once more.

  ‘I won’t be back with this deal,’ he warned. Bennett looked back at him helplessly, his expression wavering.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ sighed Martin. ‘I’ll give you the weekend to think it over. I’ll come back to see you on Monday morning.’ He turned to the two officers in the corner. ‘Guards, you can have him back.’

  14

  There was nothing grand about the office of the Head of CID. It was on the same level as the Command Corridor, but smaller and less well furnished than the Chief Officers’ accommodation.

  Nonetheless, DCS Andy Martin appreciated its location, beyond a general office where his assistants sat, allowing them to act as a barrier and to filter visitors, deflecting casual callers whenever their chief wished to be left alone.

  No one deflected Bob Skinner. He marched into the suite, just after four-thirty, and headed straight for Martin’s door with a nod and a smile to Sammy Pye. He was dressed in light cotton jeans and a polo shirt, and a dark shadow showed on his chin.