The Court Officer’s eyes narrowed, almost to slits. ‘Here,’ he said, quietly. ‘What are you guys leading up to? Are you trying to tell me . . .’

  McGuire looked at him, impassively, unsmiling. ‘We’re not trying to tell you anything, Mr Maxwell. We’re asking you. About security. Okay.’

  The little man’s gaze dropped. ‘Aye, okay.’

  ‘And you’ll keep our inquiries to yourself?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And if anything occurs to you . . . about any aspect of our conversation . . . ’ The Inspector pushed a card across the desk. ‘You’ll get in touch with us?’

  ‘Of course.’ He stood up to leave, turned towards the door then stopped. ‘One thing occurs to me. I’ve still got the rest of that bottle of gin, and the lime. I don’t drink the stuff, so you’d be as well finishing it as anyone else.’

  25

  ‘D’you think I should cancel my holiday, Bob?’ Sir James Proud wore a heavy frown. ‘After all, you came home early from yours. When news of Archergait’s murder breaks . . . as it will . . . what will people think if I’m away?’

  Skinner grinned at him. ‘They’ll think, correctly, that you have absolute confidence in your Deputy. Listen, Jimmy, apart from your doctor, I’m the only person who knows the outcome of your last medical. You’ve been told to take a good holiday this summer . . . without a mobile phone.

  ‘Your ferry is booked, and like it or not you are heading off tomorrow for four weeks at my place in Spain. If you’re going to be difficult about that, I’ll pick up the phone and tell Lady Chrissie. She’ll sort you out.’

  The Chief Constable held up his hands in surrender. ‘I give up. Och, but man, you know how it is, being away when there’s a crisis.’

  Skinner nodded. ‘I know. Tell you what, I will fax you every so often, to keep you in touch with current affairs: football results and that sort of thing. If I should happen to slip in details of the investigations . . . well just don’t let Chrissie see them, that’s all.’

  Proud Jimmy smiled at him, mollified. ‘Rugby results, rather than football, please. I never understand why they call it the beautiful game. Why, there’s hardly a team in Scotland has a flat pitch to play on.’

  He swivelled in his chair and looked out of his window. When he turned back to face Skinner, his mood had changed. ‘How long do you think you’ll be able to keep the wraps on Billy Archergait’s murder?’ he asked.

  ‘Long enough to clear it up, I hope. McGuire and McIlhenney are up at the Court now, beginning a very discreet investigation.’

  ‘Are you going to check back through his case log, to see if there’s someone he sent down in the past who might fit the bill?’

  The DCC nodded. ‘Yes, we are. The Lord President’s going to help us there. The trouble is the old boy was a judge for so long, it’s a needle in a haystack job. We’re going to talk to Archergait’s sons as well, of course.

  ‘I’m seeing Norman King later on today.’

  Proud looked at him. ‘Tell me straight, Bob, are you optimistic about a speedy conclusion to this one?’

  Skinner frowned and shook his head. ‘Without a big slice of luck, no I’m not. There’s an answer somewhere in the old boy’s career, or in his past life somewhere, but we won’t find it by pushing a button on a computer. There’s lot of sifting and analysis to be done, I fear.’

  ‘What about the inquiries?’

  ‘It’s the same story there. We’ve established that McDonnell, the missing prison officer, the man we think set the Bennetts up, caught an Air UK flight to Amsterdam yesterday. His ticket was waiting for him at Edinburgh Airport. It was a direct booking with the airline by telephone, and he paid for it there, by cheque.

  ‘The deaths of the Bennetts and his disappearance have closed off one line of inquiry, but there are other things we can do. It’ll mean still more sifting and analysis, but I know the very boy to do it. I’m just off to see Andy about that.

  ‘Once I’ve done that, I’m off down to the Borders. I’m attending the funeral of Harry Riach, the civilian victim in the Gala hold-up, with John McGrigor.’

  ‘You’ll represent me at PC Brown’s service tomorrow, won’t you?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Chief, I’ll even wear my uniform. I’ll go to Archergait’s as well. I believe the family are trying to fix it for Thursday.’

  ‘Sounds like a grim week, Bob. You make me feel all the more guilty to be going away.’

  Skinner shot him a thin smile as he rose. ‘Listen, I don’t want to be following your coffin as well. Four weeks’ rest, man. Doctor’s orders. Give me a call when you get there, to confirm that everything in the house is okay for you.’

  Sir James stood and walked him to the door. ‘Good luck, then,’ he said, ‘on all fronts.’

  Outside in the corridor, the DCC turned and headed for the CID suite. He found Martin in his office poring fruitlessly over interview statements by neighbours of Hannah Bennett and by the residents of the block from which her brother had been assassinated.

  ‘Anything there?’

  The Head of CID looked up from his desk. ‘Not a thing. Deaf, dumb and fucking blind, the lot of them. One bloke round the corner from Hannah thinks he might have seen a red car parked outside his house late in the evening, or it might have been blue, or maybe dark green. It could have been a Vauxhall, but then again, maybe a Ford.’

  ‘What about the woman herself? Did you learn anything new about her?’

  ‘She was fairly pally with the lady four doors up it seems. According to her, Hannah didn’t have a boyfriend, as such. There was one bloke she had dinner with from time to time. He was an elder in her church, but he got engaged to someone else a couple of years back. Since then, there’s been no one.’

  ‘What about the brother?’

  ‘No one seems to know much about him. A dour bugger who ignored most people: that’s how he struck the neighbours. That was how he came across in jail as well. Dan Pringle’s lot spoke to all of the untried prisoners at Saughton, and that’s how most of them described him, one way or another.’

  He looked up at Skinner from behind his desk. ‘Actually, I was thinking I might ask Brian to organise some re-interviewing up at Bonnyrigg, concentrating on Nathan this time. I mean, someone there must have got to know him. I’m going to find out where he drank, and ask some questions there.’

  ‘Fair enough, Andy, but there’s something else I think we have to do, too. We’re agreed that these robberies were meticulously planned, yes?’

  Martin nodded.

  ‘Okay, in that case the planner, the organiser, the Boss, if you’re right, may well have been in every one of those banks. We know that they all have video security, with recording systems. If those systems are any good, every one of those branches could have him on tape.

  ‘It’ll be a hell of a task, I know, but we should have someone reviewing all those recordings from at least three months before the first robbery, looking for the same face showing up, one, two, three, four times.’

  Andy Martin flashed a twisted grin. ‘Who do you have in mind for that job? How about wee Mark, given the memory that he’s got?’

  ‘You’re probably right, but it wouldn’t say much for the strength of our resources if we had to use a seven-year-old. Actually, I was thinking of someone a bit older.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the outer office.

  ‘Sammy? Good idea. He’s a bright spark and he’s got the patience for the job. Why don’t you call him in, so we can give him the good news.’

  26

  For Bob Skinner, the rare occasions on which he was obliged to wear uniform were among the few unappealing aspects of Command rank. Nevertheless, awareness of his duty as Sir James Proud’s deputy, and a sense of respect for the bereaved, had made him struggle into the uncomfortable blue serge trousers, and into the high-buttoned tunic, emblazoned with badges of rank.

  There were ribbons too, among them that of the Queen’s Police Medal, awarded in the wake of his recovery from his near-fatal stabbing. He guessed that Proud Jimmy would have worn his medals to a funeral, but he had stopped short of that.

  Normally, he would have driven his own car to Galashiels, but for this occasion he had asked for a police driver, to avoid the inconvenience of parking. As he stepped out of the car a battery of TV and press cameras homed in on him. A young woman stepped forward with a microphone, but he ignored her and strode off.

  John McGrigor was in uniform also as he met the DCC at the entrance to the tall-spired parish church. It might have fitted once, but now the silver buttons strained to contain the beefy Superintendent.

  Skinner looked up at the red sandstone building. ‘So this was Big Harry’s church,’ he mused.

  ‘Very, very occasionally,’ whispered McGrigor. ‘But now he’s a hero, the minister’s welcomed him back with open arms.’

  The policemen stepped inside, where they were met by an usher and shown to a pew reserved for VIPs. Skinner recognised the local MP, the Parliamentary Under Secretary of State for Home Affairs, and Councillor Marcia Topham, Chair of the Police Advisory Board. He nodded briefly to all three as he sat on the hard wooden bench seat, next to the Councillor.

  She leaned her head towards him. ‘How’s the investigation going?’ she whispered.

  ‘Positively,’ he replied, emphatically, in a tone which invited no further questions. He glanced towards the altar, where Harry Riach’s massive dark wood coffin stood on trestles, with a single wreath on top and others laid before it.

  ‘The big one in the middle’s from us,’ McGrigor muttered. ‘The big fella would have appreciated the irony in that. It’s as if we were saying goodbye to a valued customer.’

  Skinner looked sideways at him and was surprised to see a tear in the corner of his eye. However at that moment the organ burst into life and the congregation rose to its feet. The family entered, led by a stocky middle-aged woman in black, leaning on the arm of a tall, solidly built man in his twenties. He was wearing an army uniform, with sergeant’s stripes. Two other men, younger than the first, followed behind, each supporting an elderly relative.

  ‘The three sons?’ the DCC whispered.

  ‘Aye. The old folk are Harry’s parents.’

  The service was formal and relatively short, typical of Scottish Presbyterian funerals: the twenty-third psalm, a prayer, a eulogy delivered by the minister, full of unconscious signs that he was not too well acquainted with the man he was burying, a hymn and a benediction.

  It seemed no time before the congregation was filing out behind the family mourners, to form a cortège of cars behind the hearse, as it wound its way to the nearby ceremony, where, it seemed to Skinner, around half of the town of Galashiels was waiting.

  The gathering parted to allow the two policemen to move to the graveside. As they approached the burial site, McGrigor touched the arm of the DCC’s uniform. ‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment, sir.’

  Slowly and deliberately, the Superintendent stepped forward, handed his uniform hat to the undertaker, and took up the position of the second mourner, at the foot of the coffin as it was lowered on to two bars across the waiting grave.

  As Skinner watched the scene, his mind swept back almost twenty years, to another funeral, that of his first wife, in Dirleton Cemetery. He saw himself standing at the head of her coffin, Myra’s father directly opposite him, in the position where McGrigor stood now, three of their nearest and dearest on either side. He almost felt the cord in his hands and the sudden weight as the burden was lifted first, to allow the supports to be withdrawn, then lowered reverently into the earth.

  The undertaker’s instructions were the same as they had been on that day, the worst of Bob Skinner’s young life. ‘Drop your cords, gentlemen.’ Involuntarily, he lowered his eyes as the eight bearers allowed the tasselled ropes to fall into the grave, seeing again the brass name plate with its simple lettering, ‘Myra Skinner, wife and mother’.

  It seemed like an age to him, but barely two minutes had elapsed before McGrigor was back by his side. The two men stood as the congregation dispersed, waiting for an opportunity to express their condolences to the widow, who sat in the funeral car with Harry Riach’s aged parents, being consoled by friends through the open door.

  ‘Thank you for doing that, Uncle John. My Dad would be pleased.’ Skinner looked away from the car to see the oldest of the Riach brothers standing with the Superintendent.

  ‘Is pleased, Henry. He is pleased. If you believe anything that was said in that church, you’ll believe that he’s watching us.’

  The sergeant nodded. ‘I’d like to believe that, Uncle John. I’m trying; I really am.’

  The Superintendent turned. ‘Sir, this is Henry Riach, Harry’s oldest son. Henry, DCC Skinner.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, sir,’ said the tall young man. ‘I’m pleased that you came.’

  ‘It’s an honour, believe me.’

  To the policeman’s surprise, the young soldier smiled. ‘Aye, and appropriate too. You had him often enough in his time. It’s only right that you should be here to see him off.’

  For once in his life, Skinner was lost for a suitable counter. Instead he said, ‘Look, could you pass something on to your mother for us. There are channels through which she can receive compensation for her loss. Inadequate, I know, but still. There’s Criminal Injuries, and there’s also the possibility that the bank might like to express sympathy, too.

  ‘I had a word with their head office before I came here, and as a first step, they’d like to meet the cost of the funeral.’ He took a card from his pocket. ‘I won’t intrude further today, but that’s my number at Fettes. If I can help or advise you and your mother in any way, don’t hesitate to give me a call.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, sir,’ said Henry Riach.

  ‘Not at all, Sergeant. Your father died a hero.’

  The young man’s eyes misted over. ‘My Dad lived as a hero too, sir. All his life, he was a hero to me. A rough diamond, for sure, but a diamond nonetheless.’

  He shook Skinner’s hand and walked away, towards the car.

  The DCC looked at his colleague. ‘Uncle John, eh. I didn’t realise that you were so close to the family.’

  For the second time that day, a tear showed in the eye of the big bluff Superintendent. ‘Harry and I were brothers in arms, sir, from the age of five, when we started school on the same day. I arrested him three times when he was raising hell and threatening to dismantle the pub, yet in all our lives, there was never an angry word passed between us.

  ‘Young Henry, there; he’s my godson.’

  McGrigor replaced his peaked hat, which, like Skinner, he had been holding in his hand. ‘I tell you, sir, suppose no one else catches these bastards, I will.’

  ‘Come on then, John,’ said the DCC, nodding. ‘Let’s the two of us get on with it.’

  27

  If Skinner had returned to Fettes to change out of uniform, he would have been at least fifteen minutes late for his meeting with the Lord Advocate. So instead, sitting stiffly in the hated serge, he instructed his driver to head straight for the Crown Office in Chambers Street.

  He frowned as he stepped from the car, as he recalled his last visit to the recently completed headquarters of the Scottish criminal prosecution service, as an interviewee rather than as a policeman. But putting the memory aside and concentrating on the matter in hand, he strode into the building.

  The clerk at reception sat straight behind his desk as he approached. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Skinner,’ he said. ‘Lord Archibald asks if you would just go straight in. His room’s . . .’

  ‘That’s all right, thanks,’ Skinner retorted; a shade tersely, the clerk thought. ‘I’ve been there before.’

  Norman King looked up in surprise as the Deputy Chief Constable entered the room. Even the Lord Advocate raised an eyebrow at the sight of the tall detective in uniform. ‘Funeral,’ Skinner muttered, all the explanation he needed to offer.

  ‘Ah, I see. Was it the officer who was killed last week?’

  ‘No, it was Harry Riach, the civilian. See what you can do about posthumous gallantry awards, Archie, will you . . . for both of them.’

  ‘I’ll mention it to the Secretary of State. Pull up a chair, Bob.’ He looked across at the third man in the room.

  ‘I’ve asked Bob Skinner to join us at this point, Norman. There’s something that he and I have to discuss with you.’ The DCC looked at the man as he took his seat alongside him. He was, he guessed, around forty years old, and wore the traditional junior advocate’s clothing of dark jacket, pin-striped trousers and plain white shirt, stripes being the prerogative of Silks. Skinner knew many members of the tight-knit community that is the Scottish Bar, but his path and that of King had never crossed before.

  ‘I’ve just been congratulating Norman,’ Lord Archibald went on, looking now at Skinner, ‘for two reasons. First, he’s to be appointed Queen’s Counsel, and second, he has been offered and has agreed to accept, the position of Home Advocate Depute.’

  The policeman’s eyebrows rose as he nodded an acknowledgement to King. The Home AD was the third person on the Crown Office totem pole, after the Lord Advocate and the Solicitor General, and was the leader of the team of full-time prosecutors in Scotland’s High Court of Judiciary. Appointment to the office was recognised as an important step towards high office and a seat on the Bench.

  ‘Well done,’ offered the DCC.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Skinner. It’s come as a great surprise, I must say. I didn’t think I was sufficiently senior for the job, but Archie seems to have faith in me. What a pity though that my father didn’t live to see it.’

  The smile vanished from the Lord Advocate’s face. ‘Yes indeed, Norman: and that brings me to the reason for Bob’s presence.’ King looked round at him in sudden surprise.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  Lord Archibald took a deep breath. ‘You’re aware that the Lord President asked, as a formality, for a post-mortem to be carried out on Billy?’