Last Resort

Book 25: BOB SKINNER

by Quintin Jardine

Genres: General Fiction; Mystery; Hard-Boiled; Police Procedurals; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

Remarkably assured, raw-boned, a tour de force

Release date: April 9, 2015

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 416

Sample

One

When the call came, the one that put me back in place as a functioning human being, I was, not to put too fine a point on it, really screwed up inside my head.

I had begun a year that seemed to be full of promise, but if I’d been granted foresight of what most of those promises actually were, I’d probably have stayed in bed on the first of January and waited out the next twelve months.

I’d have been on my own, though; even then I should have been able to spot the fault lines in my unstable marriage to Aileen de Marco.

When our relationship became public knowledge, a smart-arse broadsheet journalist wrote a flowery piece about the attraction of unlike poles, the policeman and the politician, the authoritarian (me) and the libertarian (her), and topped the allegorical nonsense off by labelling us ‘Scotland’s most magnetic couple’.

I fell for some of that for a while, until the day when I realised that it was the diametric opposite of the truth. Aileen and I were both leaders in our chosen professions and we were both (although I’d have denied it) ambitious. However, she was as authoritarian as me, and neither of us had any trace of compromise in our nature.

When we found ourselves on a collision course over the future of the Scottish police service, and its implications for my personal position, with Aileen determined to ensure that her side of the argument came out on top, and having the power to make that happen . . . well, to complete that journo’s analogy, the like poles that, in reality, we had been all along, repelled each other, as they always do.

Everything fell apart after that, very quickly indeed; not only my marriage, but my job, my career, my vision of the future; they were all cut from under me.

The one saving grace . . . and that’s something of a pun, given her family name . . . was the return of Sarah, the wife I should never have left in the first place, and the cautious rebuilding of our relationship. She and I have only two things in common: we love each other and we love our kids. She’s good for me and I know now that I was lost in the time we were apart.

When disaster followed disaster in my life, and everything reached its grim conclusion, it was only Sarah who kept me on the rails. I’d have sat brooding indefinitely in the house, over the offer of an unspecified role at an unspecified rank, or giving my lawyer a hard time as he tried to sort out the alternative, the terms of my departure from the police service. Indeed that’s what I did for a few weeks until she had enough of it.

‘Bob,’ she said, plucking what would have been my fourth Corona of that Saturday evening if she’d let me uncap the bottle, ‘this will not do. I know how shitty the last few months have been, but not even you can undo an Act of Parliament.

‘I know you’re having difficulty with the fact that you’re not Chief Constable Skinner any more, but it is not the worst thing that’s ever happened.

‘You’ve given thirty years of public service. Now it’s somebody else’s turn to catch the bad guys, to clear up after the pubs close, and to keep the traffic flowing smoothly, and those people are more than capable, since your generation has trained most of them. There was a police force before you and there will still be one without you, if you decide to go completely. What you have to work out is what you might be without it.’

I felt the corners of my mouth turn down as I watched her put the beer back in the fridge. ‘I might be nothing,’ I countered, mournfully. ‘Being a policeman might be the only shot I had in my locker.’

‘Rubbish!’ she laughed. ‘You’ve already been offered three non-executive directorships.’

‘I don’t do non-executive anything, love. You know that.’

‘Then you could write.’

‘About what?’

‘Your career.’

‘I’d have to leave too much out. A lot of my files are closed.’

‘You could try fiction,’ she suggested. ‘You could jump on the Tartan Noir bandwagon.’

‘Christ,’ I complained, ‘can’t we find a word in our own language to describe a Scottish institution, rather than nicking one from the bloody French?

‘If I did that, love,’ I pointed out, ‘. . . although I doubt that I have the talent . . . everyone would be convinced that it was all Skinner’s Casebook thinly disguised. There could be all sorts of legal problems . . . and besides, I don’t have the patience.’

‘Then you could teach.’ She pointed an authoritative figure at me. ‘I’ll bet that if you put the word out that you fancied a university chair, you’d have half a dozen offers.’

‘It’s easy for you to say that, my dear,’ I countered. ‘You’re a consultant forensic pathologist; you can do your job and teach it at the same time. Mine wasn’t like that. What would my lectures be about? Police procedure? Criminal investigation?

‘Sure I could do that stuff, but what I couldn’t teach, probably couldn’t even explain, is the instinct that separates an efficient officer from an exceptional one; the reason why one patrol officer in twenty will know when it’s time to kick a door in, then finds a sick old person or an abused child behind it, or why only a single detective in a squad might be able to look at all the known facts of a case, understand logically what must be hiding behind them, and then back his own judgement. I wouldn’t be interested in turning out clone cops, only risk-takers.’

She smiled, challenging. ‘Well?’

‘There would be no market for them. Risk only works when it’s rewarded.’

‘It worked for you.’

‘God knows how.’ I heard myself chuckle. ‘When I think of some of the chances I took . . .’

‘Then take another.’

‘How?’

She took a few moments to frame her reply. ‘Get the hell out of here for a while. The longer you sit around here sulking, the likelier it is that you’ll wind up as a middle-aged house husband with a shrinking golf handicap and an expanding waistline.

‘Already you’re drinking more beer than you should, and your coffee addiction’s come back. Is that what you want from the rest of your life?’

‘Probably not,’ I conceded, ‘although I like the bit about the golf handicap.’

‘You can play golf anywhere, and you need to do it somewhere else for a while. It’s less than a month to Christmas; take yourself off to the Spanish house for some of that time. You’ll be able to look at the future more objectively out there.’

‘I’m needed here,’ I protested. ‘My kids need me . . . all of them.’

‘They can do without you for a couple of weeks . . . they’ve had to in the past. Go away, Bob, and look forward, not back.

‘You’re in a great position. With the pension you’ll have kicking in if you decide to leave the force, you’ll be financially fireproof for life. The world’s the shellfish of your choice, since I know you don’t like oysters. Go: work it out.’



Two

These days I have a simple rule: what Sarah wants, Sarah gets. Two days later, on the following Monday, I was on a flight to Barcelona, with a one-way ticket.

I hadn’t expected to be heading back to L’Escala so soon; my last trip to my Spanish hometown had ended calamitously, and that bad memory was still burned into my brain.

The flight touched down late in the evening, so I spent the night in a hotel above Estacio Sants, the main railway station in Barcelona, and took a train north after breakfast.

The house was cold when I arrived on Tuesday morning, just before midday. Anyone who believes that the north of Spain enjoys a year-long summer has never been there in the winter. My priority task was firing up the heating; that done, I unpacked, and then made the place habitable by moving the garden furniture out of the living room. By the time everything was as I wanted it, I was experiencing lunchtime symptoms, so I left a message on Sarah’s phone to let her know that I’d got there okay, and strolled down into the old town, the heart of L’Escala.

Although I’ve had a home there for all of twenty years, I had never visited Spain in early December. I’d expected the place to be quiet, with half the cafes and restaurants closed for holidays or maintenance, so I was surprised by the buzz around the little beach.

The tourists were gone, but the expatriate population was out in numbers. The languages that caught my ear as I sat at a pavement table in one of the few bars that caught the watery early afternoon sun were mainly English and French. If it hadn’t been for a trio of Spanish business people . . . the two guys in the group were wearing ties, and that’s a real giveaway . . . I might have been the youngest person there.

As I leaned back in my chair and looked across the bay, watching the waves lapping against the rock they call El Cargol, the snail, I was seized by the curious notion . . . erroneously, as I was to discover very soon . . . that I was an unseen observer of my surroundings, encased in an invisibility bubble.

It didn’t take me long to rationalise the feeling: I was in the midst of a crowd of people and nobody, not one person, recognised me.

I’ve never regarded myself as a celebrity, but in recent years I’ve been forced to recognise that as a chief constable I was a public figure. Even before that, when I was involved in hands-on criminal investigation, my image featured regularly on television and in the press. I was used to heads turning when I walked into a room, and to registering the expressions of people as they clocked me. (You can tell a lot from that first glance.)

I smiled as I ordered a beer, a couple of tapas, and a long flauta sandwich. As the waiter departed, I logged my iPhone on to the house wi-fi, and checked my emails. Apart from my daily newspapers, I had three. One was from Gullane Golf Club, setting out its programme for Christmas and New Year, the second was from Mitchell Laidlaw, my lawyer, and the third was from Neil McIlhenney, on his personal account rather than his Metropolitan Police address.

I opened that first, and read. ‘Thanks for the good wishes,’ he began. I’d left him a voice message the day before congratulating him on his promotion to Commander.

It’s bloody ridiculous that I’m still climbing the ladder while you might be jumping off it, given that I’d probably never have made it past DS if not for you. Good luck to Andy as the first head of Police Scotland, and to Maggie as his deputy, but we’re all sorry that you might not be there. If you fancy a complete change of scene, there are whispers of an assistant commissioner vacancy down here, one that would suit you down to the ground.

I smiled as I closed the message. Those whispers had reached my ears, straight from the mouth of the Met Commissioner herself, who’d called me to sound me out. I declined as politely as I could; a few years ago I was encouraged to apply for the job that she holds now, but a London move has never held any interest for me.

Neil was right. A large part of me did indeed want to jump off that damned ladder, for a whole raft of reasons, some professional, others personal; the latter included one that had made me judge my position to be untenable. Better to leave it to the next generation, I’d been thinking, even if launching myself into the unknown was a daunting prospect.

I was a cop in limbo; officially I was still on the strength, but the force that I’d led had disappeared in the creation of the new unified service. I was on sabbatical; the PR people had said that the Police Authority was looking at possible roles for me in the new service.

That was true, but its chief executive had come up with nothing of any interest to me. I had made noises about wanting out, but the authority was reluctant to negotiate a severance package, and I was equally reluctant to go down the tribunal route. Also I was unsure.

From my first day in the service, there had been certainty in my professional life. If I did cut the cord, irrevocably, that would be gone; deep in my heart I wasn’t sure I could cope without it.

I knew that was what Mitchell Laidlaw’s email would be about, another offer of a sinecure job . . . the last one had been head of strategic planning, whatever the hell that means, and I’d laughed it out of court. I was about to open the message when my phone sang its song, letting me off the hook for the moment.

I glanced at the caller’s number, but it told me nothing. However I did recognise it as a Spanish mobile, by its format. I frowned; that was a puzzle. Nobody had known I was heading for L’Escala and there had been no time for word of my arrival to have spread around my few friends in the town. I came close to deciding it was a marketing cold call and hitting the red spot, but my curiosity overcame me. I took the call, answering with my usual simple grunt of, ‘Yes?’

‘Bob?’

The voice in my ear was deep and mellow and although it had been a while since I’d heard it, I recognised it at once. ‘Xavi,’ I exclaimed.

‘The same,’ the caller agreed. ‘How are you?’

‘Personally, I’m okay,’ I replied. ‘Professionally, I’m fucked.’

Xavier Aislado has been a friend of mine for around twenty-five years. For the first few of those, ours was a business relationship . . . Xavi the journalist, Bob the cop, it had to be that way . . . but somewhere along the line we’d come to be friends.

He was born in Edinburgh, into a family of refugees from the Spanish Civil War; they had done well in business, and the young Xavi had never wanted for anything, other than the love of his parents.

After a brief career as a pro footballer was cut short by injury, he found a job on a tired, rickety old Scottish broadsheet called the Saltire. He proved himself to be a natural journalist, and breathed new life into the place. It’s no exaggeration to say that he was almost entirely responsible for turning it into one of Scotland’s leading newspapers.

Eventually, his input was more than simply editorial. When the title fell into the hands of a business scoundrel whose mismanagement and crookedness brought it perilously close to liquidation, Xavi engineered its purchase by a media group that his half-brother Joe had founded on his return to Spain after Franco’s death.

While Xavi’s professional life was outstanding, his private life was an even bigger disaster than mine. After his marriage ended in a horrible bereavement that would have broken most men, he focused for years on nothing but work. He withdrew from the few friends he had, me included; any contact we had was by telephone, never face to face.

His isolation from social Edinburgh did the Saltire no harm, it must be said. He was able to devote his entire life to being its managing editor, driving it on until it had left all its rivals in its wake.

Its circulation continued to climb as those of other papers fell, so it came as a surprise when, without a word of warning, Xavi removed himself from our midst and joined Joe on his estate in the hills above Girona, leaving his life’s work in the hands of June Crampsey, his sister from his mother’s second marriage.

I couldn’t remember when last I’d seen him, but I doubt that it was this century.

‘How did you get this number?’ I asked him. (It’s known only by my inner circle of friends and family.)

‘Why?’ he chuckled. ‘Is it on the state secret list?’

‘Of course not. I’m just curious, that’s all.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll forget it.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ I told him. ‘Add it to your contacts.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘As it happens, your daughter shared it with me. None of your old colleagues were forthcoming, so I called your Alex. June told me where I could find her. You must have spoken kindly of me, for she passed it on, once she’d satisfied herself of my bona fides, by confirming with June that I was who I said I was.’

‘Did she tell you where I was?’

‘That she did not share,’ he admitted.

‘I wouldn’t have minded that either,’ I said, pausing as lunch arrived at my table. ‘So, my friend, good as it is to hear from you after all this time, you’ll understand me wondering why you’re calling me.’

‘I’ve been following your story,’ he replied, ‘trying to work out why you seem to have walked out on your career, just as it was about to reach its zenith.’

‘You’re not being a journo, are you, Xavi?’ I asked. I’d never made a public statement about my decision not to compete for the post of chief constable of the new nationwide Police Scotland force.

‘Of course not, I’m just a curious and concerned friend.’

‘In that case, if you look at your own paper’s back issues you’ll find that I made it pretty clear a few months ago that I thought the politicians had got it wrong over police unification.’

‘I don’t have to look up anything,’ he said. ‘I remember the piece you gave us. And then your marriage broke up, and everyone, me included, thought that your then wife’s being on the other side of the argument had everything to do with that.’

‘Not everything; there were other reasons. “Argument” is the wrong word, though. I wasn’t for debating the issue with anyone; the interview I did with your June was a statement of my beliefs. Aileen knew what those were all along. She ignored me, and thought I’d have to fall in line when the change was forced through.’

‘So did I. I always thought you were a pragmatist, and that once the decision was made you’d live with it.’

‘Like I said . . .’

‘Yes, there were other reasons,’ he said, ‘just as there’s another reason for this call. I’d like to consult you.’

‘Consult me?’ I laughed. ‘Do you think I’m Sherlock fucking Holmes?’

He chuckled in return. ‘Nothing would surprise me about you. But I mean it, Bob. I have a situation and I need advice.’

‘What kind of situation?’

‘I can’t say over the phone. It would have to be in person.’

‘Where?’

‘Anywhere you like. I’ll come to Scotland if I have to.’

When he said that, I understood that it was serious. I knew from June Crampsey that Xavi had never been back to Edinburgh since the day he left his office in the Saltire building for the last time.

‘You don’t.’ I held my phone up in the air for a few seconds then put it back to my ear. ‘What did you hear?’ I asked.

‘Seagulls,’ he replied, ‘and someone speaking French, too loudly, in a Belgian accent. Does that mean you’re not in Scotland?’

‘I’m in L’Escala, chum. I got here less than two hours ago. At this moment I’m watching my patatas bravas cool down and the head disappear from my beer.’

‘Then I’ll come to you . . . if you’re willing to talk to me, that is.’

‘I am, but you can host me. Sarah says I need a complete change of scene, and I’ve never been to your place.’

‘Great,’ he exclaimed. ‘When can you make it? I’ll send a car to pick you up. Hell, listen to me! I’ll come to fetch you myself.’

‘There’s no need for that,’ I told him. ‘I’ll be on the road as soon as I’ve finished lunch; give me your address and I’ll programme my satnav.’

‘That’s excellent, Bob. Bring an overnight bag; the very least I can do is put you up and give you a decent dinner.’

As we ended the call, I found myself buzzing and, to my surprise, grateful for Xavi’s interruption, and his invitation. I’d only been in the house on the hill for a few minutes, but that was long enough for me to realise that the place was full of ghosts.



Three

As I paid my bill, a layer of cloud covered the sun, knocking the temperature down by about five degrees centigrade. It looked as if it wasn’t about to go anywhere in a hurry, and I began to regret my casual decision to come out without a jacket.

I told the waiter not to bother about the change and stood up, keen to be on my way, but I hadn’t gone ten paces before the corner of my eye caught a strange movement.

I stopped and looked around, over my shoulder. There was another cafe next to mine; it wasn’t nearly as popular, with only two tables occupied. A young woman sat alone at one of them; she was holding a small Nikon pocket camera, and had a sheepish expression on her face.

‘I thought it was you, Mr Skinner,’ she said, in an accent that was almost as Scottish as mine, then snapped off another image as I frowned down at her. So much for my notion of anonymity.

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘now you know for sure. I’m sorry I can’t spend some time with a fellow Scot, Ms . . .’

‘McDaniels; Carrie McDaniels.’

‘. . . but I have to be somewhere.’

‘That’s too bad,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t expect to find many Scots here, in L’Escala.’ She raised the camera and clicked again. ‘Especially not one as famous as you.’

I felt my hackles rise and took a couple of paces towards her. ‘Look, stop doing that,’ I told her.

She frowned. ‘Why?’ she challenged. ‘It’s a free country. What are you going to do about it?’

I snatched the camera from her hand, flicked open the cover in its base and ejected the SD card.

Sudden anger flared in her eyes. ‘Hey,’ she yelled, ‘you can’t do that!’

I laughed as I laid the Nikon down in front of her. ‘It’s bloody obvious that I can,’ I said, slipping my images into a trouser pocket.

As I did so I was aware of movement at the other occupied table. The two guys who had been sitting there were on their feet and heading towards me. One of them was holding a beer bottle, and his mate was reaching into his jacket.

Señor San Miguel reached me first, brandishing what he thought was his weapon. I jabbed two stiff fingers into his eyes, hard: welcome to the world of pain, chum. The other one had a flick-knife and looked ready to open it. Unfortunately for him he was left-handed, which meant that I didn’t have to reach across him to grab his wrist and twist his arm, spinning him round and putting him in the ‘come along’ hold beloved of cops everywhere, then slamming his face into Carrie’s tabletop.

‘You just pulled a knife on me, son,’ I murmured, then took weeks of frustration out on him with a short, sharp wrench that separated his shoulder and produced a satisfying scream. I took the blade from him, pocketed it and turned to have a further discussion with the first attacker, but he had recovered enough vision to spot the road out of town and was heading for it as fast as his legs could carry him.

A guy in a waiter’s tunic was standing in the doorway, with a look on his face that contrived to be both fearful and quizzical at the same time. I caught his eye, shook my head, and called out, ‘It’s nothing. No problem.’

I glanced at the cafe where I’d eaten. Not unnaturally, the action next door had attracted attention. I frowned at them, collectively, and they went back to their beer and tapas.

Heavy Number Two was back in a chair, bleeding from the nose and moaning, holding on to his misshapen shoulder. He was dark-haired and brown-skinned, Moroccan, probably. ‘You speak English?’ I asked him.

He nodded, without looking at me.

‘Okay, then understand this. If you go to the clinic along in Riells, they’ll fix that for you. I don’t have time to get involved with the police, but if I ever see you again, or your pal, I will hurt you far worse than the local medics can deal with. Go, now.’

He did as he’d been told, leaving me alone with Carrie. She was a lot less confident than she had been before. I sat at her table and took a closer look at her than I had before. I guessed that she was much closer to thirty than twenty. Although her hair was fair, it wasn’t sun-bleached, and she was pale-skinned; two signs of someone who hadn’t been in Spain for very long.

‘You smell of two things, my dear,’ I told her, over-confidently, ‘duty-free perfume and journalist. Why are you here, and why the hell did you think you needed to hire those two clowns as protection?’

‘They were supposed to be my interpreters,’ she replied. ‘My Spanish is non-existent. I met them in a bar last night; I only got here yesterday,’ she added, in explanation. ‘It was a weird wee place, but British-owned. The owner was friendly enough, so I told him I needed somebody to translate for me while I’m here. Tony and Julio . . . that’s those two . . . were drinking in there. They heard me, and they volunteered. That’s to say, for a hundred euros a day each, they volunteered.’

‘Did they indeed?’ I laughed. ‘I’ll tell you one thing. However good their Spanish may be, their Arabic will be better.’

‘But they’ve got Spanish names,’ she protested.

‘Not on their ID cards, they don’t; you can be sure of that. Now, answer my other question. What are you up to?’

‘I’m doing a travel piece for my paper,’ she volunteered.

‘That paper being . . . ?’

‘Actually, it’s an airline flight mag: it’s a Belgian tour company called FlemAir.’

‘You speak Flemish?’

‘I write in English and they translate.’

‘Well, Caroline,’ I began.

‘It’s not Caroline,’ she retorted, ‘just Carrie.’

‘Well, Carrie,’ I continued, ‘good luck to you, but don’t go snapping any more strangers.’

‘Fuck off!’ she murmured. ‘But give me my memory card back first,’ she added.

I smiled at her pouting lip. ‘No chance, lass. Put it down to experience, or on your expenses as my fee for saving you from those clowns. Sooner rather than later, you’d have been in bad trouble with them.’

I felt her eyes boring into me as I walked away, but I didn’t look back. My unexpected exercise had made me forget about the gathering chill, but it reasserted itself pretty quickly and so I quickened my pace, to counteract it.

As I crested the hill called Puig Pedro, where my house is located, I took out my phone and scrolled though my stored numbers. Still on the march, I chose one and called it.

‘DS Haddock,’ a young voice announced, after two rings.

‘Sauce,’ I said. ‘It’s Bob Skinner. Are you free to speak?’

‘Yes, sir, I’m clear. This is a surprise.’

‘I’m sure it is. For me too in a way; it isn’t a call I’d planned to make but I need some help, using channels that aren’t open to me at the moment.’

‘Then fire away, Chief.’

Young Harold Haddock, Sauce being his inevitable nickname, is one of my protégés, although Maggie Steele, my successor as chief constable in Edinburgh, has equal claim to him, having spotted his potential when he was a young PC in her nick. He’s rewarded our faith in him by flourishing in the service and making detective sergeant as fast as I did.

He did have one close encounter with disaster in his climb up the ladder. He found himself a girlfriend named Cheeky McCullough, and fell head over heels in love. Unsurprisingly, her forename isn’t how she was baptised. She was named Cameron, after her grandfather, a truth she wasn’t keen to share with Sauce when they met.

That was understandable given that Grandpa’s businesses, along with property, commercial and residential construction, and leisure, are said to include every criminal activity known to man, although he’s never been convicted of anything. His closest calls were a murder charge, in which the crucial witnesses all vanished on the day of the trial, and a potential drugs prosecution that folded when the stuff vanished from a secure police store.

When Sauce found out, it almost broke the relationship, but it turned out to be stronger than that.

I could have called several other people looking for a favour, but I’d chosen Sauce because I knew he’d get it done with least fuss, and probably quickest. There was also the fact that he owed me one. Another chief constable might have forced him out of the service because of Cheeky, but I decided that he was too good to lose, and let him stay.

‘I need a couple of things checked,’ I said. ‘First, is there a Belgian travel company called FlemAir? Second, if there is, has it commissioned a Scottish journalist named Carrie McDaniels to do a piece on Spain for its flight mag? Third, if there isn’t, or there is and it hasn’t, is there such a person and if so what’s her story?’

‘Can do, sir. What can you tell me about her?’

‘Very little; she has fair hair, she’s aged somewhere between twenty-five, if she doesn’t look after herself, and thirty-two if she does. Carrie’s her given name, not a shortened form, and she seems to be a Ms, not a Mrs. Likely she’ll have been on a flight to Barcelona or possibly Girona within the last forty-eight hours.’

‘Got all that,’ Sauce confirmed. ‘Are you going to tell me why you need this . . . just in case anyone asks?’

‘I’m not even sure I do need it,’ I confessed. ‘The lady just crossed me, and I’d like to check that she is what she says.’

‘And do you think she is?’

‘Not for a second, lad. That might well be her name, but I’m doubtful about the rest.’

‘Do I need to do anything else,’ he asked, ‘other than just check on her?’

‘I don’t think so. I’ve given her a talking-to, and that may be enough. Hopefully she’ll get the message that I don’t like being accosted, especially not by journos. When I deal with them, it’s on my terms.’

‘How do I get back to you, sir?’ he asked. ‘If she’s in Spain . . .’

‘Then obviously so am I,’ I said. ‘Just call