07 - Skinner's Ghosts by Quintin Jardine

Author:Quintin Jardine [Quintin Jardine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Headline Publishing Group Ltd
Published: 2012-02-08T05:59:30+00:00

44

Skinner walked into the entrance hall of St Andrew’s House at five minutes to ten. It faced north and, even in the height of summer, always extended a cold welcome to visitors to the building. He showed his official pass to the black-uniformed guard who gave him a brisk salute and a ‘Good morning’.

The policeman knew that he should have surrendered the pass on the morning before, but he had kept it out of devilment, as a personal security check.

He stepped into one of the waiting lifts and rode it to the fifth floor. David Hewlett, looking as serious as ever, was in his office, with his assistant and his clerk. He was a thin man, in his middle thirties, with receding fair hair and a domelike forehead.

‘Morning, Dave,’ said Skinner. ‘I thought I’d paid my last visit here. Any idea yet what the panic is?’

Hewlett shook his head. ‘I haven’t been told, Bob,’ he replied, sounding concerned and more than a little offended at having been left in the dark. ‘S of S came in this morning from Bute House at eight fifteen, a little later than usual. He instructed me to call you, and two other people, and to ask you in particular to be here at ten sharp.’

‘Two others?’ Skinner repeated, curious.

‘They’ve been here since nine fifteen, with a fourth person.’

‘Who are they?’

Hewlett’s natural frown deepened even more. ‘I’m not allowed to say, Bob. I’m even disobeying orders by having this conversation. S of S told me to say nothing to you when you arrived, but to send you down to Committee Room One, on the third floor.’

‘Fucking nonsense!’ Skinner growled, exasperated. ‘Time I sorted this lot out. Thanks, Dave. I think I’ll go and paper the walls with your boss. I’ve half a mind to charge him with wasting police time.’

He left the small office and took the stairs down to the third floor. He thought about knocking on the door of Committee Room One, but with a muttered ‘Bugger it!’ under his breath he opened the door and strode inside.

Four people were waiting, seated with their backs to the window, facing the door, and a single empty chair. The detective scanned them, from left to right.

Councillor Marcia Topham: the usual slightly overawed expression worn by the Police Board Chair had been replaced by one of pure fright.

Lord Archibald of Alva, the Lord Advocate, Scotland’s senior law officer: Archie Nelson, QC, Dean of the Faculty of Advocates until his ennoblement, and an old friend, now sat staring at him impassively as he entered.

Dr Bruce Anderson: the Secretary of State for Scotland sat staring grimly at a folder on the desk before him.

Sir James Proud: the Chief Constable sat ashen-faced, more shocked than his deputy had ever seen him.

As he stared across the table Skinner felt a mixture of apprehension and anger welling up within him. As usual, anger won.

‘What the bloody hell is this, Dr Anderson?’ he said: not quite a shout, but close to it. ‘You and I severed our links yesterday, I think.

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