‘If it comes to that,’ Martin chuckled, ‘I’ll go to confession and seek absolution. But go on, you’ve got my attention.’
‘A situation has developed in Edinburgh. It’s a difference of view that’s developed into a confrontation between senior CID officers and Joe Dowley, the Crown Agent.’
Martin listened, as Proud described how the problem had arisen, and how it had escalated. ‘Dowley doesn’t have a leg to stand on,’ he said, when the chief constable had finished. ‘If the Lord Advocate’s too chicken to back you, and you want to take it all the way, couldn’t you apply to the court for a compliance order?’
‘Yes,’ Sir James agreed, ‘I could; I’ve already had legal advice to that effect. But for various reasons, I don’t want to go there. I’ve discussed this with Bob, and it’s our considered view that the best way to defuse the situation is by appointing an officer from another force to carry out an objective inquiry into the possibility of a leak of sensitive information from the Ballester report.’
‘Why has it gone this far so fast?’ asked Martin. ‘There’s no certainty that the Dean homicide is a copycat.’
‘No, but the investigating officers believe that to be a possibility, so it has to be checked out. To answer your question, if Gregor Broughton, the Edinburgh fiscal, hadn’t been off at a conference somewhere, he’d have talked to a few people quietly and either come up with a culprit or given McIlhenney an assurance that his office was clean. But he wasn’t, so Neil asked his assistant to look into it. She’s new, so she took it all the way up to Dowley, and war broke out.’
‘Why didn’t she go to the deputy Crown Agent?’
‘On holiday.’
‘So what’s Dowley’s angle?’
‘The Lord Advocate thinks that he’s trying to make a name for himself, with a view to becoming a judge. Having a reputation for not being a soft touch for the police might not do him any harm with the judicial appointments board.’
‘Why make such a fuss? The Crown Agent’s pretty much assured of going on to become a sheriff.’
‘Gavin Johnson reckons he’s more ambitious, that his sights are set on the Supreme Court. But,’ said Sir James, ‘you haven’t asked me why I’m speaking to you about this.’
Martin smiled. ‘I have a terrible feeling that I know.’
‘You’re right, then. I want you to conduct the investigation. You know this force, you’re familiar with the workings of the Crown Office, and with a spell in Special Branch on your CV, your discretion is assured. This has to be completely confidential. I’ve spoken to Graham Morton, and given the time of year he’s okay with it, as long as it doesn’t take more than a couple of weeks, which it won’t, since there aren’t that many people in the chain. So, Andy, will you take the job on?’
Martin sighed. ‘Hell’s teeth, Chief; rattling cages in the Crown Office and investigating former colleagues is not my idea of a fun time.’
‘As a favour to me?’
‘Ah, shit. Put like that. . Give me a quiet room on the command corridor, and your exec as my leg man, if I need him. I’ll be there tomorrow morning.’
Twenty-seven
‘How are we going to play this? The usual way?’ McIlhenney was gazing from McGuire’s office window down the driveway that approached the entrance to the force headquarters building. ‘It does no harm to be able to see who’s coming and who’s going,’ Bob Skinner always maintained. As he watched the uniformed figure walking up the slope from the patrol car that had dropped him off, the detective superintendent understood what he meant.
He recognised Constable Theodore Weekes from the photograph in the personnel file that lay open on the head of CID’s desk. Even from that distance he read the look of uncertainty on his face, and detected his hesitancy as he walked up the rising pavement. Chippy Grade had told him he was wanted at Fettes, no more than that, and had detailed a car to take him straight there, with a colleague beside him in the back seat as if he were a prisoner.
‘You nice guy, me nasty guy, you mean?’ McGuire replied. His eyebrows came together in a frown. ‘No, let’s change the act; let’s give this man no comfort at all.’
‘Treat him as a suspect from the off, you mean?’
‘He’s more than a suspect: he’s guilty of failing to report information that might be relevant to a murder investigation. So let’s not offer him as much as a single smile, from either of us. The best that’s going to happen to him is that he walks out of this room with a reprimand on his record stiff enough to end any hopes he might have of ever making sergeant.’
‘Fine by me.’ McIlhenney’s face set hard as he took a seat beside the chief superintendent, facing the door, watching and waiting.
The reception staff had been ordered to say nothing to Weekes as he arrived, to answer no questions he might ask, but simply to escort him to his final destination.
There was no name on McGuire’s door, only a number. When, finally, the two detectives heard their visitor’s knock, they waited. The knock was repeated, louder this time.
‘Come in,’ McIlhenney shouted. The door was opened slowly and PC Weekes stepped inside.
In the days of heavy serge uniforms, all police officers had had a substantial look to them. The modern tunic may suit some better than others, but Weekes filled his impressively. He was over six feet tall, with strikingly good looks, enhanced by a honey-brown complexion that would have suggested at least one parent of Caribbean origin, had McGuire and McIlhenney not known already from his file that his mother was Barbadian.
He stared at them, patently puzzled.
‘Cap off,’ McGuire snapped. His briskness broke the constable’s trance. Instantly, he swept his cap from his head and tucked it under his arm as he stepped up to the head of CID’s desk and came to attention.
They let him stand there for over a minute, rigid and staring straight ahead, until McIlhenney, in an even tone, with just a hint of menace, asked him, ‘Do you know who we are?’
Without easing his stance, Weekes swept his eyes from one seated man to the other. ‘No, sir,’ he replied.
‘Then why the fuck are you standing to attention?’ the superintendent snapped. ‘Do you know how many civilian management staff this force has?’
‘No, sir. Sorry, sir. I just assumed.’ Weekes’s voice was surprisingly soft; his accent was Scottish, but with a hint of his mother’s influence.
‘You’re brought here with no notice,’ McGuire growled, leaning his massive forearms on the edge of the desk, ‘no indication of what it’s about, but your assumption seems to be that you’re in the shit. That, of itself, tells me a hell of a lot about you, Constable. You can stand easy. .’ he paused as Weekes relaxed his stance ‘. . but not too easy. You’ve upset my colleague and me, and that’s never a good thing to do.’
‘Sorry, sir: beg your pardon, sir. How have I upset you?’
‘By not fucking knowing us! For your enlightenment, I’m DCS McGuire, the head of CID, and this charmer on my right is Detective Superintendent McIlhenney, known occasionally to our friends as the Glimmer Twins, and to our rapidly dwindling body of enemies as the Bad News Bears. For better or worse, we’re two of the most recognisable officers on this force. You’re standing there with five years’ service, and you don’t know us?’
‘Sorry, sir. Now you say it, I …’
‘Bullshit! What’s your station inspector’s name?’ McGuire asked.
‘Chippy. . Sorry, sir, Inspector Grade.’
‘Name and rank of your divisional commander?’
‘Eh. .’
‘Failed that one. Who’s the chief constable?’
‘Mr Proud.’
‘Sir James to you. Deputy chief?’
‘Mr Skinner.’
‘ACC?’
‘Eh. .’
‘Exactly. You’re not interested in the force, Weekes. You’re interested in the uniform. You like the job security, and the promise of an early pension. Most of all, though, you like the power it gives you. It lets you throw your weight about, scare the wee neds in the town centres, slap the odd law student around.’ The constable’s eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t think that’s been forgotten, do you?’ the chief superintendent challenged.