‘How easy would it have been for Ballester to get hold of one of these things?’
‘Probably as easy as it was for him to get hold of a precision Sig Sauer handgun, and ammunition that’s illegal in most countries. Regrettably, there have been so many armed conflicts in recent years that items like these are now falling into the wrong hands all too easily. Ballester was a journalist, with a record of going undercover. Who knows what contacts he had? Maybe, when we have a chance to go through his computer files, they’ll lead us to his supplier, but then again. .’
‘Are you saying that we need tighter firearms control?’ the Guardian’s Scotland reporter asked.
‘Firearms control is already very tight,’ the DCC replied. ‘Unfortunately there’s a snag. Fine, we made handguns illegal ten years ago, but criminals do not obey the law. All the legislation in the world isn’t going to change that.’ He glanced at the journalist. ‘I’m sorry, Peter; I’m pontificating. My answer is a simple no.’
‘Do you and the First Minister disagree about that?’
‘The First Minister and I disagree about a number of matters; happily we agree about many more. And, ladies and gentlemen, that’s the last time I will ever discuss her on this or any other platform, apart from telling you that she’s as gutted by this as the rest of us. Now, is there one last question?’
Grace Pretty raised her hand. ‘What about the million-pound reward that Mr Boras offered last week?’
‘I’m glad you asked that, Grace,’ McGuire replied. ‘The three of us have been discussing that, and we’re all agreed that it would be an excellent idea for Mr Boras to donate that money to the Police Dependants’ Trust. We hope he shares that view.’ There had been no such discussion, but the chief constable and his deputy nodded in confirmation.
‘A nice closer, Mario,’ Skinner murmured, as the three police officers made their way out of the briefing room. ‘Stevie would have loved it. Let’s see how the man wriggles out of that.’
Sixty-six
James Andrew Skinner had become used to his new lifestyle, and had adapted well to it. There were three other children from one-parent families in his primary-school class. Two of them never saw their fathers, and he knew that the third hated the weekends that he was forced to spend with his and his new girlfriend, who insisted on being called ‘Auntie’.
Jazz, for all that he had just turned six, knew that he had the best of both worlds. He loved both of his parents equally, and when they had told him at the beginning of the year that they didn’t love each other any more and intended to divorce, he had been sad, but sad for them more than for himself.
If he had been able to express it in such a sophisticated way, he would have said that the proposal they had put to him and to Mark, his adoptive brother, was ideal. They were able to stay with their dad in Gullane and go to school there, and three times a year go off with Trish, the nanny, on an adventure to America, to join their mum.
He liked America, where they had big cars and good weather. He had been there before, when he was younger, visiting his grandparents with his mum, before they had gone to Heaven. Jazz wasn’t really sure about Heaven, but he went along with the concept, without asking awkward questions, to please his mum.
He understood that his dad was busy, being very important in the police, and that sometimes he had to be away during the week, and once or twice for longer. But most weekends he was home, and Jazz liked that, even when his new friend was there too. She was nice and, even though she was grown-up, he was allowed to call her ‘Aileen’, because that was her name.
Aileen had been different, though, when she had arrived that morning, on her own. Dad had explained that they were going to a very ‘flash’. . that was one of his special words, the kind he winked when he said. . dinner, and would be away overnight, but he had expected them to arrive together, because Dad had promised him he would take him out on the golf course, on one of the big people’s courses, when everybody else was having lunch and it got quieter. Aileen had explained that something had happened and that Dad needed to ‘deal with it’. He didn’t really understand the phrase, but he held himself back from asking what she meant, because she seemed sad, and because, well, she wasn’t his mum.
Dad hadn’t arrived until nearly two o’clock; and when he had, he had been sad too. He had told James Andrew that he was sorry, but the courses were getting busy again and that maybe they would just watch English football on telly instead, while Aileen did all the work that her office people had told her had to be done for Monday morning. Mark didn’t bother: he didn’t like golf, he didn’t like football, he only liked his computer.
Dad had switched on the telly and then he had gone out again, to his office. Jazz had followed him, and because he’d left the door open he had seen that he was making a phone call. He heard him say, ‘Sarah,’ and realised that he was talking to his mum. He wondered why, because she had phoned them all the day before. Then he heard him say something about somebody called Stevie, and he heard him say, ‘Yes, I know you liked him.’ He hadn’t done it at school yet, but he understood what a past tense was, and what, sometimes, it meant.
James Andrew watched his dad very carefully, while they were both supposed to be watching Manchester United thump some team in blue shirts. He saw that he was always frowning, and that wasn’t like him, especially not at weekends. And sometimes, even when Wayne Rooney had the ball, his eyes were closed. Jazz knew when his dad was thinking, and usually he waited to be told about whatever it was. But this time he was. . He didn’t know what he was: ‘anxious’ had not yet found its way into his vocabulary, but he knew what it felt like, and that wasn’t good.
Bob Skinner felt a small, strong hand close round two of his fingers, and squeeze them. ‘What’s the matter, Dad?’ his son asked.
He blinked, pulling himself back into the room, taken aback by the question, and alarmed by the look in James Andrew’s eyes. ‘I’m not sure,’ he replied slowly, making himself grin, ‘but I think they’re still missing Roy Keane.’
‘I didn’t mean the football. You’re not watching it anyway. Was it bad, the thing that Aileen said had happened?’
Bob was intensely proud of his son, and in particular of his inherent compassion. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Somebody’s died.’
‘Gone to Heaven?’
‘For sure.’
‘Is it Stevie?’ Jazz hesitated and then made an admission. ‘I listened to you on the phone to Mum.’
‘Yes, it’s Stevie; a policeman, a detective like me.’
‘Have I met him?’
Bob thought for a moment. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘you have, but you probably don’t remember. Once, when your mum was working and before Seonaid was born, I took you with me on a stake-out. God, your mum gave me pelters when she found out.’
‘And a man came into the car?’
He stared in his astonishment at the accuracy of the boy’s recollection. ‘That’s right. That was Stevie.’
James Andrew’s face grew solemn, as he tried to contemplate the end of the existence of someone he could picture in his mind. ‘That’s sad,’ he said, squeezing Bob’s fingers again. ‘We can stop watching the game if you like.’
‘No, no, it’s important.’
‘But you’d your eyes shut.’
‘I know. I wasn’t concentrating on it. I was thinking about something else, about Stevie. His death, Jazz, was a crime. You know what that is, somebody doing something that’s against the law.’
‘And it’s your job to catch him.’
‘Yup, and I like to think I’m good at it.’
‘You are,’ said a warm voice. Aileen had come into the room, unseen by either of them, She stood behind Bob’s chair, put her hands on his shoulders and began to knead them gently, her slim fingers rippling his flesh. ‘Go on,’ she insisted, ‘don’t let me interrupt.’