He thought back to his recent conversation with Brian Mackie; he was no longer in doubt as to the most momentous day of his career. It had arrived. The call had come at ten past twelve, an invitation to join the Police Board meeting, at Edinburgh’s city council headquarters. When he had entered the room, the first thing that he had noticed was the smile on the face of the chair, Councillor Terence Secombe; that was the only sign he needed. There had been no last-minute upheaval.
‘Mr Skinner,’ the councillor had begun, as soon as he had taken his seat, ‘given that you are the only suitable applicant, and that you have qualifying service outside this force within the meaning of the regulations, the Board has decided, unanimously, to offer you the position of chief constable for a period of seven years. As you know, we are required to seek approval of the Scottish Government; that has been given, by the Justice Minister, the matter having been delegated, on personal grounds, by the First Minister. Do you accept the post?’
He had taken a deep breath, and looked slowly round the table, before replying, ‘Yes, sir, I do.’
And that had been all there was to it. He had lunched with the Board members, and with his predecessor (he could not recall having seen Jimmy look so relieved, or so relaxed), seated next to the chairman. The discussion had been light, mostly about the relative fortunes of Heart of Midlothian and Motherwell football clubs, but at one point Councillor Secombe had leaned close. ‘One thing, Bob,’ he had said softly. ‘During our discussion of your appointment, the only reservation that was raised, by one of the SNP members, concerned your relationship with the First Minister. I don’t need to tell you about the regulation prohibiting serving officers from getting actively involved in politics; all I will say is, watch your back in that respect. Say and do nothing that might compromise you, and make sure that Aileen doesn’t either. When’s the wedding, by the way? It hasn’t gone unnoticed that she’s been wearing a ring.’
‘Soon, Terry, soon,’ he had replied. ‘But nobody outside our circle will know about it until after it’s happened.’
‘Wise man.’
Oh, but am I? he thought, making a mental note to change the ugly light fittings in his new office. If I was a target before, through Aileen, what am I now?
Sir James had stayed with the Board members, but he had declined coffee and had returned to Fettes. The first thing he had done was to tell Brian Mackie, Gerry Crossley and Ruth Pye what had happened. The second was to wheel his chair across the corridor and put the outgoing chief’s big black rocker in its place. The third was to transfer the contents of his safe, his personal records and files, and his computer to their new home.
He was still contemplating the future when there was a knock on the door and Alan Royston, the force’s media relations manager, was shown in, offering congratulations. Skinner sensed that he was a shade nervous, as relations between them had not always been cordial. He decided to clear the decks. ‘Thanks, Alan,’ he said. ‘I’m looking forward to working with you in the future. What’s first?’
‘You should see this release, sir. It’s being issued any time now by the Board, through the city council press office, announcing your appointment, with immediate effect. We’ll have the media on our backs, and I’d recommend getting that over within one hit, by holding a general press conference at four o’clock.’
‘Set it up. I’ll wear the deputy’s uniform. The new one won’t be ready for a few days.’
‘Do you want Sir James to be there?’
‘That will be his decision. But I don’t want the Board chairman, even if he asks to be there. He’s warned me to steer clear of politics; he’s going to find that I’m taking his advice from the off.’
Fifty-nine
The restaurant was called Cento Venti. ‘I thought Italian was appropriate,’ said Inspector Giarratano as he led the way into the square dining room, not huge, but crammed with tables, of which half were occupied, ‘and this is the best. Is your hotel room OK?’
‘It’s fine, thanks, Michael. I’m sorry I kept you waiting, but I had to check in with Paula. She’s taking this interruption pretty well, and I want to keep it that way. I told her I still plan to be on a plane back to Sydney tomorrow.’
‘What about your other investigation in Edinburgh? How’s that going?’
‘No arrest, and not even the sniff of one, that’s all I know.’
The head waiter appeared before them and showed them to a window table. ‘Would you like a drink?’ Giarratano asked, as the man handed them menus.
‘I’ll try some of that Squire’s Pilsner, if they have it.’ He glanced at the list. ‘As for food, I’ll have spaghetti the way a whore would make it.’ The Australian’s eyes widened; the waiter smiled. ‘Ah,’ said McGuire, ‘so the name’s just for show. You don’t speak the language.’
‘Prego and grazie; that’s my limit,’ the other man admitted. ‘I’ve never been to the northern hemisphere, never mind Italy.’
‘Spaghetti alla puttanesca,’ the Scot explained, ‘or any other sort of pasta for that matter. What I just said is what the name of the sauce means, literally. It originated in Naples, and there are a few theories about why it’s called that. One is that it’s a cheap meal that prostitutes could make quickly, between punters, so to speak. Did you know, by the way, that in Italy, brothels were once state owned, which made the hookers civil servants? This place isn’t too precious to have it on the menu. Some are, or if they do they choose to call it “Pasta alla buona donna”, that’s “Good woman’s pasta” in English, but there’s a lot of irony in that name.’
‘I better have it too,’ Giarratano decided. ‘It’ll give me bragging rights in the office tomorrow.’
The head waiter left, reappearing almost instantly with McGuire’s beer, and with a Victoria Bitter for Giarratano, and explaining that since the sauce was freshly prepared, it would take a few minutes.
‘That’s fine,’ the big DCS told him. ‘That’s the way it should be.’ He took a mouthful of his lager. ‘You weren’t kidding me,’ he declared. ‘This is damn good.’
‘We’re proud of it,’ the inspector replied. ‘Bet you don’t get that in Edinburgh.’
‘No, mostly it’s Fosters.’ He smiled at the reaction. ‘I’m serious. We do; that and four X.’
‘Edinburgh’s pretty cosmopolitan, is it?’
‘Very. I’m a walking example; the half of me that isn’t Italian is Irish.’
‘But which are you, mostly?’
‘Actually, I’m entirely Scottish. I was born there and brought up there. My parents were both second generation. My Italian grandmother’s still alive; Nana Viareggio, a fearsome old lady.’
‘Didn’t you say your partner’s name was Viareggio?’
‘It is. We’re cousins; her dad. . he’s dead now. . was my mum’s brother. Paula says she carried a torch for me all her life, and that a couple of years ago it finally set fire to my shirt tail.’
‘And you?’
‘I was married for a few years, to another police officer. It didn’t work out. Finally, I figured out why, and Paulie and I got together.’
‘Funny,’ the inspector murmured. ‘I’m married to a cop, and we’re fine. The job didn’t have anything to do with your problems, did it?’
‘Not at all. Mags outranked me for most of the time we were together, but that was no big deal. We’re both chief superintendents now, but I suspect she may get ahead of me again, when she goes back to work. . she’s just had a daughter, by another detective.’
‘So that marriage worked; that’s a relief.’
McGuire’s face darkened. ‘That marriage was perfect, but he was killed on duty.’
‘Oh no. I’m sorry.’
‘Me too.’ He realised that his beer was finished and signalled the waiter for another. It arrived with the food.