As they headed for the stairs, he crossed the corridor, to the room that had been his, and stepped inside, with yet another pang of regret. He heard the phone ring, somewhere behind him, but ignored it.
Sir James Proud stood at the window; he had changed out of the uniform that he had worn for the Board meeting. . worn for the last time, in fact. . into a pale green linen suit. It struck Skinner that he had shed five years in age, along with the blue serge. ‘Christ, Bob,’ he exclaimed, ‘you look like the prison governor come to take me to my doom. Where’s the chaplain?’
Skinner laughed. ‘Thanks for the warning. I feel like an old friend, come to send you on a long holiday; I must make sure that’s clear to everyone.’
‘You are sending me on holiday, of course, since I don’t start drawing pension until the middle of next month. Better to go out this way, though.’
‘What’s your first act as a free man?’
‘Chrissie and I are being picked up this evening by a chauffeur-driven car, and taken to Manchester. That’s why we can’t join you for dinner later. We spend the night in the airport hotel and tomorrow we fly to Singapore, first class. We spend a few days there, then we go to Penang for a week, and finally back to Singapore for what’s left of a fortnight. It’s my lovely wife’s retirement present to us both: she’s been saving in secret for years for it. Once that’s over, we get on with the rest of our lives. Do you know, I’ve had three offers of company directorships already?’
‘It doesn’t surprise me. Are you going to accept them?’
‘If I think them appropriate, I’ll consider them. Chrissie says she’s not having me lolling around the house all day. She wants to move, too; somewhere down your way, she says.’
‘If Lady Chrissie wants it, then it’ll happen. I’ll look forward to having you as a neighbour, boss.’
‘Boss?’ Proud Jimmy chuckled. ‘Not any more, son.’
Skinner grasped the older man’s right hand in both of his; for a moment his eyes moistened. ‘Sir James,’ he said, ‘you will always be the boss to me.’
‘That’s nice to know. I’ll always be available to you, of course, whenever you need to bounce things off someone outside the office, and away from home. I’ve never told you this, but I admire the way that you and Aileen have handled your growing relationship. As Terry Secombe told you, I think, it worried some of the Board members, but he and I damped that down pretty firmly. Now,’ he declared, ‘I mustn’t keep that car waiting. Lead on, Chief Constable.’
His successor nodded, opened the door and stepped aside. Gerry Crossley was waiting outside, ready to accompany them downstairs, although he and Proud had already said a private goodbye. ‘Two calls for you, sir,’ he told Skinner. ‘One from Mr Laidlaw, at Curle Anthony and Jarvis, and the other from DCC Martin. Neither left a message, but Mr Martin did say his call was urgent.’
‘Not more urgent than this, though, Gerry. I’ll return them both when I get back upstairs, after I’ve sparred with the media and had my picture taken.’
The three men walked slowly downstairs into the foyer of the headquarters building. Police officers of all ranks, CID and uniform, and civilian staff formed two lines. They broke into spontaneous applause as Sir James appeared. He paused, smiled, then made his way through the honour guard, shaking hands with each person and thanking them, by name. Finally, he stepped through the door, with Skinner behind him. A police car waited outside, its uniformed driver, Sergeant Ian McCall, who had won a ballot for the honour of taking the old chief into retirement, standing at attention. Proud Jimmy returned his salute, shook hands with his protégé for the last time, then slid into the back seat. A few seconds later, he was gone.
Skinner stood, looking after the car as it cleared the gateway. Eventually he became aware of Royston standing beside him. ‘On with the new, Alan?’ he murmured.
‘We better get to it, Chief,’ said the civilian. ‘The natives have figured out what’s been going on, and they’re restless.’
‘Let’s chuck them a few buns, then.’
The two men walked back inside, turning right and heading for the gym, where major press briefings were held. ‘Before you go in there,’ Royston murmured, ‘I get the impression that there’s something up. Nobody’s said anything, but I have a feeling that you might have more to deal with than your own agenda.’
The chief constable frowned. ‘Maybe they’ve got wind of Henry Mount’s death earlier than we thought.’
‘That could be.’ The media manager pulled open one of the double doors. ‘Whatever,’ he said ‘we’ll find out soon.’
Skinner stepped into the hall. As usual, his place was at the far end, beneath the force crest on the wall. He made his way past the crowd, television cameras positioned at the back, press and radio reporters towards the front, and photographers to the side. His table was littered with the usual array of microphones. He took his place facing the crowd, surprised once more by the number of journalists that Edinburgh could turn out, and a little flattered that they had come because of him. But was that the only reason? Bearing in mind Royston’s warning, as the cameras flashed, he studied the faces, trying to read them. Most were smiling, but one or two were sombre. Expectant? Maybe. His bellwethers sat in the front row: John Hunter, the ancient freelance, unchallenged doyen of the press corps, and Jock Fisher, chief reporter of the Saltire. Many years before, there had been an Evening News reporter called John Gunn, and it was a source of regret to the two veterans that he had not survived to their time, otherwise, as they put it, often, ‘You’d have had hunting, fishing and shooting sitting side by side.’ He smiled at them; Hunter nodded back, amiably, and Fisher gave him a brief smile, but yes, there was something behind it, an awkwardness, perhaps.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘I’ll take your questions, but first I’d like to say a few words. As you’ve been told, today the Joint Police Board offered me the position of chief constable of this force, and I’m pleased to say that I have accepted. I feel sad and proud. . yes,’ he grinned, ‘I should use that word. . all at once: sad to see the departure of a great police officer, and a great friend, in Sir James, but proud to be given the honour of succeeding him.’ He stopped, leaning back and looking Hunter in the eye. His seniority was rarely challenged; if it was, by an outsider who did not know the ropes, the intruder was always ignored. ‘John,’ Skinner invited.
‘Is this the culmination of your career, Bob?’
‘I hope not. I have a seven-year contract and plenty to do.’
‘Will there be changes in the way the force is run?’
‘None that you or the public will notice, I hope.’
‘When will the new deputy be appointed?’
‘That’s a matter for the Board.’
‘On your advice.’
‘No. The rules don’t go that far; they say I may be consulted.’
‘Is the First Minister pleased?’ a woman asked. He looked in her direction, and recognised her: Rebecca Unthank, the Daily Mail political reporter, not a regular presence at police briefings.
‘OK,’ said Skinner. ‘Here’s the ground rule for this and all future occasions. I will be as open to the media as possible, but my private life is off limits. I won’t answer questions about my partner under any circumstances, and the best that’s going to happen to anyone who persists in asking them is that they’ll be ignored.’
‘Does that apply to every member of your family?’ Unthank shot back.