There was little conversation on the way through. I didn’t feel like making small talk with him, so I turned down his offer to drive, and then turned up the radio once we were under way.
As soon as we reached our destination, and turned into Killermont Street, it was evident that there was a VIP event on. There was a visible police presence, at the vehicle entrance to the Royal Concert Hall, and a couple of them were armed.
I’d heard from colleagues at inter-force meetings that the new Strathclyde chief had taken no time at all to earn herself a nickname, the ‘Gunslinger’. She believed in a show of force, and it had taken the combined efforts of all her assistant chiefs to persuade her that it was a bad idea to have armed officers on view at Old Firm football matches.
Our friends in the west weren’t very keen on me parking directly outside the concert hall. Indeed one of them, a big blackshirt PC who’d have done Oswald Mosley proud, was quite abusive until I made him read my warrant card and until Mackenzie stepped out of the passenger seat. I have to admit that the uniform did come in handy, damn him.
I had the Bolshie guy escort us inside, into a foyer that didn’t seem to enjoy any natural light. It was ten minutes before seven, comfortably ahead of the official starting time, or even of the preshow reception, but the organisers were thick on the ground, as were a few others as well. I spotted one of them straight away, just as he clocked me: Max Allan, the senior ACC in the Strathclyde force, the man who wasn’t allowed to know that there was a terrorist alert on his patch. Max is a good guy, and not a stickler for formality, but there he was on a Saturday evening wearing every single piece of silver braid to which his rank entitled him and every medal ribbon too.
‘Jesus Christ, man,’ I said as he approached. I noticed that he managed to ignore Mackenzie completely; some history there, I guessed. ‘Have I got this wrong? Is this a royal event?’
‘It might as well be, Maggie,’ he replied. ‘One of our police charities is a beneficiary, as well as the armed forces, and Her Ladyship’s representing us.’
‘Her Ladyship?’ I repeated, then I caught on. ‘Oh, you mean. .’
He nodded. ‘The chief constable, our Toni. That means all us underlings have to be in our best uniforms, shoes polished shiny, etc.’ He paused. ‘That’s her way, so I mustn’t complain. What brings you here, Maggie?’ Finally he nodded to my companion. ‘With escort.’
I glanced around the busy foyer. ‘Can we go somewhere quiet, Max, please,’ I murmured.
He frowned, but he nodded and led us past a broad stairway and round to its side, just as the first of the VIPs arrived. I caught a quick flash of heavy gold chain, the kind that civic dignitaries wear, but I had no time to admire it. Max opened a door and we stepped into a large windowless cupboard. He switched on the light. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’m about to rain on your parade,’ I told him. ‘Is your guest star here?’
He nodded. ‘Just arrived. He’s on stage checking the piano.’
‘Well, you’d better have someone ask him to join us.’ I showed him the warrant.
He read it, at least twice, with incredulity that reached jaw-dropping point. ‘You can’t be serious,’ he gasped.
‘Would I make that sort of joke?’
‘No, but. . can’t you wait till the show’s over?’
‘My orders are to pick him up now. Do you want to argue with Bob Skinner?’
‘God no, but Field will go fucking ape-shit.’
‘Then she’d better not find out till it’s done and we’re gone. Look,’ I continued, ‘Fabrizzi’s not the only performer, is he?’
‘Of course not. We’ve got the Scottish National Orchestra as well.’
‘In that case, they’re going to have to improvise. You’ll just have to say that Fabrizzi’s been taken ill at the last minute.’
‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘But I’ll be taken ill when my chief finds out that I went along with it. She’s after me as it is.’
‘She never will from me,’ I promised.
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ he said. ‘Wait here. I’ll fetch him myself.’
We did as he asked. He had barely closed the door on his way out before Mackenzie looked at me and murmured, ‘Tell me, honestly, ma’am. Don’t you feel like an interloper here? This isn’t our territory. Has the chief lost his marbles?’
I glared at him. ‘You’d better ask him that yourself, Superintendent. Come Monday morning, at his chief officers’ meeting, I’ll make sure you get the chance.’ I waved the warrant in his face. ‘Meantime, this gives me authority, and through me, our force. Your view is noted.’
I’d wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up, but that would not have been seemly from an ACC to a superintendent. It might even have led to a complaint to the Superintendents Association, and I did not want to be bothered with any nonsense like that.
Frankly my annoyance with Mackenzie wasn’t due entirely to his disloyalty to the guy who’d saved his career; there was also the fact that his point was one that I’d been trying to ignore. We weren’t in hot pursuit, and technically we should have advised our colleagues in Pitt Street of our intention before we’d arrived.
Then Max Allan returned with Theo Fabrizzi and my reservations started to melt. First, in his black tie and tail coat, he bore an uncanny resemblance to the Go Compare tenor, minus the silly moustache, and I really do hate those telly ads. Second the man had an air about him, that of someone who believes he’s more important than God.
‘What is this?’ he snapped. ‘I very busy man, I’m an artist; I can’t be disturbed so.’
‘You can, Mr Fabrizzi,’ I told him, and showed him my authority. ‘This says so. Can you read English?’
‘Of course,’ he sneered. ‘You take me for a barbarian?’
‘Then please read this.’
He did, slowly; clearly he wasn’t as fluent as he pretended. When he was finished, he looked at me and he laughed. ‘This is preposterous. Is a joke, yes?’
‘No joke. Now come with us please, we have to take you back to Edinburgh with us.’
‘No!’ he shouted.
‘Yes,’ I said calmly.
‘Is conspiracy,’ Fabrizzi exclaimed. ‘Is the Zionists. What this man’s name?’ He peered at the paper again. ‘Cohen. See? Is the focking Jews. This one is dead, you say? Well, soon they all will be, the focking swine. They hate being called that, you know. Focking swine, focking pigs. We wipe them out, you see.’
I smiled. ‘Indeed,’ I murmured, then glanced at Max. ‘What do you make of that, ACC Allan?’
‘I make it inciting racial hatred,’ he replied, ‘contrary to the Public Order Act of 1986. You may consider yourself under arrest twice, Mr Fabrizzi. But you can have first go at him, ACC Steele.’
‘It’s an outrage,’ the Lebanese pianist hissed. ‘You focking Scots, you’re Jews as well.’
‘Some of us are,’ Max told him, ‘and proud of it. Now please shut up, sir, or I’ll handcuff you myself.’
Clyde Houseman
There was a gleam in Mr Skinner’s eyes, and a narrow, wicked smile on his face as he pointed to the Merc that had been reversed into the driveway of the house that faced back down the dead-end street. As I looked at him, I wondered how a man who clearly loved being in the thick of any action that was going had allowed himself to be constrained in a chief constable’s uniform.
‘That’s number seven,’ he said, ‘and I think we might just have come up lucky. Drive on down there,’ he continued, ‘very quietly, and block the exit. Take it easy, though.’
I did as I was told, looking at the house as I approached. It was a villa, with four windows to the front, two up, two down. The curtains were closed on what I took to be a bedroom window on the upper floor, but there was no sign of movement behind any of the others.
There was a second car, some sort of old banger, parked beyond the FJW plate, but the drive was long enough to accommodate a third, so I cruised in there and switched off. ‘Quiet now,’ the chief murmured, as he opened his door and stepped out, closing it behind him, but not fully, to avoid any risk of noise. I checked my weapon, and then I followed him.