As Skinner watched the scene, his mind swept back almost twenty years, to another funeral, that of his first wife, in Dirleton Cemetery. He saw himself standing at the head of her coffin, Myra’s father directly opposite him, in the position where McGrigor stood now, three of their nearest and dearest on either side. He almost felt the cord in his hands and the sudden weight as the burden was lifted first, to allow the supports to be withdrawn, then lowered reverently into the earth.
The undertaker’s instructions were the same as they had been on that day, the worst of Bob Skinner’s young life. ‘Drop your cords, gentlemen.’ Involuntarily, he lowered his eyes as the eight bearers allowed the tasselled ropes to fall into the grave, seeing again the brass name plate with its simple lettering, ‘Myra Skinner, wife and mother’.
It seemed like an age to him, but barely two minutes had elapsed before McGrigor was back by his side. The two men stood as the congregation dispersed, waiting for an opportunity to express their condolences to the widow, who sat in the funeral car with Harry Riach’s aged parents, being consoled by friends through the open door.
‘Thank you for doing that, Uncle John. My Dad would be pleased.’ Skinner looked away from the car to see the oldest of the Riach brothers standing with the Superintendent.
‘Is pleased, Henry. He is pleased. If you believe anything that was said in that church, you’ll believe that he’s watching us.’
The sergeant nodded. ‘I’d like to believe that, Uncle John. I’m trying; I really am.’
The Superintendent turned. ‘Sir, this is Henry Riach, Harry’s oldest son. Henry, DCC Skinner.’
‘Pleased to meet you, sir,’ said the tall young man. ‘I’m pleased that you came.’
‘It’s an honour, believe me.’
To the policeman’s surprise, the young soldier smiled. ‘Aye, and appropriate too. You had him often enough in his time. It’s only right that you should be here to see him off.’
For once in his life, Skinner was lost for a suitable counter. Instead he said, ‘Look, could you pass something on to your mother for us. There are channels through which she can receive compensation for her loss. Inadequate, I know, but still. There’s Criminal Injuries, and there’s also the possibility that the bank might like to express sympathy, too.
‘I had a word with their head office before I came here, and as a first step, they’d like to meet the cost of the funeral.’ He took a card from his pocket. ‘I won’t intrude further today, but that’s my number at Fettes. If I can help or advise you and your mother in any way, don’t hesitate to give me a call.’
‘That’s very kind of you, sir,’ said Henry Riach.
‘Not at all, Sergeant. Your father died a hero.’
The young man’s eyes misted over. ‘My Dad lived as a hero too, sir. All his life, he was a hero to me. A rough diamond, for sure, but a diamond nonetheless.’
He shook Skinner’s hand and walked away, towards the car.
The DCC looked at his colleague. ‘Uncle John, eh. I didn’t realise that you were so close to the family.’
For the second time that day, a tear showed in the eye of the big bluff Superintendent. ‘Harry and I were brothers in arms, sir, from the age of five, when we started school on the same day. I arrested him three times when he was raising hell and threatening to dismantle the pub, yet in all our lives, there was never an angry word passed between us.
‘Young Henry, there; he’s my godson.’
McGrigor replaced his peaked hat, which, like Skinner, he had been holding in his hand. ‘I tell you, sir, suppose no one else catches these bastards, I will.’
‘Come on then, John,’ said the DCC, nodding. ‘Let’s the two of us get on with it.’
27
If Skinner had returned to Fettes to change out of uniform, he would have been at least fifteen minutes late for his meeting with the Lord Advocate. So instead, sitting stiffly in the hated serge, he instructed his driver to head straight for the Crown Office in Chambers Street.
He frowned as he stepped from the car, as he recalled his last visit to the recently completed headquarters of the Scottish criminal prosecution service, as an interviewee rather than as a policeman. But putting the memory aside and concentrating on the matter in hand, he strode into the building.
The clerk at reception sat straight behind his desk as he approached. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Skinner,’ he said. ‘Lord Archibald asks if you would just go straight in. His room’s. .’
‘That’s all right, thanks,’ Skinner retorted; a shade tersely, the clerk thought. ‘I’ve been there before.’
Norman King looked up in surprise as the Deputy Chief Constable entered the room. Even the Lord Advocate raised an eyebrow at the sight of the tall detective in uniform. ‘Funeral,’ Skinner muttered, all the explanation he needed to offer.
‘Ah, I see. Was it the officer who was killed last week?’
‘No, it was Harry Riach, the civilian. See what you can do about posthumous gallantry awards, Archie, will you. . for both of them.’
‘I’ll mention it to the Secretary of State. Pull up a chair, Bob.’ He looked across at the third man in the room.
‘I’ve asked Bob Skinner to join us at this point, Norman. There’s something that he and I have to discuss with you.’ The DCC looked at the man as he took his seat alongside him. He was, he guessed, around forty years old, and wore the traditional junior advocate’s clothing of dark jacket, pin-striped trousers and plain white shirt, stripes being the prerogative of Silks. Skinner knew many members of the tight-knit community that is the Scottish Bar, but his path and that of King had never crossed before.
‘I’ve just been congratulating Norman,’ Lord Archibald went on, looking now at Skinner, ‘for two reasons. First, he’s to be appointed Queen’s Counsel, and second, he has been offered and has agreed to accept, the position of Home Advocate Depute.’
The policeman’s eyebrows rose as he nodded an acknowledgement to King. The Home AD was the third person on the Crown Office totem pole, after the Lord Advocate and the Solicitor General, and was the leader of the team of full-time prosecutors in Scotland’s High Court of Judiciary. Appointment to the office was recognised as an important step towards high office and a seat on the Bench.
‘Well done,’ offered the DCC.
‘Thank you, Mr Skinner. It’s come as a great surprise, I must say. I didn’t think I was sufficiently senior for the job, but Archie seems to have faith in me. What a pity though that my father didn’t live to see it.’
The smile vanished from the Lord Advocate’s face. ‘Yes indeed, Norman: and that brings me to the reason for Bob’s presence.’ King looked round at him in sudden surprise.
‘What d’you mean?’
Lord Archibald took a deep breath. ‘You’re aware that the Lord President asked, as a formality, for a post-mortem to be carried out on Billy?’
The son nodded. ‘Yes, he informed me. As you say, it was a formality.’
Skinner took the ensuing silence as a cue. ‘I’m afraid, Mr King, that Archie was over-optimistic. The autopsy has established, beyond doubt, that your father was poisoned.’
As he looked at him, the other man’s face became a caricature of shock. He shook visibly in his chair, and his mouth worked as if to form words.
‘You can’t be serious,’ he gasped, at last.
‘I’m afraid I am. Another pathologist might just have been content to make the most cursory examination of the body, but Archie engaged Joe Hutchison. You’ll be aware of his reputation for thoroughness.
‘As far as we can establish. . although it’s still subject to confirmation. . someone slipped cyanide into your father’s water carafe.’
Norman King buried his face in his hands and rubbed it vigorously, as if trying to wipe away his disbelief, then looked across at Skinner.
‘How in God’s name did they do that?’ he shot at the policeman.