‘Yes, you told me.’
‘Well, I want to jump the gun. Have our people develop the proposition that what happened in the concert hall illustrates the need for it, that it was a result of intelligence delayed by artificial barriers within our police service that need to be broken down. Then set up a press conference for midday tomorrow. We don’t have to say what it’s about. They’ll be all over me anyway about last night. But I want to be ready to roll with that policy announcement.’
‘Will do,’ Old said, ‘but Aileen, what about your personal security? I know the police don’t believe there’s any continuing threat to you, because I spoke to the DI in charge this morning, but they can’t rule it out completely.’
‘I told you,’ she snapped, ‘I’ve got bodyguards. But so what? If people want to believe there is someone out to get me, let them. Remember Thatcher at Brighton? The same day that bomb went off she was on her feet, on global telly, making her conference speech and saying “Bring it on”. That’s the precedent, Alf. I either follow it or I run away and hide. Now get to work, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’
As Old went off to follow orders, Aileen thought about returning some of the other calls but decided against it. Instead she trotted downstairs. ‘Joey?’ she called as she went.
‘I’m in the kitchen. Telly’s on: you should see this.’
She had had no time to learn the layout of the house when she had arrived late the night before, but she traced his voice to its location. The room looked out on to a large rear garden surrounded by a high wall, topped with spikes. ‘No place for the photographers to hide here,’ she remarked.
‘No. I had the fencing added on when I bought the place. It does the job.’
‘So what’s on the box that I should see?’
He turned from the work surface where he was putting a salad together and nodded towards a wall-mounted set. It was on, and a BT commercial was running. ‘Sky News,’ he replied. ‘They’ve been trailing a Glasgow press conference and somebody’s name was mentioned. In fact. .’
As he spoke, the programme banner ran, then the programme went straight to what appeared to be a live location: a table, and two men, one of them in uniform.
‘Is that who I think it is?’ Joey asked. ‘I spoke to him last night; didn’t have a clue who he was. No wonder he got frosty when I asked about you.’
She smiled, but without humour or affection. ‘That’s him. I told you earlier what this is about. Observe and be amazed, for it’s one of the biggest U-turns you will ever see in your life. Here, I’ll do the lunch.’
As she took over the salad preparation, Joey Morocco watched the bulletin as Dominic Hanlon introduced himself to a roomful of journalists and camera operators. There was a nervous tremor in the councillor’s voice, a sure tell that the event was well beyond his comfort zone. He began by paying a fulsome tribute to the dead Antonia Field, and then explained the difficult circumstances in which the Strathclyde force had found itself.
‘However,’ he concluded, ‘I am pleased to announce that with the approval of his Police Authority in Edinburgh, Chief Constable Robert Morgan Skinner has agreed to take temporary command of the force for a period of three months, to allow the orderly appointment of a successor to the late Chief Constable Field. Mr Skinner, would you like to say a few words?’ He looked at his companion, happy to hand over.
‘In the circumstances,’ Skinner replied, ‘it’s probably best that we go straight to questions.’
A forest of hands went up, and a clamour of voices arose, but he nodded to a familiar face in the front row, John Fox, the BBC Scotland Home Affairs editor.
‘Bob,’ the reporter began, ‘you weren’t a candidate for this job last time it was vacant. Are you prepared to say why not?’
The chief constable shrugged. ‘I didn’t want it.’
‘Why do you want it now?’
‘I don’t, John. Believe me, I would much rather still be arguing with Toni Field in ACPOS over the principles of policing, as she and I did, long and loud. But Toni’s been taken from us, at a time when Strathclyde could least afford to lose its leader, given the absence of a deputy.
‘When I was asked to take over. . temporarily; I will keep hammering that word home. . by Councillor Hanlon’s authority, on the basis that its members believe me to be qualified, as a police officer I felt that I couldn’t refuse. It wouldn’t have been right.’
Fox was about to put a supplementary, but another journalist cut in. ‘Couldn’t ACC Allan have taken over?’
‘Given his seniority, if he was well, yes, but he isn’t. He’s on sick leave.’
‘What about ACC Thomas, or ACC Gorman?’
‘Fine officers as they are, neither of them meets the criteria for permanent appointment,’ he replied, ‘and so the authority took the view that wouldn’t have been appropriate.’
‘Did you consult your wife before accepting the appointment, Mr Skinner?’ The questioning voice was female, its accent cultured and very definitely English. Aileen was in the act of chopping Chinese leaves; she stopped and if she had looked down instead of round at the screen she would have seen that she came within a centimetre of slicing a finger open.
She saw Bob’s gaze turn slowly towards the source, who was seated at the side of the room. ‘And why should I do that, Miss. .’
‘Ms Marguerite Hatton, Daily News political correspondent. She is the Scottish Labour leader, as I understand it. Surely you discuss important matters with her.’
‘You’re either very smart or very stupid or just plain ignorant, lady,’ Aileen murmured. ‘You’ve just lit a fuse.’
A very short one, as was proved a second later. ‘What the hell has her position got to do with this?’ her estranged husband barked. ‘I’m a senior police officer, as senior as you can get in this country. Are you asking, seriously, whether I seek political approval before I take a career decision, or even an operational decision?’
‘Oh, really!’ the journalist scoffed. ‘That’s a dinosaur answer. I meant did you consult her as your wife, not as a politician.’
On the screen Skinner stared at her, then laughed. ‘You are indeed from the deep south, Ms Hatton, so I’ll forgive your lack of local knowledge. I suggest that you ask some of your Scottish colleagues, those who really know Aileen de Marco. They’ll tell you that there isn’t a waking moment when she isn’t a politician. And I can tell you she even talks politics in her sleep!’
‘Jesus!’ Aileen shouted. ‘Joey, switch that fucking thing off!’
‘Relax,’ he said, ‘it’s not true.’
The woman from the Daily News was undeterred. ‘In that case,’ she persisted, ‘how will she feel about you taking the job?’
‘Why should I have any special knowledge of that?’ He looked around the room. ‘No more questions about my wife, people.’
On camera, John Fox raised a hand. ‘Just one more, please, Bob? How is she after her ordeal last night?’
‘Last time I saw her she was fine: fine and very angry.’
‘Where was that, Mr Skinner?’ Marguerite Hatton shouted.
‘You’ve had your five minutes,’ he growled. ‘Any more acceptable questions?’
The woman beside Fox, Stephanie Marshall of STV, raised a hand. ‘You weren’t a candidate for the Strathclyde post last time, Chief Constable, but will you put your name forward when it’s re-advertised?’
Watching, Aileen saw him lean forward as if to answer, then hesitate.
‘If you’d asked me that last night,’ he began, ‘just after Dominic asked me to take on this role, I would have told you no, definitely not. But something was said to me this morning that’s made me change my attitude just a wee bit.
‘So the honest answer is, I don’t know. Let me see how the next couple of weeks go, and then I’ll decide. Now, ladies and gentlemen, I must go. We have a major investigation under way as you all realise, and I must call on the officer who’s running it.’