‘Believe me, in a couple of years, Dave’ll be looking for chief officer rank with another force. He’ll get it too. He’s a good tactician, is Donaldson.’
Martin steered his car into his allotted space, near the building’s basement rear entrance. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said. ‘Now I’d better talk tactics with him myself.’
‘Aye, and I’d better run our Chief Constable to ground. There’s something I have to sort out with him.’
But when Skinner returned to the Command Suite, he discovered that Proud Jimmy was locked in the safety of an Appropriations Committee meeting, a task which would have fallen to Skinner had he not been returned so recently to active duty.
‘He should be clear around four thirty, sir,’ said Gerry, the Chief’s secretary. Like Ruth McConnell, whom Skinner shared with ACC Elder, he was a civilian. The DCC thanked the young man and stepped across the corridor, looking in on Ruth to announce his return.
‘I got this for you, as you asked,’ she said, holding out an orange folder, the colour which denoted personnel files. She smiled what seemed her usual smile, but Skinner wondered for an instant whether, within it, he could see the faintest hint of disapproval.
He put the thought from his mind as he sat behind his desk and opened the file. He recalled the last occasion on which he had seen it, at a promotion board the year before, and remembered the very attractive, dark-haired woman with the huge, wide brown eyes.
He looked down at the file and saw those eyes smiling up at him, from the photograph clipped to the first page. He read sections of the report’s summary aloud, in a murmured tone.
‘Detective Sergeant Pamela, known as Polly, Masters, promoted and transferred to Haddington six months ago, after a short spell in the press office.
‘Late entrant to the force four years ago, then aged thirty. Born in Motherwell,’ Skinner grunted at the connection with his own home town, and that of his late first wife, ‘educated at the local schools. Religion Protestant. Degree in marketing from Strathclyde. Worked in-house for an insurance company in Glasgow, and latterly for a consultancy in Edinburgh.
‘Parents still alive, one older brother, one younger sister. When aged 24, married David Somerville, in Motherwell. Divorced four years later, and moved to Edinburgh.
‘Exemplary service record. Passed Sergeant and Inspector examinations at first opportunity. Good reports from senior officers in every posting.’
Skinner laid the folder down at the side of his desk. He smiled as he remembered his question to WPC Masters at her promotion interview.
‘What made you chuck a lucrative job, in which you were well qualified and experienced, and the Vauxhall Cavalier which undoubtedly went with it? What made you do that to put on one of these stiff, itchy uniforms and pound the streets in thick-soled flat shoes, carrying a damn great side-handled baton as your only protection against the real possibility that someone is going to come at you with a weapon?’
And her answer, in a clear, strong West of Scotland accent.
‘I did it because I wanted a career where what I did made a difference for the better in the way people live, rather than one in which I used my skills to persuade them to buy products which were no different from any other on the market, and which were probably bad for them in the long run.’
He tapped the folder. ‘Could be, Sergeant Masters, that you’re the one.’
8
Two potential chief officers sat opposite a third, across Andy Martin’s desk in the CID office suite.
Martin sat with his back to the window in the plain magnolia-painted room. Behind him Detective Superintendent Dave Donaldson and Detective Chief Inspector Maggie Rose could see the sharp, crenellated tower of Fettes College, many of its classroom windows lit, as the minds of its privileged students were illuminated through the dull day.
Donaldson, a year or two older than the Head of CID but still in his mid-thirties, was a tall slim man, with relaxed, friendly eyes, an easy smile, and a taste for suiting which had earned him the nickname ‘Flash’ among his junior officers. He gave off a powerful air of self-confidence which in many another job with less stringent promotion criteria would have been enough in itself to mark him out automatically as a high flyer; looking at him across the desk Martin had a sudden vision of his colleague selling Ferraris on Jackie Charles’ forecourt.
However, the achievement of high rank in the police force is based on more than self-belief, and the Chief Superintendent’s recommendation that he be promoted into the vacancy as Eastern Area CID commander had been based on an impressive service record which showed no hint of recklessness, and a clear-up rate on investigations under his charge which matched even Skinner’s, and his own.
Maggie Rose was impressive in a different way from Donaldson. Her red hair was a good indicator of the core of her personality, but outwardly she was a calm, thoughtful woman. Her clothing tended to emphasise the quiet side of her nature, although Martin thought that it had become slightly more flamboyant since her marriage to Special Branch Inspector Mario McGuire.
One of the great strengths of Maggie Rose, the one which had drawn her first to DCC Skinner’s attention, was the fact that she never offered a view that had not been considered carefully, with all the risks analysed and all the consequences measured.
That was why Skinner had taken her on to his personal staff, and it was why he had concurred with her appointment as Donaldson’s deputy with a degree of reluctance.
And that may have been why Martin was looking at her, although he addressed his questions to them both.
‘Given the breadth of Jackie Charles’ known, or at least suspected activities,’ he said, ‘this investigation is going to be intricate, to say the very least. What would you two say our priorities should be? And do either of you see any short-cuts we might follow?’
‘Well,’ began Donaldson. ‘I’d say. .’ He stopped in mid-sentence. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t jump in all the time. Mags, you’re the strategist on the team. What do you think?’
‘Good command skill,’ thought Martin, with a glance at the Superintendent. ‘Assess your subordinates’ strengths, recognise them publicly, and make use of them as much as you can.’
Rose sat silent for a few seconds, looking at Donaldson as if searching for anything patronising in his tone, but finding nothing.
‘Given what we’ve heard, sir,’ she began, ‘the first thing I’d say is that I agree with the Boss. We have to find this chap Carl Medina, on the basis of Charles’ statement.
‘But the second thing I’d say is that I wouldn’t hold out too many hopes that he’s our man.’ She nodded towards Skinner’s tape recorder which lay on the desk, which Martin had just replayed. ‘His was the only name that Charles actually volunteered during that interview. It occurs to me that if he thought for one second that Medina was his wife’s murderer, he’d have kept it to himself, and done something about it himself.’
She paused. ‘We all know that Jackie Charles is a criminal. Yet he’s never been caught, and is only associated with crime through whispers from touts that we’ve never been able to corroborate or present in evidence. People like Jackie Charles, if they were straight, would make great personnel directors. They know people, inside and out. They have the same skill as the most senior police officers in recognising strengths and weaknesses, and they take precautions to ensure that those strengths or weaknesses never become threats.