Sixty seconds later, wee Moash Glazier was pedalling along Warrender Park Road, the boots hung round his neck, with their laces knotted together. He knew better than to touch the tools. In any event what he had was easily saleable, and enough to keep his elbow on the bar top for a while. There was no need to hurry. No one was going anywhere that morning, so as soon as he was out of sight of the building. . after a couple of seconds. . he was safe. It was only when he started drawing deeper draughts of air that he realised how cold it was. The temperature was around freezing, but seemed much colder in the thick greyness. The roadway was treacherous too, so he took extra care, and went even more steadily than at the outset.
He stuck to the middle of the carriageway, since there was more danger of hitting a parked car than being hit by a moving one; he was almost across Marchmont Road before he knew it, and turned left.
The traffic lights at the junction with Melville Drive shone dim red through the fog; he laughed as he rode through them and crossed over into the Meadows. There was a pathway at the entrance to the broad fields; even if he had known that it was called Jawbone Walk, it would never have occurred to him to wonder why. It was white with frost, and so rather than risk his limbs on it, he used it as a guide and cycled on the grass alongside it.
Moash had stolen more than a few bikes in his time, and as a result was a good cyclist. He could handle the gears on the most complicated modern machine, and on occasion kept one that he had nicked for a few days as a getaway vehicle. For all the cold, as he rode across the Meadows, he was actually enjoying himself. He laughed maniacally in the gloom, then threw back his head, slapped his saddlebag with his right hand, and cried out, ‘Hi ho, Silver! Awa. .’
He was in mid-yell when something hard hit him full in the chest. He was knocked backwards off his faithful steed, landing on his shoulders on the cold, hard, wet ground and turning a full somersault before coming to rest face down.
Wee Moash was not a fighting man; he knew the basics, but experience had taught him that flight was usually more expedient. But he was so taken aback by his involuntary dismount that he jumped to his feet, fists raised and ready to square up to his attacker.
‘Ya bass!’ he shouted, advancing on the dark figure, stopping in his tracks only when he realised that it seemed to be hovering in mid-air. In an instant his natural caution returned. He took a closer look, the figure was dark indeed, and as he drew closer he realised that this was due in part at least to the fact that it was wearing a heavy Crombie overcoat. It was also wearing black leather shoes.
Moash advanced until he could reach out and touch the thing; he did, and as it swung slowly round, he looked up and into its face.
‘OhmyGoad!’ he screamed. He backed away in panic, tripping over something that lay on the ground and landing heavily on his backside, jumping up again as he felt the wetness soak through his jeans, thinking for a moment that he had pissed himself, until he recognised to his relief that it was only the hoary frost on the ground.
‘OhmyGoad!’ A whisper this time, tinged with awe as his fear evaporated.
And then three instincts kicked into action. The first was one he rarely used: common decency. He took from his jacket pocket the mobile phone that he had stolen the day before, but had been unable to sell, and dialled nine, three times. ‘Emergency services,’ an operator answered. ‘Which service do you require?’
‘Nane,’ he answered, ‘but ye need the police in the Meadows. Fit o’ the walkway, ahent the old Royal.’
He ended the call and responded to his second instinct: opportunism. He retrieved his fallen bike and leaned it against the trunk of the tree from which the dead man hung. Then he used it to clamber high enough to reach the body, unbutton the overcoat, and ease it off the shoulders until it fell to the ground. He jumped down, retrieved it and slipped it on. It was at least a couple of sizes too big for him even over the jacket that he was wearing, but he knew a couple of guys who might part with fifty quid for it.
Finally, self-preservation took its turn. Moash slipped the boots round his neck, seized the only other saleable item that he saw around, remounted the bike and pedalled along Meadow Walk where it turned left, away from any road by which the police might approach. This time, he pedalled as fast as he could.
5
Sir James Proud’s uniform had never fitted him better. The extra girth that once he had carried had disappeared under a regime of diet and exercise; Lady Proud had even said to him that he looked as if he had lost years in age as well as pounds in weight.
Appearances can deceive, though, Chrissie. The thought ran through his mind as he looked around the conference table. He estimated that he was the oldest person there by around fifteen years, and the thought chilled him, more than a little. For the first time in his police career, he wondered whether he should get up from his chair and tell Bob Skinner, ‘You do it, son. It’s your turn now.’
His deputy was there, and so was the assistant chief constable, Willie Haggerty, the rough-edged Glaswegian who had shaken up the uniformed side of the force since his arrival. They flanked him, as he coughed quietly, to clear his throat, and to end the quiet chatter and set the meeting going.
They were gathered together at eight a.m., an hour that the veteran chief constable regarded as ridiculously early, but it had been forced on him by the politicians, or, to be fair, their managers. He knew from decades of experience that civil servants never had regard for anyone’s diary or convenience other than those of their masters.
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘I suggest we begin by introducing ourselves. You know me, and, I think, DCC Skinner on my right and ACC Haggerty, who’s responsible for all operations in the city of Edinburgh, on my left. We also have the honour. .’ He was sure that his deputy twitched in his seat, for a split second, at his use of the word. ‘. . to welcome Scotland’s deputy justice minister, Ms Aileen de Marco, MSP. She’s sitting next to Willie, and beyond her is her private secretary, Ms Lena McElhone. Next to Bob Skinner is Chief Superintendent Brian Mackie: he heads a specialist team that we’ve set up to take executive control of major state and public events, operating across our divisional structure. His people will have a key role on the day.’ The dome-headed man on Skinner’s right was wearing a uniform that was almost as sharp as that of the chief constable: he nodded and threw a diffident smile to the table.
‘Beyond Brian, there’s DI Neil McIlhenney, head of Special Branch.’ The big detective, whose private views on the early scheduling of the meeting mirrored those of the chief, raised a hand.
‘Now,’ Sir James continued, ‘I suggest that we go round the table, with everyone else introducing himself. Let’s go clockwise. ’ He looked at the man seated next to Lena McElhone.
‘Thank you,’ said the bearded, bespectacled visitor. ‘My name is Godfrey Rennie; I’m in charge of the part of the Justice Department that deals with the police.’
The man on his left, slight, owlish: ‘Mike Munro, head of the division responsible for Edinburgh.’
A stocky figure in a dark suit, expensive, but worn over the collar of a priest. ‘Monsignor Eduardo di Matteo: I represent the External Relations Division of the administration of the Vatican State.’
Another priest, his suit dark also, but more worn. ‘Father Angelo Collins, private secretary to His Holiness.’
Gold-rimmed spectacles, silver hair cut in military fashion. ‘Giovanni Rossi: Vatican logistics.’
Angular, patrician, sandy hair swept back from his forehead, eyeing the rest through Gucci spectacles perched on the bridge of a long nose. Skinner knew the type and liked them even less than he liked politicians. ‘Miles Stringfellow, Her Majesty’s Foreign and Commonwealth Office.’