I’ve stared into the pit, and a couple of times, I’ve fallen in, only to be caught by strong hands and pulled back to safety. My life has been saved twice, once figuratively by Mario McGuire, my first husband, then literally, by a surgeon called Aldred Fine, who operated on me when I contracted ovarian cancer, removed the tumour, and saw me through the follow-up therapy.
Now I am, officially, in remission; I’m not sure when I’ll be pronounced cured, but I must behave as if I am. One day at a time, sweet Jesus. Didn’t Kris Kristofferson write that song? If he did I wonder if he has any idea of how it feels to live that way. I tell everyone that I don’t dwell on it, but don’t kid yourself. I’ve never been more aware of my body. Every small twinge magnifies itself in my mind and when I go for what are still my six-monthly scans, I am nervous, right up until the moment when Aldred comes in smiling and says, ‘Everything’s normal.’
If it wasn’t for Stephanie, I don’t know if I’d have made it. Indeed if it wasn’t for my daughter I don’t believe I’d have tried too hard, after Stevie was killed on duty. But now I have her, and I must keep well for her sake; regression isn’t an option.
I never thought I’d have a child. To be honest with you, when Mario and I were going through the motions of trying to conceive I was privately relieved when my period came along, month after month. There was the possibility of adoption for a while, but when that fell through, it didn’t bother me either. That was just as well, for by that time our marriage was broken beyond repair.
He and I split up and I concentrated on my job; that I could do, very well, much better than marriage. Then out of the blue, Stevie happened, and I fell pregnant, and the world was wonderful, for a few precious weeks.
I should have known better.
I did something bad in my life, something I saw and still see as justifiable, but I crossed a line. Mario, God bless him, cleaned up after me and nobody ever found out about it, but afterwards I carried this foreboding around with me that one day, Nemesis would tap me on the shoulder and say, ‘Excuse me, Margaret, there’s something we have to discuss.’
But she didn’t stop at me, that vengeful old Greek cow; as well as giving me cancer, she fingered Stevie as well. His tragedy happened and that bottomless pit opened up under my feet again, until. . she relented and I was saved.
It used to be that there wasn’t an hour went past without me thinking about it, remembering the shock, and then the horror, when they told me Stevie was dead. It was the darkest, darkest time. Having Stephanie, recovering from my surgery, and then going back to work all combined to bring me into the light once more, not least since I was secure in the knowledge that Bet, my sister, is happy as Larry (whoever he was) combining the roles of Steph’s carer and freelance designer. Being promoted into the deputy chief vacancy helped a little too; now I find that several hours can go by without me finding myself staring at the wall, remembering.
That’s what I was doing when the intercom buzzed and my secretary told me that DC Montell had arrived for his scheduled appointment.
Bob had given me his file, and, he said, carte blanche to proceed as I thought appropriate. But he’d also reminded me why he couldn’t deal with the matter himself, knowing full well, I believe, that I’d feel constrained. The man Skinner is many things. He’s bold, he’s brave, he’s brilliant. He’d have made a great soldier, but a lousy general, for he can only lead from the front; those are some of his strengths, but make no mistake, he has his weaknesses.
The one that’s quoted most often is his eye for the ladies, and I can see why, but I’ll defend him on that front. He has never made a pass at me in all the years I’ve known him or offered me a single improper word, glance or suggestion. But I doubt if he ever has with any woman; from what I’ve seen he’s much more prey than predator. The truth is that Bob’s a sucker for a pretty face, as long as a powerful personality goes with it. I doubt if he’s ever shagged a bimbo in his life.
You couldn’t pin that label on Sarah, no way; oh no, she is smart. He was the head of CID and she was the new pathologist, when she sized him up, saw he was ripe, and flashed the lashes at him. A few of his colleagues saw what was happening, but nobody had the stones to tell him.
When the marriage first hit the skids, and another scheming woman sank her claws in, briefly, that might have finished him, in every respect. It didn’t, and he moved on, until eventually it was him and Aileen, and he seemed more content than I’d ever known him. Even then, I had the feeling that he was hiding in that marriage. From what, I don’t know; maybe from himself.
His other flaws? He can be cruel, he can be lethal, he can, on occasion, be petty. He makes instant judgements about people and they are usually irreversible, be they right or wrong. That exposes him to accusations of favouritism, of gathering an elite of cronies around him, and when he was less senior it laid him open to the sniping of his enemies, most notable among them a man called Greg Jay, a former CID colleague who found out in the hardest way that it is one thing to dislike Bob Skinner, but that crossing him is a luxury nobody can afford.
His inner circle? I’m one, so is Mario, Neil McIlhenney was a third, before he left for London, and Brian Mackie, my predecessor, the fourth until he went to Tayside. The closest of all, though, is Andy Martin. Bob promoted all of us, but Andy has flown highest, to a level at which there simply wasn’t room for both of them in our force.
There are, or have been others; Stevie, of course, and now DC Haddock. You look at young Sauce and you might well think that he’s Bob’s diametric opposite. In some ways he is; he’s gawky, and he has a tendency to say too much at the wrong time. But he’s also perceptive, and he has an analytical brain. It wasn’t the first thing that brought him to my attention. . no, his daft nickname did that. . but once I could see past the air-scoop ears, I realised that a serious mind lies between them.
Recently, the boy Haddock showed his patron’s propensity for landing risky women, but he’s come out on the right side of it. From what I’ve been hearing lately, that relationship survives; the surprising thing is that far from frowning on it, Bob seems to be taking an almost fatherly interest in its health.
And Griff Montell? Where does he stand in the serried ranks of Skinner’s army? That’s what I wondered as I peered at his file, at the summary of a career that began in South Africa, then migrated to Edinburgh. And what did Bob want me to do with him?
‘Your call,’ he’d said, ‘entirely your call.’
Sure, and what have I just said about Skinner being devious? What had Montell done? Why was he about to enter my office for a disciplinary interview that could lead to proceedings that would fire him from the force? He’d screwed up an undercover operation by telling his girlfriend all about it.
Yes, she was a cop, and yes, he’d assumed she was trustworthy, but the whole thing had blown up in his face, and very publicly at that. A serving officer had just been charged with attempting to pervert the course of justice, and the indications were that he’d defend the charge.
Worse, from what Mario had added when he’d called me to break the news, there might even be a defence of impeachment, putting Montell’s girl on the rack. Either way he’d be a witness, and wasn’t that the real problem? Cowan was going for sure, but if he was still a serving officer, would he have any career left himself after taking a hammering from the defence in the witness box? Would I be doing him a kindness by recommending dismissal? Was that what Bob wanted me to do?
What, Maggie? I asked myself. Was I to assume that he wanted me to fire the guy who, as our whole professional circle knew, used to sleep with his daughter, at least while Andy Martin was otherwise engaged?
‘Hardly,’ I said aloud. For any appeal to an employment tribunal would go public, and if Montell chose he might allege that he’d been fired for personal, and not professional reasons. It wouldn’t hold, but it would be messy. No, there was another solution somewhere. It was in Bob’s mind already, and he expected me to catch on without being told.
‘Thanks, pal,’ I murmured as I pressed the button that would summon my visitor.