‘I know. Bite my tongue, bite my tongue, that was an awful thing to say. But if you’d sat in that Court for days on end and seen him nodding towards the pursuer’s case and savaging ours at every opportunity! Do you know that Jack McAlpine even offered to withdraw! He thinks Coalville has a down on him.’
Bob chuckled. ‘Coalville has a down on everyone, darlin’. Jack must know that. Very much between you and me, David Murray told me on Sunday that he’s trying to persuade him to retire in September next year, ahead of time. He wants to create a vacancy for Lord Archibald on the Bench.’
‘Can’t he appoint him in Archergait’s place?’
‘Bruce Anderson, the Secretary of State, won’t allow it. He wants Archie to do another year as Lord Advocate, to give the Solicitor General time to prepare for the job.’
‘The Lord President didn’t tell you who’s getting the old boy’s red jacket, did he? Only I thought that it might be McAlpine, and that that might have been the real reason he offered to pull out of our case.’
Skinner smiled at his daughter’s shrewdness. ‘No comment,’ he muttered.
‘I rest my case.’ She stood up, and picked up her hold-all from the floor. ‘I must be going. I have to pick up my briefcase from the flat.’
Sarah nodded. ‘Yeah. Thanks for coming out last night. Would you like to look in on Mark and tell him to wake up and get ready for school?’
‘Sure. ‘Bye.’
She watched the door as it closed. ‘She’s loving her legal career, isn’t she.’
Bob nodded. ‘Yup, and doing very well at it. Mitch Laidlaw keeps singing her praises. He told me he wants her to stay after she finishes her training period.’
‘D’you think she will?’
‘For a while maybe, but as far as I know she still has her heart set on the Bar. It’s a good set-up for women lawyers. Being self-employed they can take time out more easily if they want to have a family.’
‘Don’t talk like that,’ Sarah warned him. ‘The idea of being even a step-grandmother makes my blood run cold.’
She picked up her coffee and looked at him. ‘Do you think you will get a break on the judge investigation?’
He rolled his eyes, in a ‘Who Knows?’ gesture. ‘We’ll do our damnedest. The first thing to do is to establish a potential motive. We’ll start by cross-checking Archergait’s judgements with Barnfather’s, and see if we can find common ground. Something may jump out at us from that.’
‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.’ She grinned. ‘So how did the delegating go yesterday?’
‘It went as far as I could take it. I’m trapped today, though. My afternoon’s full of stuff that I can’t get out of.’
‘Ah well,’ Sarah sighed, sympathetically. ‘You’ll just have to find something to brighten up your morning.’
35
Campbell Rarity could feel a line of cold sweat as it ran down the length of his backbone. He was all too aware that his deodorant was not up to the extra duty which his nervous state was imposing on it.
Fortunately, the shop was empty, save for one male customer at a small table, who was examining a suite of amethyst jewellery set out before him by a sales assistant. Rarity glanced up at the clock. It showed three minutes to ten.
He almost jumped out of his skin when the buzzer sounded to tell him that someone was pressing at the door. He was shaking as he leaned across to see who was there.
A middle-aged lady, wearing a light summer dress, looked through the glass expectantly. Rarity shook his head. She stared back at him, puzzled, then pushed the door again. The manager shook his head again, more vigorously this time, and mouthed the words, ‘Sorry, we’re closed.’ Apparently undaunted, the woman rapped her knuckles against the glass, once, twice, three times, until with a furious, baffled expression, she turned and walked away.
Oblivious to the exchange, the customer who had managed to gain admission put down the bracelet which he had been studying and picked up the matching ring.
Rarity pressed himself against his counter trying to ignore the pounding in his chest. He watched the clock as it crept up to ten a.m., then on: one minute past, two, three. When the buzzer sounded again a chill of panic swept through him, so cold that for an instant his teeth chattered.
To master it, he took a deep breath, before looking at the glass panel once more, and before pressing the entry button.
Two men stepped into the shop. The first, his powerful build apparent even in his loosely cut, colourful Versace jacket, was a big man, but smaller than his companion. He stood at least six feet three and seemed to fill the room with his black-clad presence. Both newcomers had broad, brutal faces, and both seemed to exude menace. Ignoring the other customer, who sat with his back to them at his table, they moved towards their waiting host.
‘Good to see you again, Mr Malenko.’ Rarity greeted the Russian like a cousin, back from a long journey.
‘Good to see my dollars again,’ the man growled in return, in a harsh, hoarse voice.
‘Not at all,’ said the manager, inanely.
‘Whatever. Let’s do business.’ Malenko beckoned to his companion who stepped forward and laid a big, soft nylon bag on the counter. ‘There’s four million dollars. You want your lady come count it, as usual?’
Rarity nodded, vigorously. ‘I’ll just go and get her.’
He turned and stepped through the door behind him.
As soon as he had left, the two men began to converse. They spoke in low voices, in Russian, but from their attitude anyone listening would have known that they were doing no more than passing the time.
They snapped back to attention, though, when the door behind the counter opened once more. A burly, moustached figure stepped into the room with another tall man behind him, and stepped around the counter.
‘Mr Malenko, I am Detective Superintendent Dan Pringle, Central Division CID, and this is Detective Sergeant Steele. We have a warrant for your arrest in relation to alleged offences in Germany. I must ask you and your associate to. .’
The Russian moved with remarkable speed for such a big man. He kicked Pringle hard on the shin, then butted him as he reacted to the pain. ‘I don’t think so,’ he snarled, as the Superintendent slumped to the floor.
The gun appeared in the giant’s hand as if from nowhere, pointing at the centre of the detective sergeant’s chest. Somehow, the silencer made the ugly weapon look even more menacing. The minder looked at Malenko, who said something in Russian, and nodded.
The only Russian word which Bob Skinner knew was ‘Niet’. Instinctively he barked it out, as he rose from his table, abandoning the amethyst jewellery, and hurled himself at the two gangsters.
The pistol swung away from the ashen-faced Steele and round towards him, but the detective was quicker than the bulky gunman. He seized his right wrist in his left hand and swung it up, towards the ceiling, at the same time slamming all his weight into him and bearing him backwards towards the wall. Thrown off balance the Russian was unable to gather his strength, or do anything to ward off Skinner’s attack.
He was wide open as the heel of the DCC’s right hand flashed upwards, to hit the tip of his nose, breaking it, and driving bone and gristle upwards. He screamed as strong fingers gouged his eyes, blinding him. He sobbed as a knee smashed into his crotch, crushing his testicles and sending waves of pain, indescribable in any language, shooting through his body.
Skinner was aware of the sound of scuffling behind him as he tore the pistol from the collapsing mountain’s loosened grip, but all his attention was on the gunman. His face was contorted in a snarl as he whipped the barrel and silencer of the gun across his face: three blows, backhand, forehand, backhand once more.
‘You were going to shoot him, were you, you bastard,’ he hissed. The man was on the floor, crumpled against the wall, as the detective laid the weapon against the side of his head and pulled the trigger. He squealed in terror at the suppressed noise of the shot in his ear, and at the crushing sound of the bullet burying itself in the panelled wall behind him.