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Authors: Quintin Jardine
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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.’
Aileen reached out and grasped the work surface, squeezing it hard.
‘What are you doing?’ Joey chuckled.
‘I’m checking for earth tremors. You might not know it but what he just said is the equivalent of a very large mountain starting to move. I can’t believe it. I told him last night he’d never leave Pitt Street once he got in there, but I didn’t
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.’
Aileen reached out and grasped the work surface, squeezing it hard.
‘What are you doing?’ Joey chuckled.
‘I’m checking for earth tremors. You might not know it but what he just said is the equivalent of a very large mountain starting to move. I can’t believe it. I told him last night he’d never leave Pitt Street once he got in there, but I didn’t
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