Last Resort

Copyright © 2015 Quintin Jardine

The right of Quintin Jardine to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in this Ebook edition in 2015 by
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire

Jacket photograph © Joanna Jankowska/Arcangel Images

eISBN: 978 1 4722 0565 0

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About Quintin Jardine

Quintin Jardine was born once upon a time in the West: of Scotland rather than America, but still he grew to manhood as a massive Sergio Leone fan. On the way there he was educated, against his will, in Glasgow, where he ditched a token attempt to study law for more interesting careers in journalism, government propaganda, and political spin-doctoring. After a close call with the Brighton Bomb in 1984, he moved into the even riskier world of media relations consultancy, before realising that all along he had been training to become a crime writer.

Now, more than forty published novels later, he never looks back. Along the way he has created/acquired an extended family in Scotland and Spain. Everything he does is for them.

He can be tracked down through his website
www.quintinjardine.com
.

Praise for Quintin Jardine

‘A triumph. I am first in the queue for the next one’
Scotland on Sunday

‘The perfect mix for a highly charged, fast-moving crime thriller’
Glasgow Herald

‘[Quintin Jardine] sells more crime fiction in Scotland than John Grisham and people queue around the block to buy his latest book’
The Australian

‘There is a whole world here, the tense narratives all come to the boil at the same time in a spectacular climax’
Shots
magazine

‘Engrossing, believable characters . . . captures Edinburgh beautifully . . . It all adds up to a very good read’
Edinburgh Evening News

By Quintin Jardine and available from Headline

Bob Skinner series:

Skinner’s Rules

Skinner’s Festival

Skinner’s Trail

Skinner’s Round

Skinner’s Ordeal

Skinner’s Mission

Skinner’s Ghosts

Murmuring the Judges

Gallery Whispers

Thursday Legends

Autographs in the Rain

Head Shot

Fallen Gods

Stay of Execution

Lethal Intent

Dead and Buried

Death’s Door

Aftershock

Fatal Last Words

A Rush of Blood

Grievous Angel

Funeral Note

Pray for the Dying

Hour of Darkness

Last Resort

Primavera Blackstone series:

Inhuman Remains

Blood Red

As Easy As Murder

Deadly Business

As Serious as Death

Oz Blackstone series:

Blackstone’s Pursuits

A Coffin for Two

Wearing Purple

Screen Savers

On Honeymoon with Death

Poisoned Cherries

Unnatural Justice

Alarm Call

For the Death of Me

The Loner

Mathew’s Tale

About the Book

LAST RESORT is the twenty-fifth novel in Quintin Jardine’s ever-popular Bob Skinner series, and sees the Edinburgh cop back as never before.

After thirty years of service, former Chief Constable Bob Skinner faces the possible end of his police career, at its pinnacle.

A quiet trip to Catalunya to contemplate his future soon takes on a different flavour when Skinner is approached by an old friend, media owner Xavier Aislado, with an unusual request. One of his business’s brightest talents, Hector Sureda Roca, has vanished without trace. Now it’s up to Skinner to track him down.

But as he conducts his search it soon becomes clear that another manhunt is also in progress, and that he himself is the target.

While his daughter Alex fights that battle on the home front, his search for Sureda takes one sinister turn after another, until he is faced with the toughest question of all. Is natural justice sometimes the only answer?

This one’s for Martin Fletcher, who keeps Skinner honest. Cheers, mate.

One

W
hen the call came, the one that put me back in place as a functioning human being, I was, not to put too fine a point on it, really screwed up inside my head.

I had begun a year that seemed to be full of promise, but if I’d been granted foresight of what most of those promises actually were, I’d probably have stayed in bed on the first of January and waited out the next twelve months.

I’d have been on my own, though; even then I should have been able to spot the fault lines in my unstable marriage to Aileen de Marco.

When our relationship became public knowledge, a smart-arse broadsheet journalist wrote a flowery piece about the attraction of unlike poles, the policeman and the politician, the authoritarian (me) and the libertarian (her), and topped the allegorical nonsense off by labelling us ‘Scotland’s most magnetic couple’.

I fell for some of that for a while, until the day when I realised that it was the diametric opposite of the truth. Aileen and I were both leaders in our chosen professions and we were both (although I’d have denied it) ambitious. However, she was as authoritarian as me, and neither of us had any trace of compromise in our nature.

When we found ourselves on a collision course over the future of the Scottish police service, and its implications for my personal position, with Aileen determined to ensure that her side of the argument came out on top, and having the power to make that happen . . . well, to complete that journo’s analogy, the like poles that, in reality, we had been all along, repelled each other, as they always do.

Everything fell apart after that, very quickly indeed; not only my marriage, but my job, my career, my vision of the future; they were all cut from under me.

The one saving grace . . . and that’s something of a pun, given her family name . . . was the return of Sarah, the wife I should never have left in the first place, and the cautious rebuilding of our relationship. She and I have only two things in common: we love each other and we love our kids. She’s good for me and I know now that I was lost in the time we were apart.

When disaster followed disaster in my life, and everything reached its grim conclusion, it was only Sarah who kept me on the rails. I’d have sat brooding indefinitely in the house, over the offer of an unspecified role at an unspecified rank, or giving my lawyer a hard time as he tried to sort out the alternative, the terms of my departure from the police service. Indeed that’s what I did for a few weeks until she had enough of it.

‘Bob,’ she said, plucking what would have been my fourth Corona of that Saturday evening if she’d let me uncap the bottle, ‘this will not do. I know how shitty the last few months have been, but not even you can undo an Act of Parliament.

‘I know you’re having difficulty with the fact that you’re not Chief Constable Skinner any more, but it is not the worst thing that’s ever happened.

‘You’ve given thirty years of public service. Now it’s somebody else’s turn to catch the bad guys, to clear up after the pubs close, and to keep the traffic flowing smoothly, and those people are more than capable, since your generation has trained most of them. There was a police force before you and there will still be one without you, if you decide to go completely. What you have to work out is what you might be without it.’

I felt the corners of my mouth turn down as I watched her put the beer back in the fridge. ‘I might be nothing,’ I countered, mournfully. ‘Being a policeman might be the only shot I had in my locker.’

‘Rubbish!’ she laughed. ‘You’ve already been offered three non-executive directorships.’

‘I don’t do non-executive anything, love. You know that.’

‘Then you could write.’

‘About what?’

‘Your career.’

‘I’d have to leave too much out. A lot of my files are closed.’

‘You could try fiction,’ she suggested. ‘You could jump on the Tartan Noir bandwagon.’

‘Christ,’ I complained, ‘can’t we find a word in our own language to describe a Scottish institution, rather than nicking one from the bloody French?

‘If I did that, love,’ I pointed out, ‘. . . although I doubt that I have the talent . . . everyone would be convinced that it was all Skinner’s Casebook thinly disguised. There could be all sorts of legal problems . . . and besides, I don’t have the patience.’

‘Then you could teach.’ She pointed an authoritative figure at me. ‘I’ll bet that if you put the word out that you fancied a university chair, you’d have half a dozen offers.’

‘It’s easy for you to say that, my dear,’ I countered. ‘You’re a consultant forensic pathologist; you can do your job and teach it at the same time. Mine wasn’t like that. What would my lectures be about? Police procedure? Criminal investigation?

‘Sure I could do that stuff, but what I couldn’t teach, probably couldn’t even explain, is the instinct that separates an efficient officer from an exceptional one; the reason why one patrol officer in twenty will know when it’s time to kick a door in, then finds a sick old person or an abused child behind it, or why only a single detective in a squad might be able to look at all the known facts of a case, understand logically what must be hiding behind them, and then back his own judgement. I wouldn’t be interested in turning out clone cops, only risk-takers.’

She smiled, challenging. ‘Well?’

‘There would be no market for them. Risk only works when it’s rewarded.’

‘It worked for you.’

‘God knows how.’ I heard myself chuckle. ‘When I think of some of the chances I took . . .’

‘Then take another.’

‘How?’

She took a few moments to frame her reply. ‘Get the hell out of here for a while. The longer you sit around here sulking, the likelier it is that you’ll wind up as a middle-aged house husband with a shrinking golf handicap and an expanding waistline.

‘Already you’re drinking more beer than you should, and your coffee addiction’s come back. Is that what you want from the rest of your life?’

‘Probably not,’ I conceded, ‘although I like the bit about the golf handicap.’

‘You can play golf anywhere, and you need to do it somewhere else for a while. It’s less than a month to Christmas; take yourself off to the Spanish house for some of that time. You’ll be able to look at the future more objectively out there.’

‘I’m needed here,’ I protested. ‘My kids need me . . . all of them.’

‘They can do without you for a couple of weeks . . . they’ve had to in the past. Go away, Bob, and look forward, not back.

‘You’re in a great position. With the pension you’ll have kicking in if you decide to leave the force, you’ll be financially fireproof for life. The world’s the shellfish of your choice, since I know you don’t like oysters. Go: work it out.’