Pray for the Dying (12 page)

Eighteen

‘
A
re we all set for tomorrow, Alf?’

‘Yes, but I’ve brought it forward to eleven thirty. The phone’s never stopped ringing all day, and the place is going to be packed out. If you want to do follow-up interviews and get them on the midday news we’ll need to start a bit earlier than noon.’

‘Agreed,’ Aileen said. ‘And the announcement: do they have that ready?’

‘Yes,’ the party CEO replied. ‘I’ve just sent you a draft by email. If you clear it, I can tell the policy staff to go home for the night.’

‘I’ll do that right now.’

‘Thanks. I must go now, Aileen. For some reason the switchboard’s just lit up like a Christmas tree.’

She cradled the phone and turned to Joey Morocco, who was removing silver boxes from a brown paper bag. She smiled. ‘You must do this a lot,’ she remarked. ‘I heard you at the front door; you were on first-name terms with the delivery boy. “Thank you, Wen-Chong.” I take it that means we’re having Chinese.’

‘I see that being married to a detective’s rubbed off on you,’ he said. ‘Sure, first-name terms with him, with Jeev from the Asian up in Gibson Street, with Kemal from the kebab shop and with Jocky.’

‘Jocky? Who the hell’s he?’

‘Pizza. That’s the Italians for you; much more interbred with the indigenous population.’

She looked over his shoulder. ‘What have we got?’

‘Chicken, brack bean sauce,’ he replied, mimicking a Chinese accent, ‘plawn sweet and sowah, clispy duck and pancakes, and lice; flied of course.’

‘Sounds great. I just need five minutes on my laptop and I’ll be ready.’

She wakened her computer from the sleep state in which she had left it earlier in the evening, and searched her email inbox. It was full of messages from friends, anxious, she guessed, for news of her safety, but Old’s was near the top and she found it with ease.

She opened the attachment, which was headed, ‘Draft Statement: Unified Police Force’, scanned it quickly, made a few changes to bring it into her delivery style, then sent it back with a covering note that read, ‘Final version clear for use.’

She had just clicked the ‘send’ button when a tone advised her that another message had hit the inbox, once again from Alf Old. Almost simultaneously, her mobile rang, and the screen showed that he was calling. She made a choice; the phone won.

‘Aileen.’ Even although he had only said her name, the chief executive, famed for his calmness, sounded rattled. ‘I’ve just sent you an email.’

‘I know, it just arrived. I haven’t opened it yet.’

‘Then you’d better do so.’

Not only rattled, she realised; he was angry also.

She opened the message. There was no text, only an attachment, headed ‘P1’, in PDF form. She clicked on it and an image appeared, as quickly as her ageing laptop would allow.

It was a newspaper front page, with the masthead of the
Daily News
, and beneath it a headline. ‘Road to Morocco: married Labour leader goes to ground.’ Most of it was taken up by a photograph, taken from a distance with a long lens, but the face was all too clearly hers, looking out of Joey Morocco’s bedroom window, with a curtain held across her, but not far enough to cover her right breast, which the newspaper had chosen to cover with a black rectangle.

‘Fuck!’ she screamed.

‘Exactly!’ Old barked. ‘What the hell were you thinking about, Aileen?’

‘It’s not what you think,’ she protested.

‘Then what the hell else is it? Anyway it doesn’t matter what I think, it’s what the readers of the
Daily News
think, them and the readers of every other paper that the photographer sells it on to, once they’ve had their exclusive. They’ve already given it to BBC, Sky and ITN, for use after ten, to sell even more papers tomorrow morning.’

‘Is it on the streets yet? Can we stop them?’

‘It will be any minute now, and no we can’t. We could go to the Court of Session and ask for an interdict preventing further publication. We might get it, we might not, probably not. Anyway, the damage is done.’

Her anger had risen up to match his. ‘But how did they get it?’ she asked. ‘How did they know I was here?’

‘They didn’t. I spoke to the editor of the Scottish version; he’s a mate and he was good enough to call me, and to send the page across. He said it was taken by a freelance photographer, a paparazzo, who stakes out Joey Morocco’s place periodically, just in case.

‘She saw a car parked across his driveway, with two guys in it who had Special Branch written all over them . . . her words . . . so she found a vantage point out of their sight and hung around, just in case. She got lucky; saw a face at the window and a bit more, snapped off as many shots as she could, then legged it.

‘It was only when she downloaded the photos on to her laptop in her car that she realised how lucky she was. She got straight on to the
News
. That’s her best payer, apparently.’

‘Bastards!’ she hissed, then chuckled, taking herself by surprise. ‘It’s the wee black sticker I really hate. It’s suggesting that my tits are too misshapen for a family newspaper: that they might put folk off their breakfast.’

‘Then cheer up,’ Old growled. ‘There’s another one inside, on page three, appropriately enough, with you looking over your shoulder, as if to make it crystal clear that there is somebody else in the room with you. There’s a lot more of you on show there, and they haven’t covered that up.’

‘Who wrote the story?’

‘Marguerite Hatton. She’s on their political staff. They flew her up from London overnight.’

‘That’s the bitch that gave Bob trouble earlier on at his press conference. She’ll rub his nose in it now.’

‘Or he will rub yours.’

‘I couldn’t care less about him. Why do you think I’m at Joey’s?’ As she spoke, she became aware of a figure in the doorway, holding a plate in each hand. ‘I’ve got some apologising to do to him.’

‘Well, do it on the way to the emergency exit. You have to get out of there, for a fucking army’s going to land on his doorstep as soon as the telly news breaks. Get your bodyguards to pull right up to his door, jump in their car and have them get you the hell out of there.’

‘To where, though?’ Joey had moved in behind her and was studying the image on the laptop. ‘It’ll be just as bad at my place.’

‘To Gullane?’ Old suggested. ‘Give yourself time to come up with a cover story? Maybe even do a happy families shot tomorrow.’

‘Not a fucking chance. I tell you, we’re history. Anyway, I’m going to be in Glasgow tomorrow.’

‘Eh?’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re not going ahead with the press conference, are you?’

She gasped. ‘Of course, man. We’ll never have a bigger crowd. I will not back down from this. It’s not going to kill me, any more than that guy did last night, so it can only make me stronger.’

‘Then go to my place. Nobody will think to look there. I’ll call Justine and tell her you’re coming.’

Nineteen

‘She’s done what?’ Sarah looked at him, astonished. ‘Let herself be photographed in a lover’s bedroom the morning after she’s come within an inch of her life?’

‘That’s what they’re going to say,’ Bob acknowledged.

‘She will argue, of course, that Morocco’s an old family friend and that his girlfriend was there too.’

‘I don’t think so,’ he replied. ‘She won’t lie her way out of it; too big a downside if she’s caught, as many a politician’s found out to their cost. She’ll front it up; I know her.’

‘And blacken your name in the process?’

He shook his head. ‘She’ll have a tough time doing that. She doesn’t realise it but I have more friends in the media than she has. Speaking of whom, I expect that some of them will be calling me in the next hour or so, on my mobile and at Gullane. I think it would be best if I go home, so that I’m there to answer them.’

‘Aww!’ she moaned. ‘I was looking forward to you staying.’

‘Me too, but if I do, there’s an outside chance that someone might doorstep me here in the morning. I don’t want you and the kids caught up in this, in any way.’

She stood with him as he rose to leave, picking up his jacket from the back of the sofa. ‘How do you feel about this?’ she asked. ‘Her being all over the tabloids.’

‘I’ve had some of that myself in my career,’ he answered, ‘and I didn’t like it. Am I embarrassed by it? Not a bit. People may talk about me behind my back, but none will to my face, so fuck ’em. Am I angry? No, because I don’t have a right to be. It could have been me looking out of your bedroom window and all over the papers in the morning.’

‘Are you sorry for her?’ she murmured.

‘Only if he’s a lousy fuck, and not worth it. She will win out of this. I don’t know how, but she will.’

She walked him to the door and hugged him there, looking up into his eyes. ‘So what do we do?’

‘Tomorrow we go to work, each of us, and Trish takes care of the kids as usual. I’m going to be as busy as the Devil’s apprentice all this week, so we’ll see each other when we can. With a bit of luck we’ll be able to keep the weekend free.’

She kissed him. ‘That’s a plan,’ she said. ‘Now be on with your way and answer those phone calls.’

The first came, on his work mobile . . . he had switched his personal phone off as he left Sarah’s . . . as he was turning on to the Edinburgh bypass. He had been expecting it.

‘Bob.’ The voice that filled the car through its speaker system was no longer aggressive, as it had been the last time he had heard it, but there was nothing fearful or tentative about it. ‘I have something to tell you.’

‘No, you don’t,’ he replied, speaking louder than usual, to allow for road noise.

‘You’ve heard, then.’

‘Of course I have. The editor of the
News
called my people. I don’t know him but he said that he’d given you advance warning and was offering me the same courtesy. Of course, he also asked me for a comment.’

‘And did you give him one?’

Skinner laughed. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that question, in a different context? Not that I need to; from what I’ve been told the answer’s pretty fucking obvious. Oops, sorry, unfortunate choice of word. Bet you’re glad now I persuaded you to spend that time in the gym.’

‘Bob!’ she snapped. ‘Did you give the man a quote?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ he retorted. ‘Of course I didn’t. Nor will I to anyone else, and I’m bloody sure quite a few people will be asking over the next couple of hours. What about you?’

‘Nothing so far; they don’t know where I am now. But I’m seeing the press tomorrow morning.’

‘How about Joey? What’s he going to be saying?’

‘That I’m an old friend and that he offered me a place where I could recover from my ordeal in private.’

‘Is he going to refer to me?’

‘What would he say about you?’

‘Not about me: to me. Some people might expect him to say “Sorry”. That’s the big media word these days, isn’t it? People under the spotlight all have to utter the “S” word, whether they are or not.’

‘Do you expect that?’

‘Hell no. I’m sorry for him, if anything. He didn’t bargain for all this crap.’

‘Well,’ she said, beginning to sound exasperated, as if she thought he was playing with her, as he was to a degree, ‘what are you going to say?’

‘Tonight, nothing. Not a fucking word, about you or against you, or anything else. What time’s your press briefing tomorrow?’

‘Eleven thirty.’

‘In that case,’ he declared, ‘at ten o’clock, we’re going to issue a joint statement through Mitchell Laidlaw, my lawyer at Curle Anthony Jarvis. It will say something along these lines: on Thursday . . . or whenever, you pick the day . . . you and I agreed to separate permanently because of profound and irreconcilable differences that have developed between us. You draft it, let me see it and we’ll take it from there. You okay with that?’

‘Mmm.’ The car was silent, for long enough to make him wonder if the connection had been lost.

‘Aileen?’ he exclaimed into the darkness.

‘I’m still here,’ she replied. ‘Thinking, that’s all. I’m not sure I want it going out through your daughter’s law firm.’

‘Listen,’ he retorted. ‘You don’t have a regular bloody lawyer that I know of. I can hardly use the Strathclyde Police press office for this, and I’ll be damned if I’ll have the end of my marriage announced by the Labour Party. Alex will have no sight of the statement, I promise.’

She drew in a deep breath, loudly enough for him to hear it clearly. ‘Okay,’ she agreed. ‘What else do you want to put in it?’

‘The minimum.’

‘Should I say that we intend to divorce?’

‘I include that among the minimum. Don’t you? If you want you can say that we’ll do it when we’ve completed the legal period of separation. Unless you want to marry Joey straight away, that is.’

‘Don’t be funny.’

‘Sorry. How’s the guy taking it anyway?’

‘He’s been lovely,’ she said.

‘I’m assuming that you and he had been over the course in the past. Yes?’

‘For God’s sake!’ Aileen protested. ‘Do you think he was a quick pick-up?’

‘Not at all; hence the assumption. What else is he likely to say?’

‘Nothing beyond what I told you. And he’s going to leave for America tomorrow, a few days earlier than planned.’

‘He probably thinks that’s very wise on his part. I mean, hanging around in a city after being caught banging the chief constable’s wife, all sorts of misfortunes might come your way. But tell him not to worry, if he is worrying, that is.’

‘I will. And I’ll tell him as well that he’s probably done you a favour.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ he asked.

‘Isn’t it obvious? When you show up somewhere with another lady on your arm, everybody’s going to say, “Aw, is that no’ nice, after what the poor man went through.” I could even hazard a guess as to who she might be.’

‘Don’t bother yourself, Aileen. You just get on with your brilliant career. I wish you every success.’

‘And you get on with yours, my dear. And you remember what I said. Now you’re wedged in the Stratchlyde chief’s chair, you’ll find it impossible to leave. And when the new single force is created, and your case against it has been knocked back, as you know will happen, you’ll want that job too, because you won’t be able to help yourself. The one and only thing that you and I have in common, my dear, is this: we are both driven by ambition.’

‘You could not be more wrong. I have only one motivation.’

‘Oh aye,’ she said, mockery in her voice. ‘And what’s that?’

‘Love.’ He continued, cutting off her gasp of derision. ‘Send me your draft. I’ll be home in fifteen minutes.’ He ended the call.

He thought about his final exchange with Aileen for the rest of the journey to Gullane. Never before had he encapsulated his driving forces in one word, but he realised that it was entirely appropriate. He loved his children, all of them with equal intensity, and he loved Sarah. And he loved his job as well, because it was his vocation, and it enabled him to be the best he could be for all of them.

He had never loved Aileen. He realised that. He had been attracted to a personality as powerful as his own, but had discovered that they could not co-exist in the same union. Eventually each had sought to dominate the other and the marriage had broken apart. This was not to say that Aileen was incapable of love herself. She had her tender side, but she would always be a leader, never a follower, and her soulmate, if he existed, would have to know that and be compliant.

The draft joint announcement was waiting for him as an email attachment when he reached home and turned on the computer in his small office. He read through it, found it factual and unemotional, and forwarded it, unamended, in a message to Mitchell Laidlaw asking him to issue it to the media at 10 a.m. next morning through his firm’s PR company. He copied the mail to Aileen, then sent Laidlaw a text message from his personal mobile advising him that it was on its way.

He had expected no reply until the morning, but within a minute, his phone rang.

‘Bob,’ Mitch Laidlaw exclaimed. ‘What a shocker. This is completely out of the blue. This will shake a few people.’

‘Clearly you haven’t seen the telly news tonight. From what I’m told it has already.’

‘No, I missed that. We were watching a film. Why, has it leaked?’

‘Not in the way you mean, but . . . go online and look at the
Daily News
website, you may find that explains a lot.’

‘Intriguing, but I will. There’s no chance of any . . .’

‘No, chum; not a prayer. We both know what we want to say and we’re not backing off from it. When your PR people put it out, they can add that I’m making no further comment. What Aileen chooses to do is up to her.’

‘What about the legal side of it?’ the solicitor asked.

‘We haven’t discussed that. Look after my kids’ interests if it becomes necessary; that’s all the instruction I’ll give you at this stage.’

‘I will do. The fact is, you’re pretty much divorce-proofed after the last time.’

‘Ouch!’ Skinner winced. ‘You make me sound like a recidivist.’

‘Two’s above average in our community, Bob.’

He laughed. ‘I know, but I’m coming round to the view that the first one doesn’t count.’

‘Oh yes? What does that mean?’

‘Nothing; just idle banter. Now, go on with you.’ As he spoke his landline rang out, on his desk. He peered at the caller display. ‘Incoming from my daughter,’ he said. ‘I suspect she has seen the TV news.’

He killed the mobile call and picked up the other. ‘Yes, Alex.’

‘Pops,’ his elder daughter exclaimed in his ear, ‘what the hell is this about Aileen and tomorrow’s press? I’ve just had a call from Andy. He’s been watching . . .’

‘I know. Kid, go easy on her; it wasn’t her fault.’

‘Wasn’t her . . .’

‘Alexis,’ he said, using her Sunday name for added emphasis. ‘Stop and think back, not very far back, to a time when someone was out to make trouble for me, and you left your bedroom curtains open. You with me?’

‘Yes, Pops,’ she murmured. ‘I suppose I live in a glass house.’

‘We all do,’ he replied. ‘Fortunately, you’ve minimised the chances of a repeat by moving to a penthouse.’

‘I know. I suppose I’m only angry because of the effect her behaviour might have on you.’

‘Well, don’t be. While she was with Morocco, whose bed do you think I was sleeping in? Where did I go on Saturday, when I got free of the concert hall and Glasgow? Where did you and Andy see me?’

‘At . . .’ she paused. ‘You and Sarah? You’re back together?’

‘Let’s just say we’ve got a hell of a lot in common, with three kids and a lot of personal mileage.’

‘Plus the fact that she loves you,’ his daughter pointed out, ‘and that’s the main reason why she came back from America and took the job at the university.’

‘Plus the fact that I love her,’ he conceded. ‘But the key word, darling, is “discreet”. Aileen will find out eventually, and the last thing I want is for her to get vindictive. So neither I, nor any member of my family or circle of friends, is going to say a single hard word about her. She had every right to be with Morocco, with or without the horror at the concert hall, but as it happens the guy was there for her when she chose to go to him. So be cool, promise me.’

‘I promise. What are you going to do?’

‘We, that’s Aileen and me, have done it already through Mitch, but you’re not to be involved. Don’t talk to anyone, not even people within the firm. Understood?’

‘Yes.’

He heard a sound, indicating that there was a call waiting. ‘On you go now,’ he said. ‘I’m in for a busy hour or so.’

‘Pops,’ she sighed. ‘Don’t be so Goddamned conscientious; do what anyone else would to and unplug the phone from the socket.’

‘Is that your legal advice?’ he chuckled.

‘No, it’s pure Alex, and I’m not advising, I’m ordering. Just bloody do it.’

‘Yes, boss,’ he replied, then, not for the first time in his life, did as she had told him.