Capital Offence

Chapter 34

Friday 21st June

5 days left

Donald eased the Prime Minister’s official car along the road past Duddingston Loch. It was an adapted Jaguar with bullet-proof windows and additional body armour. The engine had been upgraded to cope with the additional weight, and the car was still capable of startling performance if required.

Past the back of the University’s Pollock Halls of Residence Donald and the PM encountered a group of protesters, holding aloft placards.

‘STOP THIS BARBARITY!’

‘NO TO STATE EXECUTION!’

‘STATE MURDERERS!’

‘TWO WRONGS DON’T MAKE A RIGHT.’

For a moment it looked as if the crowd would surge forward on to the road, but there was already a substantial police presence, and the line of officers held. Donald recognised a face among the students and middle class academics. There to one side, earnestly clutching a placard saying ‘DON’T KILL THE PIGS!’ was Gibbo Woodhorn. Sometimes his sense of humour was too twisted for his own good.

Gibbo winked towards them as Donald eased the powerful car past the crowd, then as if by accident stepped in to the path of a pale faced youth with lank mousy dreadlocks as he attempted to break free of the police cordon. Donald spoke over his shoulder to Jamieson Maclean, who sat trying not to look uneasy in the spacious back seat. “We’ll have to start using other roads. This is beyond a joke.”

Jamie nodded to the reflection of Donald’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.

Once inside the Parliament building Jamie made his way through to one of his inner meeting-rooms. He was due to meet his press advisers for that morning’s scheduled briefing. The atmosphere in the room felt tense. Fraser Howe looked glumly down at his pad, while Cammy Russell wore a fixed expression of encouragement. Quentin Ricco had placed his laptop in front of his chosen seat, but had then moved back over to the window again where he stood, chewing on the corner of a fingernail, watching developments. The group of protesters was making its way along the perimeter of the Park, below the towering cliffs of Salisbury Crags, towards the front of the Parliament.

Jamieson Maclean took his seat, and indicated to Ricco that he should do the same. Before he did, he nodded to the scenes outside. Jamie spoke first.

“We knew this would happen. You don’t think I’m going to lose my nerve do you?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“What’s that meant to mean?”

The temperature of the meeting dropped. Quentin Ricco took his place at the table. Before he could reply, Fraser Howe cleared his throat.

“With respect, PM, we don’t believe the decision on clemency can be postponed any longer.”

“Who’s we?”

“Any of us here in this room.”

Jamieson Maclean looked around at the serious faces. Even Cammy Russell had abandoned his attempts to look cheerful. Howe rubbed his chins with a faint rasping sound, and continued.

“The execution is due to take place in five days’ time. The plea for clemency has been with us now for over three weeks.”

“It was essential that every possible avenue of appeal be fully tested.”

Ricco spoke up.

“I’m afraid, PM, that this is starting to look like indecision.”

He lifted a bundle of newspapers from his briefcase and spread them on the desk. None of them supported the Prime Minister. Some were against the whole principle of capital punishment. But significantly, even those in favour of a new robust approach to law and order were accusing the Government and Jamie in particular of brinkmanship. One summed up the tone of the rest: “Execution approaches as PM dithers.” A front page cartoon showed the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse charging towards the PM and a slumped blindfold figure bound to a chair, as the Prime Minister turned this way and that, frozen, rabbit-like, in their path.