Last Resort by Quintin Jardine Page A

that straight. I didn’t and when you called me back, it’ll have wiped it out.’
    ‘Pity . . . although the chances are he used a public phone, as he did yesterday. If he contacts you again . . .’
    ‘Do you think he will?’
    ‘If he really does want to talk to you, there’s every chance. If he does, I want you to agree to it . . . but,’ I added, heavily, ‘only in person, not over the phone. Make an arrangement, let me know straightaway and I’ll be there too. What you said earlier was true; he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.’
    ‘What can you do to him?’ she asked, with a trace of scorn.
    ‘I’m a lawyer, Mia. I can rip his balls off too, but I can do it through the court, and through his wallet.’
    She laughed at that notion, and our discussion ended more calmly than it had begun.
    An hour later I was showered, breakfasted and in my car, heading for Polmont Young Offenders’ Institution, where the Scottish government locks up seriously bad boys under the age of twenty-one. They don’t call it a prison, but it is; I’d been there on a few occasions as Ignacio’s lawyer while he was on remand, and once after he’d been sentenced. I’d never been to a prison before; I know already that it’s the one part of my new career that I am not going to like.
    I was expected; I’d prepared the way by phoning the Governor (yes, they still use that archaic title) and asking for an urgent meeting on behalf of my client, Ignacio Centelleos.
    His secretary had begun by offering me ten minutes at ten o’clock next morning.
    ‘Bring that forward by twenty-four hours, and you’ll meet my concept of urgency,’ I told her. ‘It’s a matter of personal security.’
    People in my former professional world did not sigh and say, ‘Hmph!’ but she did, followed by a very grudging, ‘Hold on.’
    I did, until she came back on line, with another sigh, and said, ‘Very well, Mr Kemp will see you, but for five minutes, maximum, that’s all, Miss . . . er?’
    ‘Skinner; Alexis Skinner. Ms.’
    I took the West Approach Road out of Edinburgh rather than risk being caught in traffic on its tedious bypass, and reached Newbridge and the motorway with time in hand to make my appointment without putting my foot down too hard. Before police unification, speed enforcement used to vary from force to force, but since my dear Andy has been in charge of the whole bloody country, it’s uniformly rigorous. Given our history, any speeding tickets I get would be irrevocable for me and potentially embarrassing for him.
    Polmont Young Offenders’ Institution has been part of the Scottish prison system for over a hundred years, and some of it was in use before that as a private school; nevertheless it presents a modern face to visitors.
    I left my eco-friendly hybrid sports car in the visitors’ car park, and went through security, where a couple of the female staff recognised me from previous visits. They’d been told to expect me, and to escort me straight to the Governor’s office.
    I’d never met Christopher Kemp before, but my father had mentioned him on a few occasions, their paths having crossed when he was Governor of Saughton Prison in Edinburgh.
    He didn’t stand up when his po-faced secretary showed me into his room. His considerable bulk stayed firmly lodged in his big executive swivel rocker, behind his big desk, as he pointed at a straight-backed chair on the other side.
    ‘Have a seat,’ he began, raising a heavy eyebrow, ‘and tell me what’s so bloody urgent.’ Then he leaned back, giving me an appraising look as I set myself down.
    ‘No,’ he exclaimed, ‘before you do that, answer me one question. Alexis Skinner: any relation to Bob Skinner?’
    I gazed back at him, without blinking, and I’m sure without the hint of a smile, for by that time I was feeling bloody angry.
    ‘I’m his daughter,’ I replied, just as he broke eye contact.
    ‘I thought so,’ he grunted.