Skinner's Rules bs-1

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Can you give me the exact dates of these transactions?’

  ‘Of course.’ Needham rose from his chair and crossed to a four-drawe filing cabinet. He opened the second drawer from the top, looked inside and withdrew a folder. ‘Here we are. The account was opened by Mr Mortimer and Miss Jameson on June the twenty-first. The second deposit was made by Mr Mortimer on October the sixteenth.

  ‘I shouldn’t, but I’ll give you photocopies of these, and of the other account transactions for the last twelve months. Back in a few moments.’

  When the door closed behind the little man, Skinner whistled to himself. Twenty grand! A tasty fee; but for what?

  Needham reappeared a few moments later, and handed him a large brown envelope, sealed.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Needham. You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ He escorted Skinner to the door.

  55

  In the back of the police car, Skinner looked at the photocopied pages. Twenty thousand, deposited in joint names, in two tranches, after the London visits. Cash deposits, not cheques. Money laundering? A drugs pay-off? Any lawyers with criminal practices made some dubious contacts. But surely these two couldn’t have been bent. Not the Scots Law Times Couple of the Month.

  Yet there it was, and it had to be viewed with suspicion. Skinner knew that all advocates’ fees were collected by Faculty Services, which took a levy off the top for administrative expenses. Could Mike and Rachel have been cheating their own company?

  The searchers into files and effects were still only at the start of their painstaking tasks when Skinner called at the New Town apartments. Mackie had the tougher job, since Mortimer had been a stickler for detail. He was picking through the Amstrad disks when Skinner arrived.

  ‘How does it look, Brian?’

  ‘Green, boss. This bloody screen goes for your eyes. Apart from that it’s bleak. There was one personal file on this thing, full of letters to relatives, thank-you notes to hostesses, and a Christmas-card list ready for printing out on labels. None of the names look promising. The others were all business records. There are actually fewer files than there might have been. Some of the disks are almost empty. If he had a filing system, I haven’t figured it out.’

  ‘Okay. Get stuck into the paperwork with Mcllhenney when you’re finished with that. And keep a lookout for references to a joint project with Rachel, and a cash fee.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  Back in his office just before midday, Skinner called Kenny Duff. ‘I need some financial info on our friends, Kenny. Did either one have a private source of income? Gambling, for example.’

  There was a pause at the Charlotte Square end of the line. ‘I guess you’ve come across the joint account, and the nature of the payments. That came as a surprise to me too, when I found the account book. You understand that as executor I couldn’t volunteer that information to you?’

  ‘Sure, that’s all right. You’ve no clue as to the source of the money?’

  ‘None at all. It’s a problem for me, I don’t mind telling you. I’ve no way of telling whether it’s earned income, a gift or, as you suggest, a win on the pools. I just don’t know what to tell the Revenue, or even whether to tell them. As far as their general finances were concerned, both Mike and Rachel had good practices, and were comfortably off. Had they chosen a specialist area of civil law, rather than criminal, they’d have done even better, but neither one was short of a few bob. They were planning to sell Mike’s flat to help pay for the new house, and they’d have done well out of that deal too. All that makes twenty thousand in grubby fivers even more difficult to understand.’

  Skinner grunted. ‘Thanks Kenny. You’ve been no bloody help at all but thanks anyway.’

  56

  ‘Wait till you hear this!’ Quickly Skinner told Martin of the building society account, and the cash deposits which had followed the London visits.

  Martin’s breath hissed between his teeth. ‘Let’s see if we can tie it into this.’ He waved an A4 document. ‘It’s just this minute arrived from Telecom. I haven’t looked through it yet.’

  He laid the sheets on Skinner’s desk and walked round to look over his shoulder. The document was in two sections, one listing Mortimer’s calls, the other, those made by Rachel. Skinner handed one back to Martin.

  ‘You check that one. Look for London numbers, private listings and ex-directories. Let’s concentrate on the four weeks before Mortimer’s first trip to London. See if we get the same name on each list.’

  They studied the columns of numbers in silence for some minutes. When Martin spoke there was an edge of controlled excitement in his voice.

  ‘Try this, boss. On June the fourteenth, six days before Mortimer’s solo trip to London, Rachel made a twenty-three-minute call to an ex-directory number in London. The subscriber is named here as Fazal Mahmoud, address, Forty-nine, St David’s Avenue, Pimlico.’

  ‘Okay!’ Skinner’s tone echoed that of the younger man. ‘On June the seventeenth, Mortimer made a seventeen-minute call to the same man. Let’s take it forward.’

  Each searched his list in silence for several minutes more. When Skinner was finished he looked across at Martin, a question in his eyes.

  ‘Nothing else sir. No more calls to that number. How about you?’

  ‘Consistently. One a month, each lasting no more than five minutes. Then in October, three days before the second trip, a call lasting nineteen minutes and thirty-five seconds.’

  ‘So. Rachel is the original contact, then Mortimer makes the running, and collects the first slab of fivers. But on the second trip, Rachel goes too, so it couldn’t have been anything risky, or at least Mike couldn’t have thought so.’

  ‘Yes. I wonder what Fazal’s nationality is, or if his ... ’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ Martin cut in.

  ‘Fazal. Fuzzy. Rachel’s university pal told me that story about a serious boyfriend when she was a student. Some sort of Arab, she said. She never knew his real name, Rachel and the others just called him Fuzzy!’

  ‘A pound to a pinch of pig-shit that’s the man!’ Skinner’s voice rose.

  ‘Let’s see how good your predecessors were. Any Arab student in Edinburgh is quite likely to have wound up on Special Branch files. Come on. Let’s get along to your place and see if we can find your friend Fazal Mahmoud.’

  Special Branch duties include the maintenance of a discreet watch over those who might be regarded by the State as malign influences, or subver sives. Sometimes, this category extends to include all citizens of certain foreign countries.

  ‘What years should we cover, Andy?’ Skinner asked as Martin unlocked the room in which the back files were stored, then answered his own quesion. ‘Let’s try ‘79 to ’82 for openers, since Jameson was thirty-two, going on thirty-three.’

  Martin nodded agreement. He scanned the labelled drawers of a bank of grey steel filing cabinets lined against the wall facing the door. Choosing one, he opened it with a small brass key.

  ‘Let’s be precise, boss. I think Rachel would be nineteen or twenty when she was involved with this guy, so let’s look first at eighty and eighty-one.’

  The files were labeled neatly and listed first alphabetically, then in date order. Martin found the 1980 ‘M’ listings and scanned through them. He found no ‘Mahmoud’ file. He unlocked the next cabinet and found the 1981 ‘M’ series in the bottom drawer. He flicked through the names. ‘Could be, boss, could be!’ he called.

  He produced two creased yellow folders. ‘Mahmouds, both of these.’ He opened one, and read the top sheet of the papers inside. ‘Mahmoud, Achmed. Iranian; Exile, believed to be in some physical danger from the agents of the fundamentalists. No that’s not him.’ He opened the next folder.

  ‘You beauty!’

  He scanned the pages for a few seconds, then read aloud. “‘Mahmoud, Fazal, Syrian passport holder. Born Damascus 1956. Student of politics and economics Edinburgh University. Matriculated O
ctober 1980. Member of Middle-East Students Anti-Zionist League. Member of University Squash Club. Residence, Pollock Halls. Known Associates Ali Tarfaz, Iraqi (see separate file), Andrew Harvey, Scottish (See separate file), Marjorie Porteous, Scottish (Nothing known), Rachel Jameson, Scottish (See separate file).”

  ‘We’ve got one on Rachel!’

  Martin pulled open the second drawer of the cabinet. He searched quickly through the ‘H’ and ‘J’ listings and pulled out two files. Then he unlocked the next cabinet, found the ‘T’ series, and quickly located a third. He opened the Rachel folder and read aloud. “‘ Rachel Jameson. Born Edinburgh 1961. Educated St George’s School. Student of Law, Edinburgh University. Known associate of Fazal Mahmoud, Syrian. Known to have attended meetings of the Middle-East Students’ Anti-Zionist League. Not thought to be a member. Nothing else known.”’

  He opened another. “‘Andrew Harvey. Born Airdrie, Lanarkshire, 1960. Student of mathematics, Edinburgh University. Member of Middle-East Students Anti-Zionist League.” — I never knew Airdrie was in the Middle-East, boss - “Also member, Student Front for Ulster Independence, Anti-Nazi League, Campaign for the Legalisation of Recreational Substances, Scottish National Party, Independent Labour Party, Edinburgh University Football Club.” This guy’s a bloody groupie. Let’s look at Tarfaz.’ He opened the third folder.

  ‘“Ali Tarfaz. Iraqi passport holder. Born Baghdad, 1958. Student of politics and economics, Edinburgh University. President of Middle-Eastern Students Anti-Zionist League. Activities include organisation of demonstrations, fly-posting, etcetera. Surveillance reveals possible links with Iraqi intelligence officers in Europe.”’

  There was a photograph stapled to the inside of the folder. The man had a broad dark face. It was disfigured by a jagged, curving scar which ran round his left cheek to finish at the corner of his mouth. ‘Handsome geezer, is he not?’ said Martin.

  ‘There’s a later entry here, dated 1987. “Ali Tarfaz reported liquidated by Saddam after involvement in unsuccessful coup attempt.” Well, it looks like we can stop looking for him in this movie.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Skinner, ‘let’s concentrate on Mahmoud, and let’s see if we can trace Andrew Harvey, too. I suspect that’ll be a waste of time, but let’s eliminate him at least.’

  ‘How do we check out Fuzzy? Through my net in London?’

  ‘Absolutely not. You’d be bound to alert the Foreign Office, and I don’t want that bastard Allingham to have the faintest sniff of this. Leave that to me. I’ve got a couple of sources of my own.’

  57

  Back in his office, Skinner pulled open a drawer in his desk and took out a small blue book, divided into sections. He opened it at ‘IJ’.

  The listings were initials only, opposite numbers entered in a random code which only he knew. He picked up the secure telephone on his desk and keyed in a seven digit number.

  ‘Robbie? This is Bob S. I need a favour. Look, I know the House is in recess, but your research people in Walworth Road will be working this week won’t they? Good. I’d like someone to procure for me a list of all officially accredited personnel at the Syrian interest section of the Lebanese Embassy, with their ranks or designations. Don’t ask me why I need this, and I’ll owe you two or three in return ...

  ‘No. I can’t just ask the Foreign Office, for reasons which I can’t explain...

  ‘Obviously when you ask for this info it’s for your own use. Good. Thanks a million. Yes, today would be great. Tomorrow will do, though. Call me on my ex-directory number here, or at home tonight. I’ll give you an Edinburgh number.’

  He dictated Sarah’s telephone number.

  ‘You’ve heard too. Christ, there’s nowhere that the Edinburgh grapevine doesn’t reach, is there. Thank you very much, I’ll pass that on. Yes I do know how lucky I am. So long, Robbie.’

  58

  Like the House of Commons, Edinburgh University was on vacation, but its administration was working as usual. Henry Wills, the Registrar of the University, had never met Andrew Martin, but he had enjoyed a cordial relationship with Alec Smith, his predecessor. There had been occasions on which Smith had advised on political organisations within the student body. Equally, Smith’s job had often been made easier by Wills’ accommodating stance.

  Wills was effusive in his greeting. ‘Good morning, Chief Inspector Martin. I had heard of your appointment from Mr Smith, and I was expecting a visit eventually.

  ‘Forgive me for saying this, but you look very young for the job. I have known your three immediate predecessors, and not one was under forty when he was appointed. Bob Skinner and Jimmy Proud must have a high regard for your judgement.’

  Martin smiled. ‘I don’t know whether I’m lucky or lumbered. I always fancied this job, but I never realised how much there is to it.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. I imagine that our occasional worries are among the least of yours.’

  ‘From what Alec told me, the University won’t be a worry at all. One thing you might watch out for, though. We have information that the Trotskyite Front are planning something against student loans. They’ve been a bit of a back number lately, and they’re trying to make a come-back. We’ve had a tip that they’re lining up student support for an extended occupation of the offices here, at Heriot Watt, and at Napier. It’s due to start in the first week of the new term. Let me know if you need help to back up your own security. I’d rather they didn’t succeed, because we’d have to crack heads to get them out, and we don’t want it to get to that stage.’

  ‘Thank you indeed, Chief Inspector. I had heard no whisper of this. We have contingency arrangements to supplement our own security as necessary, with people from outside firms. Of course if they hit all three institutions at once, even that resource might be stretched. I may have to take you up on your offer. And of course, if there is anything I can do in return ... ’

  Martin smiled. ‘Well as a matter of fact ...’ Both men laughed. ‘I’m trying to trace a former student, from ten or twelve years back. He’s a mathematician, by the name of Andrew Harvey, birthplace Airdrie, Lanarkshire. I know your Graduates’ Association is pretty tenacious when it comes to keeping track of people, and I wondered if you could point me in the right direction.’

  Wills nodded. ‘Leave it with me. When did he graduate, do you think?’

  ‘Some time after 1981, I believe. It would be in character for him to have joined the Graduates’ Association. The bugger seems to have joined everything else while he was here!’

  Martin rose to leave. ‘I know the type,’ said Wills, following him towards the door.

  ‘One thing more, before you go, and this is important. There’s to be a major debate in the Union next term, on a Middle Eastern political motion. I’ve just heard that our pro-Palestinian lot have invited the new President of Syria to speak, as a representative of his bit of the PLO. Mind you, I don’t suppose he’ll be encouraged to come.’

  Martin was taken by surprise. ‘I hope not. But since the Gulf War, the Government has been keen to keep the Syrians on-side, so you never know.

  ‘Thanks for the tip. I’ll pass it on down South. There’s a bloke in the Foreign Office whose day I’d just love to ruin!’

  ‘Be my guest!’

  59

  Skinner was still in his office when his secure line rang at 6.35 p.m. He picked up the receiver and quoted the number, listening cautiously for the voice at the other end of the line.

  ‘Bob? Aye, it’s me. I’ve got that info you’re after. The only thing is that the Lebanese don’t publish a separate list of the people in the Syrian interest section. That’s because they’re all Syrians with Lebanese passports and they don’t want to single them out for special attention from the security services, or from the Israelis. So what I’ve got for you are the names of all the Embassy staff. If your man’s on it, you’ll spot him ... assuming that he’s using his real name, that is.’

  The voice on the other end of the line read out a
list of names slowly and deliberately, although he knew that Skinner would be waiting for one name rather than noting them all down.

  ‘Fazal Mahmoud, cultural attaché,’ came towards the end. Skinner made no sound of recognition, allowing the caller to complete the list. ‘That’s it. Whoever this lad is, he must be a bit dodgy to be taking up the time of an Assistant Chief Constable, not to mention using up his favour bank!’

  Skinner spoke for the first time since picking up the telephone. ‘Don’t worry, Robbie, I’ll make it up. That’s been helpful.’

  ‘In that case,’ said the voice on the line, ‘I’ve got a bonus for you. Some of the Walworth Road researchers have contacts that are better informed than your secret police down there. The guy who gave me that list told me that the Embassy’s a bit tense these days, because one of their blokes has disappeared. Diplomats vanish off the face of the earth from time to time, but usually it’s because they’ve upset someone at home. Not this time apparently. One of the alleged Lebanese is missing without trace, and without his diplomatic passport, and no one in the Embassy has a clue where he is.’

  ‘Which one?’ Skinner’s heart pounded as he waited for the answer.

  ‘Fazal Mahmoud, the cultural attaché.’

  Skinner did not respond in any way. When he spoke again it was to change the subject.

  ‘Robbie, one more thing. Would you throw the name Ali Tarfaz at your Middle-East watchers, particularly any of them whose student days cover the late seventies and into the eighties, in Edinburgh. Nationality Iraqi. There’s one other thing I can tell you about him, although just for fun, I’d like you to keep it to yourself.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  60

  ‘Come along here, Andy, please.’ Martin too was working late. He was in Skinner’s office two minutes after his call.

  ‘Hello, boss, you been making progress? I won’t get word on Harvey till tomorrow, but I’ve got some other news that might make your hair stand on end.’