'Uncle Bob, Mr Gilbert said that the news would show you when this tape was made and that I'm all right. But he never said what would be on it. What did the lady mean about my mummy? My mummy's al right, isn't she? You wouldn't let anything happen to her, Uncle Bob, would you!' It was not a question, rather a cry for reassurance - a cry for a denial of the horror that the boy had just heard on the radio, clearly for the first time.
He broke off, in a crying and whimpering sound which ended after a few seconds in a loud sniff. 'Mr Gilbert says I've to tell you, Uncle Bob, that he has one more thing stil to do, then he'll be ready to tell you what this is about. That's what he said. And he says he'l be in touch again, soon.' There was a click, and the tape went dead.
Skinner, who had been staring at the tape deck as if the child was actual y inside it, turned back to Pamela. Her hands were to her mouth, and there were tears shining in her eyes. 'How awful,' she cried. 'For the poor wee boy to find out like that about his mother being dead. You just can't imagine cruelty like that.'
'You can when you've seen it as often as I have,' Bob told her.
'But I doubt if the guy knew that would happen. We didn't release the photofit until eleven. Mr Gilbert would have no way of knowing that it would be the lead item on the eleven thirty news. Mind you, I don't think his conscience would be pricked by the way it turned out.'
'I knew you were close to Mark,' said Pamela, 'but I never knew you were on Uncle Bob terms.'
'I made a point of seeing him a lot after the accident, then later, I would look in to say hello sometimes on a Friday after work, when Leona got back from Westminster.' He sighed. 'He's a very gifted wee boy, but he hasn't half been touched by tragedy. His father, his mother, his mother's best friend: al of them dying violent deaths.'
'What'l happen to him? Assuming we get him back alive, that is.'
'Oh we will, Pam, we will. If you believe in anything, believe in that. As for afterwards, that's a good question. The grandparents are probably too old to take on a six-year-old ful -time, and there are no 167
uncles or aunts. If it's adoption, it'll need to be a pretty special home.'
He reached down and took the tape from the deck.
'Let's concentrate on the first part for now, though, getting him back safe.
'That means getting this tape down to the technical people in London, to see if Mr Gilbert's given us any more accidental assistance.
I'm going to take it up to the office as soon as I'm showered and dressed. You'd better come, for I ain't leaving you here alone.
I'm beginning to regret getting rid of our watchers yesterday.'
'But you're not supposed to go to the office,' she protested.
'Fuck that for a game of soldiers. But if it makes you happy, you'll be going in. I'l just be there as your bodyguard.'
'Okay.' She started to say more, but hesitated.
'What is it?' he asked, as they moved together, towards the bedroom.
'Oh nothing. I was just going to teach my granny to suck eggs, that was all.'
'Come on, out with it,' he insisted.
'Well, it was that name. Mr Gilbert. I don't imagine it's for real, but al the same, have you checked?'
Skinner nodded. 'As soon as Carr came up with it, I had big Neil do just that. He checked every case on which I've led the investigation.
Way back. No Mr Something Gilberts; no Mr Gilbert Somethings.
'You're right. It was bound to be a phoney. Stil , we had to try.'
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50
'Bob, I thought the Lord Advocate told you to stay away from here.'
Andy Martin looked up in surprise as the door of his office opened and they entered. Pam had noticed his car in the rear park, but Skinner had known already that with the search for the kidnapper in ful swing, and with his own absence, there would be no more days off for his friend for the foreseeable future.
'He can try having me arrested, or he can sue me, or he can piss off.'
He took a tape from his pocket and laid it on the desk. 'Play this.'
Without a word, Martin picked up the cassette, reached across without standing up to put it in the player, and listened in grim glowering silence to the child's desperate message.
'Bastard,' he hissed, very quietly, when it was finished.
'Another one for the specialists, Andy.' He wrote down a name and a number. 'Here's who to cal . That's a copy. I've got the original in an envelope in my pocket.' He patted his jacket. 'Sergeant, would you like to fly it down to London?'
Pam, surprised, nodded.
'Good. I'l drive you to the airport and pick you up. You'l be safe travelling, and in London, I reckon.'
He turned back to Martin. 'Anything strike you about the message?'
'You mean apart from the cruelty of Mark finding out about his mother's death?' the Head of CID growled. 'One thing,' he went on. 'That's what he said. "He has one more thing stil to do", before he tells us what he's up to. That one thing was kil ing our Mr Sweeney, no doubt. So we can expect to hear from him any time now.'
'No, I don't think that was it. Have you got a time of death on Sweeney yet?'
'About four o'clock on Thursday'
'That figures. You see, I don't think Mr Gilbert knew that he'd have to take the risk of killing Sweeney until he heard the news bulletin recorded on the tape. He must have known then that only Carr could have given us that detailed a picture, and he must have guessed too that we had the phoney number plate from the caravan.
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Only at that point did it become a bigger risk to leave Sweeney alive than to kil him.'
Skinner stabbed at the table with a finger. 'So,' he said vehemently.'Mark's "one more thing" means something else. The guy's going to pul another stunt, maybe an even bigger stunt, and there he is, the cocky bastard, telling us ... telling me ... about it, knowing that I haven't clue where to start looking.'
His face twisted into a scowl of frustration. 'You haven't gone public on the link between the McGrath investigation and the Sweeney murder, have you?'
'Christ no. I didn't want to start a feeding frenzy in the media.'
'Quite right: you'd just have added to the pressure on the troops, and on yourself
The two detectives sat for a while, staring ahead, neither looking at the other, each concentrating so hard on possibilities that they almost failed to react when Pam broke the silence.
'A bigger stunt,' she said. 'He's kil ed an MP and stolen her son.
What could be a bigger stunt, as you put it, than that?'
The words left Skinner's mouth almost without conscious thought.
'To do it again,' he said quietly.
As Martin looked at him, his initial disbelief faded against his knowledge of a hundred other viable kites that his friend had flown in the time that he had known him. 'How many other MPs have young children?' he asked.
'No idea,' said Skinner. 'But the Special Branch offices around the country should know. I think it's time we got on the phone. You dig up McGuire, and I'll contact Strathclyde.'
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51
The two Manchester detectives had flown British Airways to London, for the onward flight to Guernsey. Alex had chosen to travel with British Midland, to minimise the time she would have to spend in the company of the formidable and hostile Cheshire.
With very few business travellers in the air on Saturday, the flights were all on time, in take-off and in landing. As they disembarked through the tiny Guernsey terminal building into the dul , breezy morning, after a cross-Channel hop spent mostly in silence, Alex looked around for a taxi rank.
'It's all right,' said Ericson, coming up behind her as she headed for a white Primera minicab. 'We've arranged transport. I'm sure my boss won't mind if you join us.'
Cheshire looked as if he would be quite prepared to allow her to take the taxi, but said nothing. Alex fell into step beside the two officers as they headed for the police car which waited a short dist
ance from the terminal entrance, a uniformed constable standing to attention by the driver's door.
'First time in Guernsey?' Ericson asked her, in a reasonable show of courtesy, as the car pul ed away from its stand.
Alex shook her head, setting her curls tumbling, and smiling at the policeman in a way that made even Cheshire stir in his seat. 'No.
Dad brought me here on holiday once, a couple of years after my mum died. I was only about six, but I remember. It rained al the time. We were in the best hotel in town, though, with plenty of covered facilities, so it didn't matter so much.'
Cheshire turned in the front passenger seat. 'Your father could afford good holidays even then?' he asked, his cold expressionless eyes fixed on her. 'He's a man of property, isn't he? Two houses in Scotland, I understand, and two more in Spain. Looking at that, some might say it's hardly surprising that some chickens have come home to roost.'
Ericson looked straight ahead, focusing on the back of the driver's head. She wondered if his question had been a set-up, until she realised that he was embarrassed by his chief's brutal directness.
Quite unexpectedly, Alex smiled. 'Mr Cheshire,' she said, 'if that look is meant to intimidate me, you're wasting your time. When I 171
was a wee girl, if I did or said something I shouldn't have, my dad would let me know just by giving me a long look. It was his worst punishment, almost the only one he ever needed; a couple of seconds, and I'd be saying "sorry". Believe me, when it comes to intimidating stares, you're not in the same class as him.'
Her smile vanished. 'I'm not here to be interrogated by you two, but I am happy to put you right about Pops. He's had three inheritances in his life. When my mum was killed, the mortgage on the Gullane house was paid off, and there were other life policies in his name.
That helped him to buy, largely, an apartment in Spain, which we used. He still owns it, but he rents it out to policemen ... at a very reasonable rate, incidentally.
'Later, an aunt died, and left him a lot of money, the bulk of it in property in Perthshire, which he sold. He only needed part of that to buy the Spanish vil a, which we use as a family. The rest was invested.
'After that, when my grandparents died, he and I were the only beneficiaries. Oh yes, and the Edinburgh property is jointly owned by Pops and Sarah, my stepmother. There's a smal loan on that, because with mortgage tax relief it was cheaper to borrow than take it all from invested capital.'
Now it was her turn to stare hard at her inquisitor. 'Mr Cheshire, we're all here looking into an al egation by persons unknown that my dad's taken a bung of a hundred grand. If al you've done so far is check up on his assets, without checking how he came by them, you're pretty shoddy detectives. No wonder the crime rate in Manchester is so high.
'The fact is, gentlemen, my dad doesn't need a hundred thousand.
He has a hundred thousand, and quite a lot more.'
Cheshire's glare had softened, but he was stil unsmiling. 'Very good. Miss Skinner. I hear what you say, and if you thought I was trying to bully you, I apologise. The fact is, we know all of your father's financial history. He's been vetted several times in the course of his career.
'But I have to tell you, I don't care how comfortably off he is. I have never met anyone - even my own dear wife,' he interjected, with his first flicker of humour - 'who couldn't use another hundred thousand.
'I once knew a man; neighbour of mine,' said the policeman, in his rumbling northern accent, 'gynaecologist, he was, middle-aged, private practice, very successful, who was arrested for nicking a pound box of Cadbury's Roses from W.H. Smith. His defence was that he was experiencing the male menopause. The prosecution case, which the Bench accepted, was that he was just a thieving bastard.'
As he finished, the car drew to a halt. They had barely noticed their journey through St Peter Port, the island's tiny capital; now they 172
r--
found themselves in what seemed to be a side street, outside a three-storey, white-painted building. As they emerged from the car they saw a single entrance door, with three brass plates and three door buzzers beside it.
JZG Bank was the middle of the three. Cheshire stepped forward and pressed the button. Almost immediately a tinny voice sounded through the smal speaker grille which surrounded it. 'Yes?'
'Three visitors for Mr Medine.'
'I am he. Please enter and come up one flight of stairs.' There was aloud buzz, at which the policeman pushed the door open.
Medine was waiting for them on the first landing. He was a smal , thin man, aged around sixty, with a sal ow wind-burned face and round, rimless spectacles of the type worn almost invariably by Gestapo officers in movies. Alex wondered, fleetingly, if they might be a relic of the days of the German occupation of the island.
'Come in, come in,' said the little man, after Cheshire had made the introductions. 'There is no-one else in the building. It is discreet.'
He was dressed, not in a business suit, but in the casual shirt, baggy cardigan and slacks, which Alex guessed he might wear for his weekend gardening. She had been expecting to hear French overtones in the Channel Islander's accent, but in fact there were none. If anything, there was the merest touch of Home Counties South.
He led them into a small office suite, which looked not at all like a bank. He caught Alex's expression and smiled. 'This is not a place where people come to withdraw fifty pounds, or negotiate an overdraft, for all that it says on the sign by the door. Here we handle fairly large amounts of money for people who require offshore banking services.
'Normal y they're ex-pat workers, or people who've retired abroad
- to Spain, France or Italy, say - but who prefer to keep their main money in the British Isles.'
'For tax reasons?' Alex enquired.
'That's their business. We don't declare interest paid to the Exchequer in London, Paris, Madrid or anywhere else.'
He showed them through a large office into a smaller conference room with a window which looked across the street, to an almost identical, white building as the one in which they took their seats.
'Thank you for seeing us,' Cheshire began, brusque, formal and forbidding once more. 'This is an informal meeting, but Mr Ericson and Miss Skinner may take notes. Miss Skinner is here as an observer, but she may ask a few question at the conclusion of our discussion, if she feels it necessary.'
Medine nodded, straight-faced. 'I have taken instructions from my head office in Germany. I am cleared to co-operate with you as far as I can.' He rose from the round table at which they sat, and 173
walked round behind Alex to a smal filing cabinet.
'You wish to discuss our account number UK 73461,1 understand from the call which I received yesterday?'
'Correct.'
Medine took a smal folder from the cabinet and resumed his seat at the table. 'It's all in here,' he said, 'all the detail of the instruction.
The account details are on computer. I can get you an exact balance, if you wish. It will show the sum deposited, plus interest to date.
There have been no withdrawals.
'That would have been unlikely anyway at this stage,' he added.
'Why?' asked Ericson.
'Because the terms of the account specify ninety days' notice of withdrawal. This account was set up only a few months ago.'
'What's the rate of interest?'
'Currently nine-point-seven-five per cent.'
'That's very good,' said the Chief Superintendent.
'That's why we are popular with our customer base. We give that little bit extra for larger deposits. Our minimum is fifty thousand, sterling.'
Cheshire leaned forward. 'Let's get a bit more specific about your customer base, shall we. What types might it include?'
The little manager's eyes narrowed. He pinched his nose, below the cross-piece of his spectacles. 'Most of them are corporate. Our private clients include engineers working abroad, I suppose; retired people, as I said; soldiers.'
'Soldiers? Do they earn that much?' Cheshire looked at him quizzically.
'There are other armies beside ours, sir.'
The policeman nodded. 'You mean mercenaries.'
'Maybe. In my experience, most prefer to be called military advisers.'
'Are al your accounts numbered?'
'Oh no,' said Medine. 'that is simply a service which JZG offers.
Most of our accounts are held in the name of the depositor.'
'What about access?'
'Always we require a signature, and proof of identity. We don't go in for codewords or half banknotes or any of that nonsense.' He smiled, thinly.
'Yet if someone comes to you asking for a numbered account, what might that mean?'
The manager leaned back in his chair. 'Who am I to know?' he countered. 'You tell me of a private bank which asks a customer to provide references when he comes to it with a large sum of money to deposit.
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'If I am asked for a numbered account, I provide it without question.'
'And that was how it was in the case of UK 73461?' Cheshire asked.
'Exactly'
'So how was that account set up?'
Medine opened his folder. 'Around five months ago,' he said, 'a man arrived with a parcel. He didn't give a name, and we didn't ask.
He said simply that he was a courier engaged by a third party, and he asked to see the manager.
'I interviewed him, in this same room, and he gave me the parcel.
It contained one hundred thousand pounds in sterling, in Bank of England notes of various denominations, and ages.
'With it, there was a covering letter. I have it here.' He took a sheet of paper from the folder, and handed it to Cheshire. 'It instructed me to place the contents of the parcel in a numbered account for the benefit of Robert Morgan Skinner, born in Motherwell, Lanarkshire, on April 7, 1951. Withdrawals from the account could be made only by Mr Skinner, on his signature and on production of a means of secondary identification.
'The letter asked me also to provide acceptable confirmation that the account had been opened. It was unsigned.'
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