Dead And Buried bs-16

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘I have another piece for you in that case. MoD ran a check for me on the service records of Ormond Hassett and Joshua Archer: they were both in Germany for a two-year period in the mid-seventies. I still don’t know where Hassett was, but Archer was stationed at Bielefeld.’

  ‘So they could have met there?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s a long shot: we had a big army presence in Germany in the seventies.’

  ‘The odds shorten when Archer turns up as adjutant to Hassett’s Washington trip in 1982.’

  ‘True, but what does it matter?’

  ‘That depends who else was in Germany when they were. Thanks for that, Amanda.’ He rose from the chair. ‘There’s something I should tell you: Dottie and I are going away on a field trip for a few days.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when we get back.’

  ‘Can I make arrangements for you?’

  ‘No, that’s all done. See you.’

  Skinner walked back to his own office. He felt isolated and, unusually for him, a little excited. He had cut himself loose from Thames House, and was leaving no trail behind him.

  Shannon looked up as he came into the room. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.

  ‘Very well. He and I are best buddies now. Do you have Esther Craig’s phone number handy?’

  ‘Yes. Do you want me to get her for you?’

  ‘That’s okay, I’ll call her myself.’ He waited as she found a note on her desk and handed it to him, then picked up his phone and dialled.

  ‘Esther, this is Bob Skinner,’ he said, as she answered. ‘You can start to make your funeral arrangements. Your brother’s body will be delivered to your local undertaker tomorrow morning. Don’t worry about the cost, that’ll all be taken care of by his service.’

  ‘Bob, thank you. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Don’t say anything. Have you broken it to your mother?’

  ‘Yes. She’s flying over today, to be with me. My husband’s picking her up at Gatwick tomorrow morning.’

  ‘How about your stepfather?’ he asked casually.

  ‘No, she’s coming alone. Titus can’t make the trip: he has something to do at home and he can’t postpone it.’

  ‘Mmm. Esther, there was something I meant to ask you. It’s idle curiosity, really. How did they meet; your mum and stepfather, I mean?’

  ‘Titus was a friend of my dad’s, originally. They met in Germany, when Dad was serving there back in the early seventies; Titus was air force then. He came to Dad’s funeral service, and he kept in touch after that. He took Moses under his wing, and encouraged him when he said he wanted to join the army. Mum was against it at first, but Titus persuaded her that it was something he’d do with or without her approval, so he’d be better to have all the advantages going.’

  ‘Do you remember someone else your father met in Germany, a man called Hassett?’

  ‘The MP? Oh, yes; he was at the funeral too. He arranged for his old regiment to sponsor Moses’ application for Sandhurst and he was one of the referees on his application form.’

  ‘Can you remember who the other one was?’

  There was a period of silence as she considered the question. ‘No, I can’t,’ she admitted at last. ‘It was someone Titus knew, but I can’t recall the name.’

  Sixty-seven

  Assistant Chief Constable Max Allan looked across his desk at his distinguished visitor. ‘Jimmy, are you after a bar for your Queen’s Police Medal?’ he asked, with a grin. ‘I’m new to chief-officer rank, I know, but I’ve never heard of anything like this. When word of this spreads in ACPOS there will be hell to pay. What sort of a precedent have you set, running your own one-man investigation?’

  ‘Max,’ said Proud, ‘if word of this spreads in ACPOS there will indeed be hell to pay, but it’ll be coming in your direction, from me. I’m a private citizen laying information before you, as ACC Crime in Strathclyde, about serious offences which I believe have taken place. I expect confidentiality, and I’ll bloody well have it.’

  ‘Keep your hair on, Chief, I’m kidding, but you can imagine what the rest would say.’

  ‘Son, at my age I don’t give a monkey’s what they say. I set out to do a quiet favour for a lady: in the course of my enquiries on her behalf, I’ve come upon something that needs looking at officially by the appropriate forces, yours and mine.’

  ‘Bigamy.’

  ‘That’s for certain, but after forty years, and with all parties missing, I’d be inclined to shrug my shoulders at it. No, it’s this Bothwell man’s pattern of behaviour that concerns me. These women disappeared, Max, all four of them. It may be that Ethel Ward cashed up her fortune, chucked him out and went to live out her days in the sunshine. It may be that Montserrat Rivera Jiminez found out about his affair with Annabelle Gentle and went back to Spain, leaving them to elope to Australia on a ten-quid assisted package. But there’s the pregnant Primrose Jardine, who left Broomhill, and doesn’t appear to have shown up in Edinburgh. Nor was the birth of her child ever registered. She can’t be explained away that easily, and nor can Arnold and Rachel Solomons’ garden shed.’

  ‘Okay, I accept all that. So what do you want me to do about it?’

  Proud leaned on Allan’s desk. ‘I’m not after glory; I’m after anonymity in this matter, but we’ve got a cross-border investigation on our hands here. Since it started on my patch, it’s appropriate that I take the lead. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed, sir.’

  ‘In that case, Max, I’d be grateful if you’d obtain the appropriate warrant from the sheriff, and find out if there’s anything under that bloody shed.’

  Sixty-eight

  ‘Where are we going, sir?’ asked Dottie Shannon, as she and Skinner walked along Millbank, past the Tate Gallery.

  ‘We’re going to set a trap. Sorry if you’re finding it a bit cold, but when you pick up a taxi from Thames House, you never know who might be listening.’ He pointed to a big, modern building on the other side of the river, almost nestling against Vauxhall Bridge. ‘That’s where we’re headed,’ he said.

  ‘But isn’t that . . .’

  ‘. . . the Secret Intelligence Service building? Spot on. Not very secret I’ll grant you, but a fine piece of work by a very fine architect.’

  They walked on, turning on to the bridge and crossing it, until they reached their objective. The DCC led the way inside and walked straight up to the reception desk. ‘Bob Skinner and colleague to see Piers Frame,’ he said, showing his warrant card and motioning to Shannon to do the same.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the receptionist replied, picking up a phone. ‘I’ve been advised of your visit. Mr Frame will meet you here and take you through Security.’

  They waited for a few minutes, glancing around the big hallway, noting the position of the security cameras, wondering where the others were, those that could not be seen. ‘Bob, DI Shannon.’ Skinner turned to see the immaculately suited deputy director approaching. ‘Let’s go round the gate, rather than through it,’ he said, as they shook hands, nodding to the security officers, using his seniority to bypass the process. ‘I’ve been advised of your needs,’ he said. ‘I can’t do it all here, but I can get it under way. The first step is to take your photographs; so if you’ll follow me . . .’

  When they were shown into the deputy director’s office ten minutes later they had posed solemnly for identification photographs, and had provided right index-finger prints and retinal images. ‘Those will go to FCO,’ said Frame. ‘The documents will be delivered to your hotel this evening.’

  Shannon could contain herself no longer. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ she exclaimed, ‘but what documents?’

  ‘Diplomatic passports,’ Skinner told her. ‘We’re flying to Washington tomorrow.’ He turned back to the deputy director and handed him a bulky package that he had brought from Thames House. ‘I’d like that to go across in the secure bag to the embassy, to be collected by me when we get there.’

&
nbsp; ‘That will be done, but may I ask why? I could make similar arrangements for you in the US.’

  ‘Let’s just say I’m sentimental.’

  Frame raised an eyebrow. ‘Strange sentiments. Do you want an escort in DC?’

  ‘A pick-up from the airport would be good; from then on, definitely no.’

  ‘I see.’ For the first time since they had met, Shannon thought that the MI6 executive looked a little apprehensive. ‘You’re not going to do anything that we’re going to have to disown, are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course not.’ Skinner laughed. ‘I’m a police officer, remember?’

  ‘Not like any I’ve ever met. Is there any other help I can give you?’

  Skinner nodded. ‘Two things. I’d like you to let slip our destination, very casually, to someone. But before that, I want you to tell me who it was that ordered you to spring Miles Hassett.’

  Sixty-nine

  ‘What’s on your mind?’ Louise McIlhenney asked her husband. ‘You hardly said a word to the kids over dinner: Spence was just bursting to tell you about his computer test but you barely looked in his direction. You couldn’t take your eyes off the television.’

  ‘How did he get on?’

  ‘Ask him yourself, once you’ve told me why you’re so quiet.’

  ‘I’m worrying about you,’ he offered, more of a suggestion than a reply.

  ‘You’ve got no need to: I’m fine. I see my consultant in a couple of days, but it’s just routine.’

  ‘Love, we could move your consultant into the spare room and I’ll still worry about you. A first baby in your forties: I won’t sleep easy until he’s keeping you awake!’

  She laughed. ‘If I’m awake so will you be. But I’m not buying that as an excuse. I repeat: what’s up?’

  He gave up pretence. ‘It’s work stuff,’ he confessed. ‘If you’d been watching telly you’d have heard that I’ve got a double murder on my hands, and the suspect’s absconded with his wife and son. It’s been a full day now and no trace. I reckon he’s made it out of the country.’

  ‘That’s yours? I thought you were strategic.’

  ‘That was the idea, but I’ve had a small personnel problem, so I’ve taken this one over. There’s more than that. Alex Skinner’s got a stalker, and she’s giving us less help than she might in tracing him. I think she knows who it is and wants to protect him.’

  ‘From her father?’

  ‘From Mario and me: Bob’s away just now, and he’s left us in loco parentis, you might say.’

  ‘Don’t let Alex hear you say it. She’s a very capable woman; if she says she can deal with something, I’ll bet she can.’

  ‘Maybe, but we’ve got a bit of extra insurance anyway.’

  ‘What kind of insurance?’

  ‘A good neighbour, you might call him. He’s . . .’ He broke off as the phone rang, reached across from his chair, and picked it up. ‘The McIlhenney household,’ he said.

  ‘Boss, it’s Ray Wilding. I’m going to brighten your evening. I’ve just had a call from the Met. Eddie and Soraya Charnwood have been arrested at Heathrow: they were booked on to a flight to Tunis under the names Edgar and Sonya Wood.’

  ‘And the kid?’

  ‘He was with them; they’d dyed his hair blond. It was him who gave the game away, believe it or not. The handler at the check-in desk said to him, “And what’s your name, little man?” and he replied, “Edward Charnwood,” just like that. The name on his passport was John. The clerk pressed the panic button and the police arrived, mob-handed.’

  ‘Brilliant. I was beginning to think that we weren’t allowed any luck. Where are they now?’

  ‘The parents are being held in custody overnight, and the boy’s in care. All three of them will be flown up to Edinburgh tomorrow morning, with an escort.’

  ‘Am I looking forward to meeting them, or am I not? Thanks, Ray, you were right: you have made my night.’

  Seventy

  Many people in the professions find that the first part of December is their busiest time of the year. Although the month is curtailed by the Christmas season, clients’ needs tend to grow more urgent as the year end approaches. As Curle Anthony and Jarvis, Alex Skinner’s law firm, was one of the biggest in Scotland, her workload was correspondingly heavy. It was one minute before eight p.m. when she made it home on Thursday evening. ‘TGIF tomorrow,’ she muttered, as she slid her key into the lock. ‘Only trouble is, I’ll be working bloody Saturday as well.’ She stepped inside and cancelled her alarm, headed straight for the kitchen, where she switched the oven to keep her pizza takeaway warm until she was ready to eat it, then went through to her bedroom, discarding clothes on the way.

  Ten minutes later, she was showered and changed into blue jeans, a sweatshirt and sheepskin slippers, when a pleasing thought occurred to her. She still had the best part of a bottle of pressure-sealed cava in the fridge. Soon she was seated at the dining-table, the pizza divided into eight slices to make it easier to eat with fingers, and a flute on a coaster beside it. She was halfway through both when her eye was caught by the blinking red light on her phone, advising her that she had recorded calls waiting to be reviewed.

  She picked up plate and glass and moved over to the dumpy little swivel chair that she used when she was working at her desk. ‘What’s here, then?’ she said, making a mental note to stop talking to herself. She was about to push the button when the doorbell rang. She frowned. The entry-phone from the street had a buzzer; the bell meant that there was someone inside, at the front door. She was still frowning as she walked out into the hall, glass in hand.

  On any other week, she would have opened the door without thinking, but the memory of her stalker was still fresh, and so she looked through the spy-hole, to see the distorted figure of Griff, her neighbour. Intrigued, she turned the wheel of the Yale.

  ‘Alex, hi.’ He seemed a little ill at ease: he was big and fair-haired, and managed to remind her of a lumberjack she had once seen in a movie. His accent was southern hemisphere, but she found it hard to place. ‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I, only . . .’

  ‘You’re not interrupting anyone, Griff. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I hate to ask this, but Spring and I have friends in for supper, and my one and only corkscrew has just come to pieces in my hand. I wonder, do you have one I could borrow?’

  ‘Sure, come on in while I dig it out of its hiding-place.’ She led him into the living room, silently cursing because her work-shirt, complete with sweaty armpits, was still lying on the floor where she had left it. She kept her corkscrews in the top drawer of her sideboard. There was a ‘waiter’s friend’ type and a complicated wooden affair that had once belonged to her grandfather. It had twin bars, one for twisting the screw into the cork and the other for drawing it smoothly out of the barrel. She gave Griff the waiter’s friend. ‘That’ll do the job,’ she said. ‘I had a waiting job for a while when I was a student in Glasgow. We used those there: in fact, they were so good I nicked that one.’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘It’s all right, I told my dad; he let me off with a caution.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He’s the deputy chief constable.’

  ‘Crikey, the name on the door: I should have known.’ He brandished the corkscrew. ‘Thanks, Alex, you’re a life-saver. I’ll drop it in first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Keep it till you get a replacement. If I’m not in, just drop it in my letterbox out front.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  Pity about Spring, she thought, as she closed the door, and went back to her solitary pizza and cava. She had forgotten about the phone, until the red light blinked its way back into her awareness. She picked up another slice of supper and pushed the play button.

  The machine told her that she had three calls waiting. The first was timed at twenty minutes to nine. ‘Hi, Alex.’ Her father’s voice filled the room, and she felt lifted. ‘I guess you�
��ll be travelling to work right now. I haven’t much time so I’ll have to leave this message rather than wait till you get there. If you’re looking for me over the next few days, you’ll have to use the mobile number. This thing I’m on has taken a couple of turns, and I’ve got to head for the States. I’m not sure how long it’s going to take. I’ll let you know when I get back. In the meantime, if these calls continue to be a nuisance, I want you to stop your nonsense and ask Neil to reinstate the intercept. Love you.’ There was a click and the sound of the dial tone for a few seconds, until the second message began; the machine told her it had been received at five thirty-five.

  ‘Hello, lovey.’

  ‘God,’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s Guy here, ruining your evening by calling to let you know I’m safely back in London and, of course, to thank you for a wonderful night, and almost morning. Hope you’ve recovered your strength. You’re absolutely delicious, Alexandra . . . Ha, ha. You did order me not to call you Lexy . . . and I don’t know how I’m going to struggle on without you or, even worse, how you’re going to struggle on without me. London would be a brighter place with you in it, you know. ’Bye, darling.’

  ‘What the hell was that about?’ she exclaimed to the walls. ‘The infuriating pillock, he doesn’t even know my proper name and there he is implying that I’m going to pine for him.’

  She was still fuming when the dial tone ended and the next call began. The synthetic voice advised that it had been logged at seven minutes past seven. It began with silence or, rather, with the sound of breathing and traffic noise in the background. She was about to push the erase button, when she heard a noise that was somewhere between a cough and a gurgle, as if breath was being drawn in. ‘You really did hurt me, Alex,’ the distorted voice croaked, rising as something heavy passed nearby. ‘I don’t take kindly to it.’ Then a click; then the line was dead.

  She stared at the instrument for almost a minute. ‘Raymond, my boy,’ she murmured evenly, when she had recovered her composure, ‘if that’s you, I have news for you. I’m going to hurt you again, and a hell of a lot worse this time.’