Skinner nodded. 'Okay, Sarah'11 collect the children after school
on Friday afternoon.
'Right,' he continued. 'Hawkins: what's to report?'
'Absolutely nothing, I'm afraid. Since that bloody fiasco caused by
the man from Dumfries'
'whose hide is even now drying on his office door.' Skinner
interrupted with a growl.
'... there hasn't been a sniff of him in Scotland, not a single scent.
There's been nothing else across Europe either. You know, boss, it's
been a while since the original tip came out of South Africa; I'm
beginning to wonder whether he's slipped the net altogether.'
'So am I,' said the DCC, heavily. 'But we maintain surveillance
regardless, though. The preparations for the economic conference are
going ahead too. ACC Elder's working on the general policing
arrangements, and on traffic management, following the blueprint
that was drawn up when we had the Commonwealth Heads of
Government. We may make the vehicle restrictions even tighter than
they were then.
91
'That's all background stuff, though. As far as our force is
concerned, McGuire and Neville, and the rest of the SB people, are
our front line.'
92
27
'How much longer will this operation run, Mario?' asked Karen
Neville.
'Until the last head of government's plane takes off for home,' the
inspector replied. 'Or until Mr Hawkins resurfaces in South Africa
fresh from a winter holiday in Europe. Or until we catch the bugger.'
'You don't think there's a chance he really is on holiday do you?'
'Sure, there's a chance of that. He could be sliding down mountains
in Switzerland while every secret policeman in Europe is combing the
airports, the ferry terminals, aye, even the bloody streets, looking for
him.
'This search is based on information from the spooks, you see,
Karen: the MI6 crowd. They're all too clever by half, and most of
them are panic merchants; the sort to have the world chasing its tail
on the back of the faintest hint. I remember once, not so long ago,
they started a panic hunt for a terrorist suspect who, as it turned out,
was in fact in the south of Spain on holiday with his best friend's
wife.'
He grimaced. 'However, there always is that five per cent chance
that their information is accurate, so it has to be checked out. In this
case, the boss seems convinced that it's a lot stronger than the usual
twenty to one shot.
'So tell me, sergeant, what have you got planned for today?'
'Checking more male landing cards, Inspector, looking for a
limping guy with a false beard and moustache.'
'Funny,' chuckled McGuire, 'that's exactly what I'm going to be
doing. We've got a fair few to work our way through this week,
though.' He picked up a pile of cards from a tray at the side of his
desk. 'There's a conference of international economists up at the
conference centre this week, sponsored by Edinburgh University.
'How about this for a title? "The development of sub-national
economies within supra-national structures". The opening session is
this afternoon; there's an address by Bruce Anderson.'
'The Secretary of State?'
'That's the boy.'
93
'Aren't you involved in the security?' asked Neville.
'Not on this one. I've been kept informed, and I've allocated our
two SB colleagues to assist, but the Protection Squad are in charge.
Anderson isn't regarded as a prime target, so the view is that you and
I are better employed on Hawkins surveillance.' He tapped the pile of
cards. 'This is where we're involved. This is an attractive event for
economists; it's attracted over two hundred and forty delegates, two
thirds of them from outside the European Union. They've been pouring
into Edinburgh all weekend.
'So, after filtering out the female delegates, we're left with one
hundred and fifty-two of these things to go through. When Sergeant
Brown and DC McNee are finished with the Secretary of State, they
can get on with checking the individual cards which come in on a
daily basis, so for the purpose of this exercise, you and I are on our
own.' He split the cards into two lots, then folded them. 'There you
are,' he said, brightly. 'There's the best part of a week's work there.
'Henry Wills, the Secretary of the University, is our main contact
at the conference. He'll tell us which people are in which hotels, so
that we can give them the once-over.'
'You don't think for a minute that Hawkins would show up at an
economists' conference do you?'
McGuire shook his head. 'No, I don't; but he could try to sneak in
among them. Conceivably he could even register. Once we've checked
all the delegates, if one of these cards isn't accounted for, or if one of
the holders checked in but isn't actually taking part in the event, that
could be interesting.'
94
28
'This can't be the man we're after,' the sergeant gasped. 'I mean, look
at that place; it's a bloody rabbit warren. Gaynor Weston was a classy
woman in her forties; she wouldn't have been interested in an
unemployed twenty-seven year-old from a tip like this.'
'You never know, though,' mused Maggie Rose, with a light smile.
'Tell me, Stevie, are you familiar with the phrase: a wee bit of rough?
Or maybe this stinking pile will reveal a dazzling urbanite damned by
cruel fate to live under what's left of its roof.'
If Edinburgh's housing was divided into descending categories from
one to ten, the property before which the two detective stood would
have rated a marginal thirteen. It stood as a monument to ill-conceived
public housing, the last remaining eyesore, the last rotting tooth, in a
street on which all the other filthy tenements had been razed to the
ground. More than half of its windows were boarded up, yet ironically,
half a dozen satellite dishes were fixed to its wall.
'Christ knows what's in there,' Stevie Steele muttered, 'but they
must have pissed off the housing people up at the City Council, every
last one of them. Are you sure you want to go in there, ma'am? I
could call up a couple of uniforms to huckle our man down to St
Leonards.'
'The first time I come across a building that I won't go into,' the
chief inspector replied, evenly, 'then I'm done for in CID. Come on;
he's in number 23F3, or so the woman at the DSS said.' She led the
way up the weed-infested path and through the open entrance to the
tenement.
'Who's the listed tenant?' asked Steele. 'It's not him, I take it.'
'No. According to the Council, the tenant is a Mrs Hannah Mason.'
Once upon a time there might have been a door at the entrance to
the building, but if there had it was long gone and its frame had been
torn out. Beyond was a long narrow corridor, which stank of urine;
they followed it until they came to a flight of stairs.
It was late on a Tuesday afternoon, and all of the bulbs had been
stolen from the stairw
ay lights, and so they made their way up to the
third floor landing in almost pitch darkness. As their eyes became
95
accustomed to the gloom they saw six doors, off a long corridor. Two
had planks nailed cross them, two had glazed panels, and the
remaining two had boards where originally the glass had been.
'They're really helpful in this part of town, aren't they,' said Rose.
'Not a single number on any door. Not a single name.'
'No. They take them off to confuse the debt-collectors.'
Behind one of the glass panels, a light shone; the only sign of life
along the silent corridor. Steele walked up to the door and pressed a
buzzer set in its jamb. There was no sound; guessing that the batteries
were dead, he pounded on it three times, with. the side of his closed
fist.
Eventually, the sound of shuffling came from within the house, the
dull green door swung open and a woman appeared, framed against
the light. From within, a smell of almost indescribable staleness
threatened to engulf them.
'Aye?' From the tired hostility other tone, Rose guessed that there
had not been a welcome caller at her door for years. She was perhaps
forty-five, but looked ten years older; in her youth she might have
been pretty, but now her features were worn and weary. She was short
and dumpy, with lifeless grey hair that was sadly in need of a wash, as
was the loose purple nylon dress which hung around her.
'Police,' Steele announced, flashing his warrant card quickly. 'Is
this number twenty-three?'
'Ah dinna fuckin' ken,' She snapped back at him, a scowl disfiguring
her still further.
'You live here, don't you.'
'Aye, but Ah wouldna ken whit number it wis. Naebody ever writes taste me. Only the Social, and Ah tear them up.'
'We're looking for a Mr Deacey,' said Rose.
'Well, he's no here,' the little woman replied emphatically. 'There's
jist me. Me and ma budgie. There's nae point in yis talking to it,
though. Wee bastard nivir says a fuckin' word.' She would have
slammed the door, but Steele put a hand against it.
'Okay,' he growled, roughly. 'Who else lives on this floor?'
She pointed along the hallway, to a door opposite hers, one with
unpainted wood in place of its glass panel. 'There's a hoor along
there; an' a bloke wi' her, Ah think. Yis could try there. She'll no' have
gone taste work yet.'
'Thanks,' said the sergeant, allowing her to return to her squalor.
'Poor budgie,' muttered Maggie Rose as she strode across the
corridor, to rap briskly on the wooden panel.
There was no answer. She knocked again, without success. Stevie
Steele's patience reached breaking point. 'Excuse me, ma'am,' he
96
said. Taking a heavy black leather glove from his overcoat pocket, he
put it on his right hand, then punched the plywood panel. It split
neatly down the middle, and the sundered pieces fell away into the
flat.
'Police! Open up,' the sergeant shouted into the hall, in which the
blue light of a television shone.
The woman who appeared in the doorway a few seconds later still
had her looks, but the detectives knew that in not so many years she
would be almost exactly like her neighbour across the way. There was
a hardness in her eyes, a cold, resigned glare in which her future was
written.
She fumbled with the catch of a short, red, imitation-leather skirt,
her other hand smoothing her silver-blonde hair. She stood around
five feet six, with the assistance of a pair of inordinately high heels.
'Who are you then?'
'CID, Mrs Mason,' Rose answered. 'We're involved in a murder
investigation and we're looking for Malcolm Deacey.'
'Who?' Steele thought that her bewilderment was genuine, but the
DCI refused to buy it.
'Let's find out who,' she said, stepping past the woman, rocking her
back on her heels.
The sergeant followed her into the hall, and through a doorway at
the end. Before them was a man, sitting in a low armchair, watching
television. He looked up at them. He was black, with garish orange
dreadlocks. 'Who you?' he asked, lazily, showing a studied insouciance
which the detectives recognised from many interview rooms.
'Edinburgh CID,' Rose answered briskly. 'We want to ask you
some questions about a woman, Mr Deacey; a dead woman.'
'Sho',' he grunted, pushing himself easily to his feet. 'Less go,
den.'
Rose had begun to turn towards the door when he sprang at her.
Instinctively she threw up her right arm, in a gesture which was
literally face-saving. Like Steele she wore an overcoat and a jacket
beneath, but neither was protection against the open razor which
Deacey swung at her, savagely. She cried out, more with fear than
pain, as it sliced into her forearm.
The man turned towards Steele; to be met by a heavy gloved fist
which caught him square in the middle of the forehead. His knees
buckled, his eyes glazed and he went down, sprawling limply on the
floor as if he was something that had been shaken from a sack. The
sergeant stamped down hard on his right hand, trapping the razor. He
took it from the helpless fingers, folded it and slipped it into his
pocket. Then, calmly, he rolled the dazed Deacey onto his face, drove
97
a knee hard into his back, and hand-cuffed him.
'You try to get up, pal,' he whispered, 'and I'll cut your nicking
ears off.'
Pushing himself quickly to his feet, he turned to Rose. Blood was
pouring from her arm, down her hand, and dripping onto the carpet.
'You,' he snarled at Hannah Mason, who stood in the doorway, stunned
by the sudden explosion of violence, 'get me clean towels, tissues,
anything you have.'
He helped the DCI out of her bloody overcoat and jacket, and
looked at the cut. It was bone-deep; it ran along the full length of her
fore-arm. For a few seconds he felt nauseated, but he fought off the
temptation to throw up. Then the woman was back, with a decently
white towel, and a box of Kleenex tissues. He padded the wound with
the paper handkerchiefs then took the towel and clamped it on top.
'Press that hard, Maggie,' he said. Rose nodded, pale-faced, but clear-
eyed. She held the towel tight, watching him as he ripped the belt
from his waistband and used it to fasten a tourniquet just above her
elbow.
As he finished, Deacey began to stir on the floor. Steele put a foot
on his neck as he took out his mobile phone and dialled the St
Leonard's police office. Identifying himself to the telephonist, he
barked out the address. 'I have an injured officer. Ambulance, pronto,
and back-up to take a prisoner back to the nick.'
He glowered down at the man, who had given up all thoughts of
struggling. 'You might think you're in trouble, mister,' he said, coldly
and evenly. 'But believe me, you don't have the faintest idea of how
deep in the shit you really are.'
98
29
'Let's promise each other something, eh?'
'That this is going to be the last time that either of us visits the
other in this bloody place.' Mario McGuire had never been more
sincere in his life.
As his wife looked up at him, the thought came to him that she had
never looked more lovely. Her red hair had been brushed by a recovery
room nurse, and was spread softly on the pillow, her eyes were still
slightly hazy from the anaesthetic, and her appearance was one of
gentle vulnerability. Her right arm lay above the covers, encased in a
huge, thick bandage from just above the elbow to the wrist.
'Life is the scene of one continuous accident, my dear,' she
mumbled, with a light half-stoned smile. 'But yes, let's both do our
best to make sure we don't.'
'What the hell was that boy Steele thinking about,' McGuire
growled, 'letting you get into a situation like that. When I see him,
I'm going to'
She squeezed his arm, lightly with her left hand. 'You're going to
thank him from the bottom of your heart, and buy him a great big
drink. You couldn't have kept me out of there any more than he could.'
She grinned again. 'Who's the ranking officer here?
'When it came to the bit, Stevie was brilliant. He flattened the guy
and secured him inside ten seconds, then took care of me like an
expert. Deacey went for me because I was nearest. If he had got to
Stevie first...' The smile left her face, and she shuddered.
'Shh,' he soothed her. 'Let's not talk about it any more. All things
considered, let's just thank our lucky stars.' He looked at her, at her
heavily bandaged right arm, and at the tube which ran from her left
arm to a drip set up by the bedside. 'I've talked to the guy who
operated on you,' he said. 'There was quite a bit of tendon and muscle
damage, but they've been able to sew everything back together. They're
confident that everything will sort itself in time and that you won't
have any impaired movement in your hand. You lost a lot of blood,
though. They're going to put a couple of pints into you.'
99
She frowned at him. 'You mean I'm not getting home tonight?'
'Nor tomorrow night, nor the night after that. They're going to
keep you in until Friday at the very least.'
'Oh shit. It's only a cut.'
He sighed. 'Mags, love, it's one of the worst wounds of its type that
your surgeon has ever treated. To guarantee a full recovery they have
Gallery Whispers Page 13