Gallery Whispers

by Quintin Jardine

  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.

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  '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.'

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  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.'

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  '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.'

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  '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

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  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

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  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

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  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.'

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  'Let's promise each other something, eh?'
r />   'What's that?' she whispered.

  '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.'

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  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