Gallery Whispers

by Quintin Jardine

wouldn't give in. So now I'm just hanging around the fringes, doing

  colour pieces for my newspaper in Jo'burg, and hoping for some sort

  of a scoop.'

  The barman turned his attention to Andy, who shouted his order

  over the hubbub. 'And a pint of Guinness, on top of that,' he added, then gave the little reporter his most dazzling smile. 'What's your

  name?' he asked.

  'Estelle. Estelle Lawrence.'

  'I'm Andy. You stick with me, Estelle,' he murmured, 'and you

  never know what you might come up with.'

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  95

  Bob Skinner worked hard, played hard and exercised hard. He liked to

  go to bed tired and ready for a sound, peaceful sleep, for he was wary

  of dreams; there had been too many bad ones in the past.

  There had been the weeks after Myra's death, when he had wakened

  every night after an hour or so, lathered in sweat from a nightmare of

  vague darkness and corruption. There had been the hours after his

  life-threatening stabbing when he had drifted in a fog of recalled

  glimpses of days so awful that his mind had taken refuge in amnesia.

  There had been other moments too, secret times in his career, from

  which people would still return on occasion to visit him.

  Then there was her. He was almost certain that he would never see

  her again, and he did his best not to think of her during his waking

  hours, yet at night, even with Sarah by his side, she had crept through

  his defences once or twice into his dreams. And in those dreams he

  was afraid other; for he knew that she had the advantage of him in the

  pure implacable hatred that she felt for him.

  Now, as he lay in the early hours of the morning, a watcher would

  have seen him toss and turn, yet it was none of his old foes who

  troubled his sleep. Instead he saw repeated flashes of the face of

  Wayne Ventnor: visions of him lifting his friend Crombie into bed, with K-aren Neville, suffocating in her unfeasibly large breasts,

  swinging from a ladder, oily and perspiring, on his off-shore rig,

  standing in a jungle clearing holding in each hand, by the hair, a

  severed human head ...

  He sat bolt upright in bed in the same instant that he awoke, eyes

  wide, cold sweat on his forehead. Hawkins? he thought. But no,

  Hawkins was dead; and anyway, when he had seen the Australian in

  the auditorium, there had been no trace left of the limp which had

  caught Karen Neville's eye at the outset of their relationship.

  Calming himself, he put himself back into his dream, a form of

  self-hypnosis which he had learned from an expert, and he realised at

  once what it had shown him. No, it was unfeasible, he told himself at

  once. He liked Karen Neville; his mind was probably projecting

  subliminal jealousy of the Australian. But then he looked at his

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  sleeping wife and dismissed that notion. In times of crisis. Bob Skinner

  lived by his instincts: indeed they had saved his life. This was

  something that had to be checked.

  In the dark, he glanced at the luminous clock by his side. It

  showed five minutes before seven, too early to call Mcllhenney.

  Silently he slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Sarah, and stepped

  into the bathroom. He shaved and showered slowly and deliberately,

  remembering the pressure under which he, Andy and the rest of the

  team were operating, looking after the world's leaders, with their

  rival phalanxes of armed guards, telling himself that such circumstances

  play tricks with the mind, but failing utterly to drive away

  his concern.

  Sarah was awake when he came out of the bathroom. 'You're early,'

  she mumbled, hazily, tousled hair hanging over her left eye, reminding

  him of... no, she was Sarah, God's gift to him, no one else. 'Couldn't

  you sleep? Were you worrying about the conference today?'

  'No,' he laughed, trying to make himself sound light-hearted. 'I

  slept like a log. Too well, that's the problem.'

  'That's good, that's good,' she said, nodding to herself as he began

  to dress, and swinging quickly out of bed. 'Be a love, will you, when

  you're dressed, and make me some brown bread toast and piccalilli.'

  'You what?'

  'I fancy it, that's all,' she answered, matter-of-fact. 'But first, since

  it's morning, I think I might as well be sick.' She headed quickly for

  the bathroom door.

  He was used to the ritual, and although the sudden craving had him

  mildly surprised, he did as she asked. Just as he replaced the piccalilli

  jar in the fridge, she came into the kitchen, carrying a bleary-eyed

  Jazz. She looked at what was waiting for her on the plate. 'Oahh!' she

  moaned. 'I don't think I fancy that now. But thanks anyway.'

  Bob looked at the kitchen clock; it was twenty to eight. He picked

  up the phone and dialled his assistant. Mcllhenney sounded weary as

  he answered. 'Neil, hello. 'S'me. Sorry to dig you up so early, but

  how are you placed to go into the office? There's something needs

  handling, quick.'

  The sergeant hesitated. 'The thing is, boss, Olive's not too well this

  morning. She's had a bit of a reaction to those platelets they gave her.'

  'No problem,' said Skinner at once. 'I'll just leave a bit earlier, and

  do it myself, before I go up to the EICC. If I put the foot down I could

  probably be there as fast as you anyway. You look after Olive. I'll

  swear Ruthie in as a deputy; she can hold the fort in everyone's

  absence.'

  'Thanks,' the sergeant grunted. 'Listen, boss, there's something

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  else. Last night, I got a result. But I want to play it out myself. Is that

  okay?'

  'Right now, Neil,' the DCC replied, 'anything would be okay. Do

  what you think best. If you need any help, just let me know.'

  He hung up, finished his coffee, kissed Sarah and Jazz goodbye,

  then rushed towards the door, ruffling Mark's hair on the way as his

  older son put in his first appearance of the morning.

  Normally, he drove sedately in to Fettes, but when he had to, he

  could make the BMW fly. He overtook at least a dozen cars on the

  single carriageway between Gullane and Longniddry, tore down the

  Al at close on a hundred miles per hour, then took every shortcut

  and rat-run across town that he could think of, until he arrived at

  headquarters. 'Eight twenty-five,' he muttered, glancing at the car

  clock just before he switched off. 'Not bad.' He strode purposefully

  into the building, nodding only briefly to the men on the door, then ran upstairs.

  In the corner of his office behind his chair, bolted to the floor, there

  stood a small safe. The combination was his mother's birthday. He

  spun the dial three times, listening for the clicks, then opened it, and

  took out a slim folder, with one word written on the outside.

  'Hawkins.'

  Impatiently he flicked through the photographs and photofits, until

  he found the awful image ofHencke Van Roost with his trophies, one

  in each hand. He had been right; Wayne Ventnor looked nothing like

  the South African assassin. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  But there were other men in the shot, behind the
ir leader. There

  were six of them, in fact. Two were black, one stood no more than five

  feet three, two were balding; but the sixth was tall, and dark-haired.

  He was clean-shaven, and looked to be around the same age as Van

  Roost. Only the central figure in the photograph was fully in focus;

  all of the figures were blurred. The sixth man could have been Ventnor,

  but even with his sharp eyesight. Skinner was uncertain.

  He took a magnifying glass from his drawer, held it over the scene

  and studied the figure as closely as he could. 'Look at the eyes,' he

  whispered to himself. 'It's the eyes that give them away.' As he said

  the words he thought of Hawkins burned to a crisp in tangled wreckage

  in a Polish field. 'No it's not,' he corrected himself. 'It's the teeth.'

  Suddenly a kaleidoscope of images and possibilities whirled in his

  brain. He picked up the secure telephone on his desk, and dialled a

  number. The duty telephonist at the offices ofMI5 answered circumspectly,

  with a voice which the policeman did not recognise.

  'This is Skinner in Scotland,' he said. 'I need to speak to the

  Director General, urgently.'

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  'Oh,' the man's soothing tone was that of a professional deflector.

  'I'm not sure if I can raise him at this time. Can I put you through to

  the duty officer?'

  'No, thank you. Now listen to me carefully. I am on a secure line

  and I need to speak to the DG, now; don't try to fob me off with

  anyone else, and don't put someone on the line pretending to be him

  either, for I know him. He can be reached at all times, as you and I are

  both aware, so connect me now.'

  The 'or else' seemed to hang in the air, unspoken but understood.

  'I'll try his car, sir. Hold on for a moment, please.'

  The moment seemed like an hour, but eventually there was a click.

  'Yes?' said a calm plummy voice, one that he recognised. 'What can I

  do for you, Bob?' In the background. Skinner heard the noise of

  traffic.

  'You can pull out all the stops, sir. Bum the line to your opposite number in South Africa and find out all you can about the other

  members ofHencke van Roost's platoon. In particular, I need to know

  about a man, tall, dark-haired, who may have had an Australian

  connection and whose name may have been Wayne Ventnor, although,

  like Hawkins, he could have been called something else then.' He

  recited his mobile number. 'Call me back on that as soon as you have

  anything. I'll be on the move.'

  'But what about security?'

  'Bugger security,' Skinner snapped. He glanced at his watch.

  'You've got twenty-one minutes. After that, I'm either going to

  embarrass myself before the whole nicking world, or something very

  bad is going to happen!'

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  96

  Stevie Steele stood at the doorway of Number Six Charlotte Square,

  looking out into the street. Since the last round of games which the

  city's traffic managers had played with a confused motoring public it

  had always been quiet outside the official residence of the Secretary

  of State for Scotland, but on this momentous morning in the city it

  was almost ghostly. The usual fleet of maroon-coloured buses were

  operating; Steele saw two of them dropping off passengers on the far

  side of the square. But there were no cars, no delivery vans, no crash-

  helmeted cycle couriers, and very few pedestrians.

  Other than the public transport the only vehicles in the Square were

  two black Jaguars parked outside the magnificent grey-sandstone

  terrace, two police cars front and rear, and four motorcycles. They

  stood on the other side of the street, three of their riders waiting

  beside them, their crash helmets in their hands.

  The young sergeant flexed his shoulders, trying to work his firearm

  into a more comfortable position beneath his jacket, feeling its weight

  in the holster strapped to his ribcage, feeling his heart thumping

  slightly, his pulse raised by the tension of his onerous duty. He had

  done close protection work before for visiting VIPs, but this was

  different; this was big time; the biggest. He looked down at his dark

  jacket, at the sun glinting on the small gold eagle badge in his lapel.

  He checked his watch: sixteen minutes to nine, one minute to go.

  The radio in his hand gave a small bleep; and a voice spoke from it.

  Steele recognised ACC Elder, even although he sounded strained.

  'Charlotte Square acknowledge.'

  The sergeant pressed a button. 'Sir.'

  'Delay departure by two minutes, sergeant,' said Elder. 'The

  Russians are late leaving the Caley. Tell the outriders not to get too

  close if you come up behind them in Lothian Road.'

  'Understood, sir.' He looked at the senior outrider, a sergeant, who

  was standing beside him. 'Did you get that?'

  'Aye,' the man replied. 'No sweat. I'll get ma cowboys saddled up.'

  He headed down the steps and across the street, black boots shining as

  his signalled to his men to mount their cycles. Steele counted off the

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  minutes, then the seconds. At exactly thirteen minutes to nine on his

  synchronised watch he pressed the bell on the door-jamb of Number

  Six, then stood aside and waited. A few seconds later the heavy door

  swung open and the Prime Minister stepped out, flanked by his two

  permanent bodyguards. He gave the young sergeant a watered down

  version of his world-famous smile, and jogged down the steps.

  Dr Bruce Anderson, the Secretary of State for Scotland, followed

  in his wake, Brian Mackie by his side and his Civil Service private

  secretary, briefcase in hand bringing up the rear. 'Okay, Stevie,' said

  the Superintendent as they headed for the second Jaguar. 'Everything

  seems peaceful. Let's deliver our client.'

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  97

  A small crowd of people stood on the pavement in Morrison Street,

  opposite the entrance to the Edinburgh International Conference

  Centre. Apart from the Scottish Office minders, and two uniformed

  police officers, they were all journalists, not accredited to enter the

  conference itself, but given secondary passes to allow them limited

  access to the arrival.

  They stood in professional, dispassionate silence as the President

  of the United States stepped out of his armour-plated car under the

  Centre's decorative canopy, watching as he was greeted by the Lord

  Provost of Edinburgh, gold chain glinting, by Chief Constable Sir

  James Proud, silver braid shining, and by the American Consul

  General, in a dark lounge suit.

  Andy Martin was waiting in the foyer as the group moved inside:

  the world's most powerful man shook his hand as the Consul General

  introduced him, gave him a drawled, 'Good morning and thank you,'

  and moved on.

  The chief superintendent had never seen the President in the flesh

  before. On the basis of the documentaries he had watched on television

  and the studies he had read of his ascent to power, he had always

  wondered how the man had reached the world's most powerful office.

  Close to he began to understand: there
was a presence about him, an

  aura which was almost visible, and which had been lacking in all of

  the other world figures who had walked past him previously that

  morning, even the formidable Chinese and French leaders.

  As he gazed after him, the President walked through the security

  archway - the metal detector having been turned off for that moment,

  to ensure that his belt buckle did not set it off - smiled and waved

  briefly over his shoulder to the police and officials gathered in the

  entrance.

  'Two more to go, sir,' said Mario McGuire as he stepped alongside

  Martin. 'The Russian and our PM.'

  'Don't forget the Secretary of State.'

  'Easily done,' the inspector grunted, as they stepped closer to the

  entrance. 'D'you remember the saying about that old Prime Minister.

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  What was it? "An empty car drew up outside Number Ten and Mr

  Attlee got out." That could have been told about Anderson.'

  The Head of CID laughed. 'You've been spending too much time

  with the Deputy Chief Constable. That's how he feels about all

  politicians these days. If someone told him there was a bomb in here,

  I reckon he'd clear out the civilians and lock the leaders in.'

  As he spoke, McGuire nudged his elbow, and gestured towards the

  group across the street. 'There's a friend of yours over there.'

  Martin's eye followed his pointing finger. Estelle Lawrence stood

  among the group of journalists, waving at them with a slightly

  uncertain smile. He grinned and gave her a brief wave in return.

  'Here, sir,' the inspector muttered, 'you dropped us right in it last

  night, bringing that one back to the table and having us all pretend we

  were catering contractors. Christ, when Maggie said she was in charge

  of dishwashing . ..' He shook his head, laughing softly to himself.

  'After we all left, did you manage to stick to your ten o'clock

  curfew?'

  'Oh aye, no problem. I might have trouble tonight, though. I'm

  picking Estelle up at nine from her hotel.'

  McGuire pointed across the street once more. 'I'm not so sure

  about that. See who she's talking to?'

  The Head of CID looked back at the journalists and saw Estelle

  deep in conversation with John Tough, a local news reporter whom

  they both knew well. Suddenly her expression changed; she shot them

  both a venomous glare.