Skinner's ordeal bs-5

by Quintin Jardine

  `Yes, yes. But I repeat, who gave you this number?'

  `My boss, Bob Skinner.'

  Ah! Our resident in the North. In that case I'd better speak to you; his star burns brightly in our heavens these days. What can I do for you?' The distortion had cleared, and Kercheval's tone with it. Now he sounded bright and breezy.

  `My colleague and I would like to meet with you. Mr Skinner has asked us to undertake an investigation, and he's given us your name as someone who might help.'

  `How urgent is this?'

  Extremely.'

  D'you mean over the weekend? I've got a winter foursomes tie tomorrow morning at Sandwich, but I could come up to Town after that, at around three. I have to say, though, I'd prefer Monday.'

  Mackie thought back to Skinner's orders, to the stress he had laid on discretion and to his comment about the porosity of MI5.

  He guessed that if a senior man was summoned for an emergency meeting with two policemen from the North, that might attract the sort of attention that the DCC was keen to avoid.

  Okay, sir,' he said. 'Monday it is, unless Mr Skinner feels particularly strongly that it should be earlier. If he does, I'll call you back on this number.'

  `Fine.' Kercheval paused. 'You'll be flying down, so let's meet at eleven a.m. My office — or would you prefer neutral territory?'

  In the circumstances, I think we would.'

  `Right, in that case let's make it a working lunch. You like Chinese? There's a place called Mr Kong in one of the streets up behind Leicester Square. Lisle Street, or Gerrard Street, I can never remember which. I'll see you there at twelve-thirty.'

  `Very good, sir, we'll be there on time.'

  The MI5 man grunted. I'm sure you will. Between now and Monday I'll try to imagine what you want to talk about. Mind you, even now I have a suspicion!'

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Sir Stewart Morelli preferred neutral territory also. He had left a message for Arrow that he would receive the Scottish gentlemen at his club, at 4 p.m.

  They arrived promptly at St Stephens, which was tucked away behind Birdcage Walk, not far from Parliament Square and the Palace and Abbey of Westminster. Arrow announced their appointment to a soberly-dressed attendant, who nodded and said, 'Yes, gentlemen, you are expected. Please follow me.'

  He led the three men — DS Price having been stood down — through to a smoking room, the walls of which were hung with portraits of former members, with a few Prime Ministers, one of recent memory, among them. Mcllhenney, scanning them with the expert eye which few of his colleagues knew he possessed, nodded his appreciation of the better works.

  As they entered, the Permanent Secretary at the Ministry of Defence rose from a high-winged leather chair beside a window which looked out to the rear of the club. He was a strikingly handsome man of medium height and build, with a square jaw and a full head of greying hair, immaculately groomed and swept back from a wide forehead. Even on a Saturday afternoon, he was dressed in a formal dark three-piece suit, and wore big polished black shoes.

  Had Arrow not told them that he was in his early fifties, both Donaldson and Mcllhenney would have placed him at around forty-five.

  `Captain,' he said heartily. 'Bang on time as always.

  As the soldier introduced his companions, a faint shadow of petulance crossed the Permanent Secretary's face. It was lost on the brash young DCI, but McIlhenney new at once that Morelli had expected to be meeting with an Assistant Chief Constable, at the very least.

  `Thank you for seeing us, Sir Stewart,' said the soldier.

  Not at all, man. Least I could do in the circs. Have you finished your interviews with the Private Office people?' He looked at Donaldson, ignoring Mcllhenney completely.

  `Yes, sir,' said the DCI. 'Thank you for your co-operation in arranging them so quickly.'

  Morelli flicked the fingers of his right hand in a deprecating manner. 'Were they of any value?'

  `Certainly, sir. Exactly how valuable remains to be seen, but they were interesting.'

  `Mmm.' He turned his gaze to Arrow. I'd have appreciated it if you'd come clean with me about the cause of Davey's death, Captain. If someone blows up my Secretary of State, I expect to be told about it, rather than to hear the news from a police statement on lunchtime television.'

  `My apologies, Sir Stewart, but it was only this morning that we got confirmation from the Bomb Squad. I did try to contact you before we left Edinburgh, but you were unavailable.

  `Very well. You can update me now, though.'

  Donaldson felt a sudden need to assert himself. 'In Confidence sir, I can tell you that the bomb was concealed in the Minister's hand-baggage. That's how it got on board.'

  `Good heavens!' said the Permanent Secretary: ‘you mean in the Red Box?'

  Exactly, sir.'

  `No wonder you wanted to interview his staff. What did you get out of them?'

  `We found out that the Assistant Private Secretary packed the Box, then gave it to Mr Noble, and he took it home with him. All this was seen by Mr Joseph Webber.'

  The Permanent Secretary gave Arrow a strange angled nod. If Webber confirmed it, you can accept that as gospel. Don't know how he does it with his lifestyle, but I have no more reliable man in the Ministry. So… if Mirzana gave it to Noble, and it blew up on the plane, then someone must have had access to it at the airport.'

  `Not necessarily,' said Donaldson.

  `But surely..

  The bomb could have been placed in the box while it was at Mr Noble's house, sir.'

  Morelli sat bolt upright in his chair. 'Are you suggesting that Mr Noble planted it himself, or his wife? Are you mad?' He hissed the words quietly, lest he wake the sleepers around them. Red-faced, he glared from Donaldson to Arrow and back again. Mcllhenney, glad that he was only a humble Detective Sergeant and, therefore, of no consequence to Morelli, sank back in his leather armchair.

  Donaldson stood, or at least sat, his ground. He returned the man's gaze and shook his head. 'No, sir. I'm not making suggestions. I'm looking at possibilities.'

  `That isn't one!' the Permanent Secretary snapped.

  `Yes, it is, sir, but not one I'll dwell on. I'd rather look at Mr Noble himself. The picture which we're getting is one of a man with an episode of depressive illness behind him, showing clear signs that the problem was recurring. Noble confided in Webber that the excessive hours involved in his job were getting him down, that he felt inadequate to his wife's demands, and that he was sure she was seeking consolation somewhere else. He also said that he blamed Mr Davey directly for the situation.

  `Sticking strictly to possibilities, we must consider whether Noble might have been unbalanced sufficiently to smuggle the bomb on board the plane, where he knew he would take Mr Davey with him.'

  Morelli's face had gone from red to white. He stood up, shaking his head violently, and stared out of the window. 'No! Absolutely not,' he blustered. 'I knew Maurice. I put him in post. He was a bloody good chap, with the potential to sit in my chair one day. The idea of him doing something like that, why — it's preposterous.'

  He looked round. 'Captain, you knew him too. Tell Mr Donaldson, will you?'

  Arrow frowned. 'Tell him what, sir? I heard Webber's story, and I believed it. You're just after saying how reliable he is. He told us that Maurice got drunk with him the night all this came out. Hepatitis, alcohol and depression are all directly related. No, sir, I won't rule out the possibility of suicide.'

  The Permanent Secretary shook his head as firmly as before. `But not in that way, surely.

  Not taking all those lives along with his own.

  `Maybe he meant to trigger the bomb later, when he and Davey were alone. Maybe the Minister opened the box himself and set it off. Who knows? But on the basis of what we've heard today, it's the most solid lead we have.’

  ‘The next thing we have to find out is whether Maurice had the ability to construct a device, or whether he'd been shooting his mouth off in the wrong company, to some
one who might have supplied one.'

  `So what's your next step?'

  `We have to speak to Maurice's wife.'

  Sir Stewart shook his head violently. 'Oh no. You can't land on the poor woman at a time like this. I forbid it, d'you hear?'

  `You can forbid Captain Arrow, sir,' boomed Neil McIlhenney, from the depths of his chair. Suddenly, he was very visible indeed. 'But you can't forbid us. We're Scottish Police Officers investigating a serious crime, and we will not allow anyone to impede our enquiries. So unless we're told otherwise by our Commanders… they are Chief Constable Proud, DCC Skinner or Chief Superintendent Martin, if you want to ring any of them… we will be calling on Mrs Noble tomorrow morning.'

  He glanced sideways at Donaldson. 'That right, sir?'

  The DCI nodded gratefully. 'It is indeed, Sergeant. If the lady spent the night under the same roof as that Red Box, we have to interview her.'

  Morelli stared down at Arrow, who sat in his chair, his feet not touching the ground. `Go ahead then. Do what you must. But for Christ's sake, Adam, make sure that these people are discreet!'

  THIRTY-SIX

  Andy and Alex were at the restaurant before them, befitting their situation as hosts for the evening. There are several Pierre Victoire restaurants in Edinburgh, but Alex had voted for the version in Dock Place, which she claimed was the biggest, best and noisiest of them all.

  `Sorry we're late. Blame the taxi this time, not the baby,' said Bob, hanging Sarah's overcoat, and his own, on a peg on one of the restaurant's many pillars. It was 8.30 p.m. and in every corner, dinner parties were in full swing.

  `You're not,' said Andy. 'They've only just brought the drinks. Here, get outside these.'

  He filled Sarah's glass, then Bob's, with the house champagne. 'Cheers,' he said, clinking glasses around the table. `Look, everybody. This evening was planned as a celebration and despite everything that's happened over the last thirty-six hours or so, let's try to keep that in mind.'

  `For tonight, Chief Superintendent, you're the boss,' said Bob, taking a long sip of the champagne. 'In that case, I warn you, I may just get pissed.

  Alex was staring across the table at Andy. 'Chief Superintendent?'

  He smiled. 'Sorry — didn't I mention it? It's only a courtesy title these days, you know, just like your dad's. The review abolished the Deputy Chief and Chief Super ranks, but most Forces kept the titles because in practice officers need to know which Superintendent is the boss, and which ACC is the Chief’s Deputy. Anyway, enough of the shop talk; that's not what we're here to celebrate.'

  He turned to Sarah, sitting beside him. `How're you doing?'

  I'm fine,' she said quietly. 'I got it all out of my system last night. But I tell you something

  — I couldn't take another day like it. No one should have to experience that twice in a lifetime.'

  And how's wee Jazz?'

  `He's fine too. We left him holding the floor with his Aussie nanny. She's staying over tonight.'

  `That's a great arrangement you have: the girl being a qualified children's nurse, but having her own place, and living in only when you need her.'

  Sarah nodded. 'It's ideal. Jazz is looked after, she keeps the place tidy, and does the prep work on our meals, and on top of that, most evenings we have the house to ourselves.

  Susan Kinture was very good about it when I told her I'd like to lure Tracey away from her. She said, "Fine. Bracklands is so bloody big, I can never find all the staff I have in here anyway!" She's a great lady, the Marchioness.'

  Abruptly she sat up straight in her chair. 'But enough of our shop talk, too! Celebration, you said. A celebration of what?'

  As if on cue, Alex brought up her left hand, which had been hanging just below the level of the table. The diamonds caught the candle-flame, and sparkled, yellowish, in the gloom.

  The sapphires, at the heart of the design, shone midnight blue.

  `Hey,' said Bob. 'Another surprise.'

  One you can live with, I hope,' said Andy.

  `Hell, man, we've been through all that. I couldn't be more pleased.' Alex's eyes were shining as he kissed her, reaching out to shake Andy's hand at the same time. Sarah beamed and hugged them both, then grabbed Alex's left wrist.

  `Let's have a look at it, kid.' She held Alex's hand under the candle, peering at the ring.

  'Why, it's beautiful. It looks unique.'

  It should be. Hand-crafted. by Laing the Jeweller. Designed by Michael himself.'

  Bob whistled. 'Jesus. Whose idea was that?'

  His daughter jerked a thumb at her fiance. 'His, believe it or not. I'd have settled for H.

  Samuel.'

  'Hall,' Bob grunted. 'Why change the habits of a lifetime?' He refilled all four glasses.

  'Time for a toast. Let's be traditional for once. The happy couple!' His wife echoed his words, and together they drained their glasses.

  `Good stuff that,' said Sarah. She poured two more refills, adding, 'Let's have another toast. One we can all drink this time. To Michael Laing!'

  Another bottle of champagne later, they were ready to do justice to Pierre Victoire's menu, with starters which included warm brioche with mushroom sauce, creamed scallops with smoked salmon, and melon with crispy bacon, and main courses which ranged from baked monkfish to venison casserole. The clamour of the evening roared around them but they did not notice, because they were part of it.

  The men chose cold beers as dessert, leaving their ladies to tackle the sticky toffee pudding.

  `Here, friend,' said Bob, taking a swig of his Budweiser Straight from the bottle. `D'you realise wee Jazz is going to be your brother-in-law?' Andy choked on his beer, and Alex spluttered on her sticky toffee.

  As the laughter subsided, Sarah looked across at her stepdaughter. 'My God, I forgot to ask. Have you set a date yet?'

  `Give us notice of that one, for Christ's sake,' said Bob sincerely.

  `Relax, Pops. We're in no hurry, are we, Andy?' He smiled and shook his head in agreement, perhaps not entirely sincerely. 'We just thought we should put a label on it; mark out the territory, so to speak. I want to get my studying over with before getting married. I've still got to finish my diploma year at University, then put in my two years in a solicitor's office, before I can think about going to the Bar.'

  `That's all up to you, Babe, but do one thing for me.'

  `Name it, Father.'

  `Don't make any formal announcement for a few weeks, and keep the ring out of sight.'

  `Why?' Her face clouded over.

  `Because if Andy's appointment as Head of CID, and his engagement to my daughter were announced in virtually the same breath, the comedians in the Press would have a field day.

  I've already filled in one bloke today for taking your mum's name in vain, and I don't want it to become routine procedure.'

  She gulped. 'Sorry, Pops. I never thought. Our timing's lousy.'

  Not your timing, love — God's. Or rather, someone else's!'

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Arrow waited until the stairway light, on a push-button time-switch, flicked out before turning the brass handle.

  As he had suspected, the door was unlocked. He pushed at it very gently, until a little light spilled out, not from any source in the narrow hallway but from deeper within the apartment. Opening it to the minimum to avoid the creaking of the hinge which he knew would have come at a certain point, he slipped soundlessly inside.

  Three doors opened off the hall, all panelled with frosted glass. The one on his left shone with a soft pink light, against which he could make out the shape of a dressing gown hanging on a hook. Holding his breath and moving with ghost-like silence on the balls of his feet, he crept past it to the door facing him, opened it and slipped inside.

  The room was warm. The imitation coals in the gas fire still glowed, telling him that it had been switched off for only a few minutes, and the television screen still shone with a blue-grey luminescence. As his eyes became accustomed t
o the darker surroundings he could make out the shape of the furniture — a two-seater settee, an armchair, a sideboard, and in the heavily Curtained bay window, a small round table.

  He dropped into a crouch behind the sofa and waited, ready to spring into action at any moment.

  The minutes dragged out. He shifted his position occasionally to ease the weight on his joints. The side-effects of an office job he mused. I never used to feel stiff, lying in ambush for people in the dark.

  At last he heard the sound of someone moving. The pink-lit door off the hallway swung open, and suddenly, the rest of the apartment was brighter. Instinctively, he dropped deeper into his place of concealment, ready to react at any moment to discovery, but instead, he heard the sound of the third door opening, then closing quickly, and saw the effect of a second light being switched on.

  Seizing his chance, he sprang to his feet and, like a nervous cat, moved back out into the hallway. He saw at once that the dressing gown was still hanging behind the door.

  When she returned, he was already in bed. She jumped when she saw him, with a small involuntary gasp, her pert breasts bouncing in a particularly intriguing fashion.

  Adam, you swine! You're always playing games! How long have you been here?'

  About ten minutes. And I'm always telling you about leaving that bloody door on the chain. One night it might not be me who comes through it.' He took a corner of the quilt, lifted it up, and Shana Mirzana slipped into bed beside him.

  `You're warm,' she said, rubbing herself against his body, feeling his arousal. She touched the light stubble around his chin, and kissed him, sniffing quickly at his breath as she did so. `Been drinking?'

  `Watch it. Even breathing it in is against your religion, ain't it? I had a quick meal and a beer with the Scots lads in the Sherlock Holmes, that's all,' he said. 'I made my excuses as soon as I could. They're staying in the Strand Palace, but they were off in search of t'nightlife when I left.'

  `They'll be lucky.'

  Ah but they'll have help. They were meeting up with that lad from the Met in some pub up Wardour Street.'