Skinner's ordeal bs-5

by Quintin Jardine

  'Did you tell them where you were going?'

  `Bloody 'ell no. What's the use of being a spook if you can't keep secrets?'

  Does anyone know about you and me, Adam?'

  Not as far as I know, but it's an interesting question. Who Spies on the spies? I'm in the business and I don't know. Imagine though, if there's no one checking up on me, the power I'd 'ave. There was no one checking up on George Blake, and look what he did.'

  She propped herself on an elbow and looked down at him. `But you must have a boss.'

  `Sure, I have. John Swift, my sidekick, and I report to the Permanent Secretary. We're on secondment from the Army.'

  She laughed. 'Swift and Arrow! Quite a combination!'

  He forebore to tell her that those were not the names on their birth certificates, a security measure designed to protect their families rather than them. Instead he chortled, 'We get straight to the point, though,' and dived beneath the quilt.

  Her gasps turned into squeals as his searching tongue sought her out, until at last she took him, urgently, under the arms and drew him up, on top of her, plunging him into her… not like an arrow, she thought idly, but like a lance — writhing and moaning, bucking urgently against him as he thrust, and thrust, and…

  They came together in a great roaring climax, their muscles tensed almost to the point of cramp, until at last they relaxed and slumped, replete, into each other's arms.

  To the point you do indeed get,' she murmured ungrammatically, sliding out from beneath him. She pulled herself up into a sitting position and gazed at him as he lay there, face down and smiling. She ran her hand over his skin. It was almost as brown as hers. She tugged his hair.

  `Hey,' she said. 'Do you realise how vulnerable you men are?’

  ‘However tough, however strong, however highly trained, there are always moments when man is completely at the mercy of woman.'

  He rolled over and smiled up at her. The thought does occur to me from time to time, but always too late. Fortunately there are damn few women in my line of work.' A small cloud seemed to cross his smile. 'Mind you, I've got a mate who took up with a wrong 'un once.'

  `What happened when he found out?'

  The cloud thickened. 'Let's just say it put an end to their relationship.'

  `What a shame.'

  Aye, it were indeed. Still, it all worked out in the end; for him at any rate.'

  She leaned down and kissed him again. 'Would you like another drink? I may not take it, but I do keep it. There's some white wine. I'll have a Pepsi.'

  Aye, that'd be nice. I'll get it. In t' fridge, is it?'

  When he returned a few minutes later with the bottle, in a cooler, a Pepsi and two glasses, she was leaning against the headboard smoking a cigarette. 'Want one?'

  `You know I don't, apart from the odd cigar. What the 'ell are those things anyway? They smell pretty strong.'

  `They are. They're Turkish. I buy them from time to time I got to like them when I was a student. I don't smoke for effect, boy. I smoke for… nicotine!' She laughed at his frown.

  He poured his wine and her Pepsi, then slipped back into be beside her. She offered him the cigarette. He took an experimental puff, and felt his head swim as he inhaled'

  Quickly, he handed it back to her. 'Bloody hell! I'll stick to cigars.

  She sipped her Cola. 'So how are your interviews going?'

  `Well enough, but we're not finished yet. We're going to see Ariadne Noble tomorrow.'

  Ariadne Tucker QC, you mean,' said Shana. 'Remember; she's particular about that.'

  `Do you know anything else about her, other than what you told us?'

  `Like what?'

  `Like whether she 'as a bit on the side.'

  She shrugged her shoulders, doing fetching things with her breasts once more. Adam leaned over and nuzzled them with his forehead. She laughed. 'Down boy. Time enough.

  You are staying, aren't you?'

  `Yeah, why not. I've got nowt better to do.'

  `Bugger.' She dug him in the ribs with an elbow.

  Sipping more Pepsi, she leaned against him again. 'It was a bomb that caused the crash, then,' she said, suddenly serious. 'I saw that Scottish policeman on the news. What was his name again?'

  `Bob Skinner.'

  She grinned again, briefly. 'He looks quite dishy.'

  `His wife thinks so.'

  She took a curl of his chest hair and wrapped it round her index finger, tugging gently.

  'Adam?'

  `You made a big deal of asking about the Red Box. That doesn't mean that you think the bomb might have been hidden in it, does it?'

  `No. It means we know that it was hidden there.' Her wrist lay against him, and he felt the pulse at the base of her thumb quicken.

  `Joseph did confirm what I told you, about how the box was packed, didn't he?'

  He smiled. 'Of course he did. You can relax on that score: She sighed with relief. 'Thank you, Allah, for that. What a nightmare.'

  Of course,' said Arrow, 'we can't account precisely for the box before it was packed.

  Suppose the device was already in there? Suppose you'd put it in earlier? Would Webber have known that?'

  She sat up straight. 'He was standing beside me when I packed it. He'd have seen it!'

  She glared at him, not smiling now, not teasing. 'Are you serious?'

  He stared back at her, poker-faced. They sat there for several silent seconds, like naked brown statues.

  `No,' he said at last, a huge smile creasing his broad features.

  Adam, you little bastard!' she said, grinning in spite of herself. She grabbed a handful of chest hair and tugged as hard as she could.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Skinner dozed, and dreamed of mud.

  They had returned from the restaurant just after midnight, their taxi having first dropped Andy and Alex at the West End. Having checked that Jazz was sound asleep, Sarah had gone straight to bed, but Skinner had remained downstairs, padding around barefoot, sucking idly on yet another bottle of beer.

  Finally he settled down on the settee to replay a video tape of the evening's televised football. Motherwell had been his boyhood team, and thus had retained his lifelong adherence, yet he watched their resounding victory over Rangers with a strange apathy.

  He had lived up to his earlier announcement by consuming a substantial quantity of alcohol, yet he could feel no effect, not the slightest trace of exhilaration, not the slightest fuzzing of his thought process. What he felt instead was restlessness, an almost overwhelming urge towards physical activity, and driving wakefulness.

  The tape had run out, to be replaced by yet another screening of The Devil Rides Out, when Sarah appeared in the doorway, Wrapped in her white towelling robe.

  `Bob, its gone one-thirty. I'd like to sleep, but I can't knowing that as soon as I've dropped off you're liable to come up and Plant your big feet in my back! Come to bed, please.'

  He sighed, deeply. 'I just don't feel sleepy, but to please you, okay; He had lain there beside her in the dark, listening as her breathing slowed and smiling at her occasional soft snores but resolutely awake himself. Finally he had switched on his reading light and picked up his bedside novel, a piece of Terry Pratchett fantasy which he was reading for the second time.

  He had enjoyed perfect sight all his life, but he was reaching that point in early middle age where tiredness at the end of a long day was beginning to take its toll of his eyes.

  Gradually, the script became fuzzy; gradually he had held the pages further away, to try to retain focus; eventually the book had slipped from his fingers.

  Skinner dozed, and dreamed of mud.

  He was back in the field, staring across its flat grey acres, standing in his muddy-trousered uniform amid the jetsam of the crash. The unclothed, disjointed doll was at his feet. Unthinking, he bent and seized it by an arm, to pick it up. It hung awkwardly in his grasp, the limbs flopping unnaturally, the head lolling backwards.

&nbs
p; It was quite a large doll, and strange in the way it was put together. Probably very expensive, he thought, remembering the model which he had bought for a friend's newborn daughter. The ball-sockets joining limbs and head to the trunk were remarkably lifelike, with no sign of the rubber bands which showed when most of the cheaper types were twisted to this extent. The touch of it, too. In his hand it didn't feel like plastic, as had his purchase. This one felt almost..

  He dropped it, with a shriek of horror…

  … and woke in the same instant, his lips still drawn back in the shape of his dream-scream.

  This time Sarah woke with him. 'Bob, honey! What is it?' She took him in her arms.

  It's okay,' he mumbled. I'm sorry.'

  'What was it? What were you dreaming about?'

  He shook his head. 'Nothing. It was nothing.'

  It was hardly nothing, man. You're in a lather.' It was true, he realised, conscious of the cold sweat on his body,

  'It was just a bad dream, love. You remember, I had them for a while after that business a couple of years back, when I got shot.'

  `Sure I remember. But you didn't wake up screaming then.'

  'No? Well, maybe it's only now that the full impact's coming home to me. Don't worry about it, it's just a one-off. The cold sweat's probably just the booze working its way out.

  Now go on, get back to sleep. I'm fine now.'

  To convince her, he switched off his reading lamp. In the dim green light of the radio-alarm's LCD clock, he saw her looking up at him doubtfully, but he forced a smile and pulled her to him.

  It took longer than before but gradually she settled to sleep in the crook of his arm. He kissed her hair, and pulled the quilt up over her bare shoulder. He stared up at the ceiling, half-afraid of what he would see; but all that was there was magnolia emulsion, reflecting a faint green tinge from the alarm.

  As he lay there wide awake, a part of his mind knew that it was not so much that he was unable to sleep, but that he dared not.

  THIRTY-NINE

  The home which Maurice Noble had made with Ariadne Tucker was part of a brick terrace in a narrow street which cool boast by about 200 yards to be part of Putney rather than Wandsworth.

  `What's the difference?' growled Mcllhenney, his head throbbing as a result of the disastrous liking which he had taken to Young's Black Horse ale, after he and Donaldson had take their leave of Adam Arrow.

  About fifty grand, in a good market,' their soldier companion informed him. He was walking between them, amiable and bright-eyed, as they covered the short distance from their Government pool vehicle to the Noble front door. He had to reach up to ring the bell.

  The woman who opened the door was statuesque, with wide shoulders and long legs — a perfect match to Shana Mirzana' description. Her dyed blonde hair was neatly cut; McIlhenney could imagine it crowned by a barrister's wig. There was only one thing wrong: she was at least fifty-five years old.

  `Ms Tucker?' Arrow ventured tentatively.

  The Amazon fixed him with a glare borrowed from Edith Evans's Lady Bracknell. 'Mrs Tucker, actually, young man,' she boomed. 'I assume that you are the gentlemen who wish to see my daughter. You may come in.'

  She led them through a tiled porch into a narrow hall, with rug-strewn, sanded floors. On the left rose a staircase with natural pine balustrades which matched the four doors leading to various rooms. Mrs Tucker opened the first and marched through, with the three callers trailing in her wake like a line of cygnets.

  Ariadne, my dear,' she announced. 'These are the people you were expecting. Gentlemen, you are…?'

  Arrow stepped up as she waved him forward and introduced himself, and the two policemen. Maurice Noble's widow rose from her chair and shook each man formally by the hand. She was a younger, even more imposing version of the older woman. Where Tucker M?re's jowls and turkey neck betrayed her age, the daughter's skin was sleek, taut and unwrinkled. Her hazel eyes were even more commanding than her mother's, set off by long lashes and heavy blonde brows. Perhaps, McIlhenney surmised, as a concession to widowhood she was dressed in a simple black T-shirt and leggings. Barefoot, she still towered over Arrow, and looked up only slightly at Donaldson and his Sergeant.

  `Sit down, please, gentlemen,' she said, pointing to a three-seater Chesterfield and a captain's chair, both in unusual blue leather. 'Mother, make yourself scarce and do the coffee thing, there's a dear.' Donaldson tried to imagine the response if Mr Tucker, were, one still in residence, had issued such a peremptory command to the matriarch, yet she simply nodded and left the long drawing-cum-dining room by a door in its furthest wall.

  As soon as she had gone, her bereaved daughter looked across at the soldier, who had chosen, appropriately, the captain's chair. So you're Adam Arrow,' she said. 'My husband talked about you. "Chilling efficiency, masked by a veneer of gauche Derbyshire charm."

  That was his description. Was it fair, do you think?'

  Arrow smiled at her, deliberately giving her full voltage. `Time will tell, Ms Tucker.'

  `Maurice did say that you had been something frightful in the Army before you moved to Security. Is that why you're on this investigation? Have they set one to catch one?'

  `This isn't my investigation. It's a police matter; my role here is liaison.'

  `Ho hum,' said Ariadne, unconvinced.

  Arrow ignored her scepticism. 'Look, Ms Tucker, you have our deepest sympathy, and we are really sorry to have to impose upon you so soon after the tragedy, but you will appreciate, I hope, that it is necessary.'

  She waved a hand. 'That's okay. I understand.'

  `You'll be aware by now that the crash in which your husband was killed was the result of an explosion.'

  She nodded, grim-faced. 'Someone got that swine Davey at last. What a pity he had to take poor Maurice with him, and all those other people.'

  `That sounds as if you disapproved pretty strongly of our late Secretary of State.'

  `The man was an absolute shit. Don't you agree with me, Captain?'

  Arrow shrugged. 'I don't have a view. My reporting chain leads to the Permanent Secretary's door, not to his. All I'd say is that Ministers are like soldiers, in that they don't have to be nice, just effective.'

  And are you nice, Adam?' she said, in a voice not entirely becoming in a widow.

  `Who knows?' he retorted, his eyes suddenly hard behind the smile. But I'm bloody effective.'

  I'll bet, thought Dave Donaldson, a spectator at the sparring match. He decided that it was time for him to assert his presence'

  How did your husband seem when he left on Friday morning, Mrs Noble?' he asked.

  She flashed him a look when he used her marital title, but let it pass. 'I couldn't tell you. I didn't see him. He had an early start. He called "Goodbye," then I heard the taxi leave. My door was closed so I couldn't describe his tone of voice.'

  `You mean you were still asleep when he got up?'

  'No, Superintendent, I mean we have, sorry had, separate rooms.' Suddenly a large marmalade cat sprang up and over the back of her chair, to land in her lap. 'Not now, Tigger,' she said without annoyance, tossing the animal gently down on to the pale blue carpet. Simultaneously, Shana Mirzana's, A. A. Milne analogy sprang into the mind of each of the three men, but none felt the slightest like smiling.

  `Separate rooms,' said Donaldson. 'Forgive me, but does that mean that you and your husband were having problems with your marriage?'

  And did I pop a couple of dynamite sandwiches into his little lunchbox, were you about to ask?' Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. 'No, Chief Inspector, you may not draw either of those conclusions.

  `Maurice worked silly hours in Private Office, thanks to the appalling Davey. Sometimes, in my profession, I burn midnight oil too, preparing for consultations, and for court. For example on Thursday evening, I was preparing my closing speech to the jury in a major fraud trial in which I am appearing for the defence.

  Each of us needed our sleep. So if one of us w
as working late, rather than disturb the other, we did the sensible thing.'

  `How many nights a week were you that sensible?'

  Most of them,' she said curtly. She turned to Arrow. 'If we were in court, and I was in the witness box, my Counsel would be objecting to this chap's line of questioning… Your Honour.'

  I think,' said the soldier, 'that my colleague is doing his best to establish Maurice's state of mind, and being as delicate about it as he can. Me, I'm just a gauche Derbyshire lad, so I'll come straight out with it. Were you playing all your games at home, Ms Tucker, or were some of them away fixtures?'

  The woman sat bolt upright in her chair, a flush springing to her cheeks. Her mouth formed a reply, but just at that moment the door at the far end of the room creaked open, as M?re Tucker reappeared with a large tray laden with cafetiere and cups.

  Her daughter jumped to her feet and went to meet her. `Thank you, Mother, I'll take these.

  Leave us, please.'

  The older woman looked doubtful, but Ariadne grabbed the tray and shoo-ed her back through the door from which she had emerged. As it closed, she laid the tray on the reproduction mahogany dining table and stormed back to confront Arrow.

  `What the hell right have you got to ask such a question?'

  All the right I need. I'll ask you again. Were you being unfaithful to Maurice?'

  `You can't jump to that conclusion simply because of our civilised sleeping arrangements.'

  It's not our conclusion, and that isn't the only reason for the question. We have information that Maurice thought you were seeing someone else.'

  She stood glaring down at Arrow, her hands on her hips. `Where did you get that from?

  Not the Mirzana girl. Maurice was basically frightened of women; he'd never have confided in her. It could only have come from Joseph Webber, the office sponge. You accuse me on the basis of his gossip?'

  `No one's accusing, Ms Tucker,' said Neil Mcllhenney, his head pounding with the tension and the fading effects of the ale. `We're simply asking.'

  The big bluff Scot seemed to mollify her. 'Look,' she said., Maurice had a history of clinical depression. The job put pressures on him that he didn't anticipate when he took it, and that so-and-so Davey was responsible for them. He didn't care a scrap about his staff; he didn't allow for one second that they might have demands on their time other than his.