Proud gave him a strange smile. ‘I have a deputy. His name’s Bob Skinner and he’s from these parts.’
‘I know who you mean: Bill Skinner’s son.’
‘That’s right. Bob and I are very different types in our approaches to police work, but the more I get caught up in this thing, the more I find myself thinking like him.’
Fifty-three
For all its ugliness, Bandit Mackenzie liked the Fettes building. He had spent most of his service out in the sticks of Glasgow and North Lanarkshire; his spell at the centre of affairs in Edinburgh, in his role as head of the Drugs Squad, had been stimulating. The Leith posting reminded him of Cumbernauld, which had been by no means the highlight of his career.
He had to ask the doorkeeper for directions to McIlhenney’s new office. It was three floors up in the main office wing; he climbed the stair with a frown on his face.
The detective superintendent was standing in the doorway, waiting for him. ‘Hello, Bandit,’ he said, as he ushered him into the room. ‘That was a hell of a long half-hour.’
‘Traffic,’ Mackenzie grunted.
‘That’s always the tale in Edinburgh. Take a seat.’ There was no offer of tea or coffee; the chief inspector was surprised, until he remembered that McIlhenney drank neither. ‘So, David,’ he began, ‘what have you got to tell me? How’s the Starr investigation going?’
‘We’ve just seen his ex-wife; she’s a right brassy cow, but she’s well alibied for the time of death. So’s her husband: he’s a long-distance driver. Before that we saw Starr’s current girlfriend, Mina Clarkson. Nothing there: she had the occasional bet in his shop and he gave her one equally occasionally. That’s us done with interviewing family and associates.’
‘Leads?’
‘A few; we’re following them up.’
McIlhenney leaned across his desk. ‘And where exactly are you doing that? Pamplona in Spain? How about that?’
Mackenzie felt his chair shift under him, and realised that instinctively he had pushed it backwards. ‘I had occasion to call the police there for assistance,’ he said.
‘So I gather. And in their turn, the Guardia Civil, which has jurisdiction over all drugs crime in Spain, had occasion to call the Scottish Drug Enforcement Agency and ask them what the hell you and the local plods were doing poking your nose into an operation on which the two of them have been co-operating for months. This led to the director of the SDEA calling the head of CID and asking him much the same thing, and not very politely either. Since he didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about . . . well, you can imagine his reaction. Mind you, you nearly didn’t have to imagine: it took all my powers of persuasion to get him to leave this to me.’
‘Neil . . .’
‘Shut up!’ the superintendent snarled. ‘How do you see me? Good old Neil, amiable guy, soft touch, string him along: is that it? Was that what you thought? Well, I’ve got news for you, pal. That’s the face I show to my wife and kids, to colleagues I trust and to people I like, people who don’t upset me. Those who do get to see the other side, like you are just now. Chief Inspector, you may be pissed off about being moved to Leith, or you may be carrying some residue from the St Andrews operation. I do not know and I do not fucking care. What I do perceive is an arrogant bastard who’s on a one-man mission to prove that he’s better than anyone else in this department, and who’s prepared to jeopardise anything in its pursuit. Well, Bandit, you may be prepared to put your own career in the crapper, but don’t think that you can drag mine along with it. You don’t agree with what I’m saying? You believe your own press cuttings? You want to take me on? Try it. I’ll fucking bury you.’
Mackenzie looked back at him, making an attempt to summon up some belligerence, some sort of a defence against the onslaught, and then he folded. ‘Neil, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have told you about the drugs and the money. I was out of order. It won’t happen again.’
‘True; not on this investigation at any rate, because you’re benched.’
‘You mean I’m suspended?’
‘No, you’re on holiday. You and Cheryl are decorating the bathroom, and you’ve been planning it for some time. I’ll see you a week on Monday; then we’ll talk about second chances.’
Fifty-four
Normally, Bob Skinner preferred his dentist’s chair to the passenger seat of a car. However, on the way to Bakewell he was content to leave the driving to Shannon: he had serious thinking to do.
The inspector thought that he was asleep as she turned off the M1, skirting Chesterfield as she headed for the A619 and the Derbyshire Dales: she was startled when he spoke. ‘I brought my older daughter down here on holiday once,’ he said, ‘when she was about thirteen. Easter was late that year, and we decided to do something different. It was bloody freezing, but the pub food was terrific, and they were relaxed about letting Alex in. It’s nice countryside.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘Maybe I’ll do the same with the second lot in a few years. Jeez,’ he mused, ‘I’ll tell you, Dottie, being a one-parent family isn’t something you reckon to do once in a lifetime, but twice . . .’
The revelation took Shannon by surprise; for a moment she wondered whether she should sympathise, but decided that silence was the better option. As if he sensed her unease, the DCC moved on. ‘Okay, tell me about Esther Archer.’
‘She’s Esther Craig now, aged thirty-six, and married to a baker called Elton Craig . . . but you knew that already from the letter. She has two sons, Aaron, who’s eleven, and Joshua, who’s just turned eight. The family seems to go in for Biblical names. Her parents were Joshua Archer, a soldier, and Joan Hartland, who’s described as a housewife on Esther’s birth certificate. The father was killed in action, serving with Two Para in the Falklands, but the mother is still alive. However, there is no record anywhere of the birth of anyone called Moses Archer.’
‘There wouldn’t be: Adam, and the MoD, would have made sure his tracks were covered for the family’s sake. That’s why I find the houseboat so hard to figure out.’ He glanced at her. ‘What were you able to find out about that?’
‘He’s been registered as owner with the Port of London Authority for the last six years. The previous owner was a Dutch registered company: Archer bought it from them for a hundred and thirty thousand pounds, paid in full by certified cheque drawn on an account in the Premier Taiwan Bank, City of London branch.’
‘Who was the account holder?’
‘Moses Archer.’
‘Eh? Adam was a serving soldier; where the hell did he get that sort of money?’
‘I wasn’t able to establish that, sir, but I do know that he was getting it regularly . . . so to speak. The account was set up seven years ago with an initial deposit of two hundred thousand pounds sterling. Much of that went on the acquisition and improvement of the Bulrush, but since then there have been annual inward transfers, for fifty thousand at first rising to a hundred and fifty thousand this year.’
‘What’s it been used for?’
‘Bills relating to the upkeep of the boat, mostly. There have been a few cash withdrawals over the years: the biggest of them was a hundred thousand, this summer. At the moment, the balance is standing at just over two hundred and ten thousand.’
‘You couldn’t trace the origin of these payments?’
‘No. All I know for sure is that they weren’t made over the counter.’
‘What about the Premier Taiwan Bank? I can’t say I’ve ever heard of it.’
‘It’s a private outfit, sir, not a high-street player: a posh people’s bank.’
‘Indeed? And who’d be feeding money into that?’
He was frowning as he took out his mobile, retrieved a stored number and called it. ‘Merle,’ Shannon heard him say, ‘it’s Bob Skinner. How’s things in your busy world?’ He chuckled. ‘Look on the bright side. You’re a section head now, with a staff, instead of being stuck in an outpost on your own. That’s got to count for something. Listen, pal
, can I ask you an idle question?’ Pause. ‘The Premier Taiwan Bank: does it have any special meaning for you?’ Pause. ‘I tripped over it, that’s all; possible money-laundering.’ Pause. ‘I see. Tell you what: I’m having dinner with a friend tonight in the Charing Cross Hotel. There’s a pub round the corner called the Clarence; full of tourists, but no players. Can you meet me there?’ Pause. ‘Seven will be fine. There’s something else I’d like you to do for me, but I’ll call you later about that.’
He ended the call. ‘Friend of mine,’ he said. ‘Her name’s Merle Gower, and she’s based at the US Embassy, National Security section. That bank means something to her, but she’s not for telling me over the phone. We’ll see her tonight.’
‘We?’
‘Sure. You two should meet: you could be useful to each other.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘Bakewell, two miles. Nearly there: do you know how to find the address?’
‘I’ve got a map if we need it, but from memory we take the first right across the river, then we’re looking for a left turn.’ She paused. ‘I’d have thought that the Security Service would have had satellite navigation in their cars.’
‘I didn’t want that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Just.’
Shannon’s memory had served her well: she found Stannington Drive without the need for the map. They drove slowly down the leafy street until they saw Glebe Cottage, on their left. ‘What was your cover story when you called her?’ Skinner asked.
‘I told her that you’re from the Imperial War Museum and that you’re doing a book on the real Falklands; I’m your research assistant. We’re looking into what soldiers really thought of the war as it was being fought.’
‘She bought that?’
‘Hook, line and the other thing; I can be very persuasive, sir.’
‘That’s your way of saying you’re a bloody good liar, isn’t it?’
She smiled. ‘If you want to put it that way, who am I to argue?’ She parked in front of the house.
When Esther Craig opened the door, Skinner found himself stifling a gasp. The woman was an inch or so taller than her brother and was more slightly built, but facially she could have been his twin. ‘Hello,’ she greeted them breezily. ‘You’ll be the people from the museum, will you? Mr Skinner, is it, and Ms Shannon? Come on in.’ The visitors followed her through the living room of the cottage and into a sunlit conservatory. ‘Have you driven all that way up this morning?’ she asked them.
‘It’s not that far, Mrs Craig,’ Skinner replied, as he settled into the soft cushions of a bamboo-framed couch.
‘This is really fascinating,’ the woman said; her accent was also very similar to that of her brother, in his less formal moments. ‘I’ve looked out some of my dad’s letters. I think you’ll be interested in them.’
The big Scot looked at her. ‘We have an apology to make to you, I’m afraid,’ he told her. ‘My colleague spun you an out-and-out lie in arranging this meeting. However, she did it with the best possible motive: she didn’t want you worrying unduly.’ He took out his warrant card and held it up for Esther Craig to see. ‘We’re police officers, and we’re investigating your brother, Moses.’
‘Investigating him?’ she gasped, as her open face creased into a frown. ‘Moses? Is he in trouble?’
‘As of this moment, no.’
‘Then what’s this about, Mr Skinner?’
‘Call me Bob, Esther. How much do you know about his professional life?’
‘You mean what he does for a living?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not a great deal, because he never talked about it much. He’s a policeman, like you, but he works under cover a lot. The boys, my sons, think he’s a civil servant: so does my husband, for that matter.’
‘He joined the army when he was young, didn’t he?’
‘Straight from school. After he took his A levels, he went to Sandhurst.’
‘That would be about, what, twenty years ago?’
She thought for a second. ‘Yes, that’d be right. He’s two years older than me.’
‘What age was he when your father was killed?’
‘He’d have been fourteen. After that it was only ever going to be the army for him: Queen and country and all that. Our dad got a posthumous Military Cross, with a citation, and a letter to my mum from Her Majesty, thanking us all “for Major Archer’s sacrifice”, as she put it. That made sure that Moses was a real monarchist . . . not that my dad wasn’t, mind. God, was he ever? I remember him telling us that he wouldn’t fire a shot for a politician, only for the sovereign. He believed that without the King for everybody to rally round, we’d have lost the Second World War, and we’d all be speaking German now. He never gave Churchill much credit, only King George and his generals.’
‘So Moses followed him into the army.’
Esther nodded. ‘Yes; but, sir, Bob, what’s all this about?’
‘I’ll get to that, I promise, in due course. Were you surprised when he left?’
‘Yes. Yes, I was. I thought he loved it; I thought that everything was going well for him. He was a first lieutenant, a company commander in Two Para just like our dad, as he’d always wanted to be, and then, what, ten years ago now, he just up and left.’
‘Did he tell you why?’
‘He said that he was disillusioned.’
‘By what?’
‘By the rules, he said. He said that it was the rules that had got our dad killed and that he wasn’t having any more of them. So he told me that he was taking a job with the police in London, and that he’d be working on special things, infiltrating gangs and the like.’
‘Did that worry you?’
‘No. If I’d been about to worry about anyone it would have been the people he infiltrated. Moses is a lovely man, Bob, but after Dad was killed something changed in him. He’s only a little chap, but he’s as hard as nails.’
‘Have you ever visited him in London?’
‘No: he said he didn’t want that. We see him when he comes back here . . . and the little sod’s overdue us a visit.’
‘What about your mother? Does she ever visit him?’
‘No, her neither; he’s been to see her in America a couple of times, though.’
‘America?’
‘Yes, my mum’s remarried, to an American called Titus Armstead. He and Mum got married about twelve years ago, and she moved to America. Titus is retired now, and they live in Delaware; it’s a lovely place, very quiet.’
‘Mmm. So how did you keep in touch with Moses?’
‘By letter. At first he had a post-office box number, but after a few years he bought his houseboat and I could write to him there.’
‘Have you ever been there?’
‘No, but he showed me pictures after he bought it. It looks lovely.’
Skinner gazed at her, knowing that the moment when he would change her life was drawing near. ‘This job of his,’ he asked, ‘did you ever question it?’
‘No, why should I? It’s what he told me, and I always believe him.’
‘He never left the army, Esther.’
She stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean what I say. He did go under cover, that much was true, but not in the way he told you. He was in the SAS for a while, in Ireland, and then he went into Military Intelligence, into its most secret and sensitive branch. When I think about it, I reckon that’s what he meant when he talked to you about the rules. He went into a different world, one in which a new identity was created for him, to protect you and your family from the possibility of anyone ever trying to get at him through you. Moses Archer ceased to exist, and Adam Arrow was born.’
‘Adam Arrow?’ she whispered, incredulous.
‘Yes. That’s the name I knew him by.’ He chose his tense deliberately and watched her as it registered.
‘Knew,’ she repeated quietly, lining her fingers together in her lap.
‘Yes, I’m afrai
d so. I’m very sorry to have to tell you that he was killed on an operation a little while back.’
Esther Archer sank back into her chair and buried her face in her hands. Shannon started to rise, to comfort her, but Skinner motioned to her, staying her. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he repeated.
She wiped her tears, almost defiantly. ‘Thank you, Bob,’ she replied quietly and with dignity. ‘You know, if he had to die, I’m glad it was in the same service as our dad, and for the same cause. Now can I ask you a few things?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why am I hearing this from you, from a policeman, rather than from a fellow soldier?’
‘I was his friend, and that’s the most important reason. In the aftermath of his death some things have emerged about the operation that killed him and I’m looking into them. One of them is the continued existence of Moses Archer; that wasn’t supposed to happen, and I need to know who else knew about him, and knew where he was.’
‘Nobody outside the family; only Mum and me, and Elton and the boys, and Titus, I suppose.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Nobody’s heard of it from me, I can promise you that.’
‘Good. It’s best there’s no link; just as Moses’ records were erased, none were ever created about Adam Arrow.’
‘Is anyone telling Mum?’
‘That’s your job, I think.’
‘Who killed him?’
He almost told her, but he bit it back. ‘He was killed in a fire-fight,’ was all he said.
‘I see. What happened to his body?’
‘Nothing yet; it’s still in a mortuary.’
‘Can we have him back, back here where he’s from, so we can look after him?’
‘I’ll arrange that.’
‘If it’s all so secret will you be able to?’
‘I know people who can. We’ll give you what they call a legend, a story to explain his death, a car crash in Australia, something like that. You’ll have to bury him as Moses Archer.’
She looked at him and smiled. ‘What else would I do, Bob? I never knew Adam Arrow, only my lovely little brother.’
16 - Dead And Buried Page 24