Mackenzie sighed. ‘Okay, Neil,’ he said. ‘I hear what you’re saying. I’ll give myself a good kicking.’
‘No. Remember what’s happened, but don’t dwell on it. Relax with your kids and come back to work rested and refreshed.’ McIlhenney stood. ‘I’ll leave by the front door,’ he said.
The two men walked together into the hall. ‘How’s the Starr thing going?’ Mackenzie asked.
‘Check the Scottish news tonight and you’ll hear that we’re looking for Eddie Charnwood, for the murder of Starr, Big Ming, and a dealer in Dundee.’
‘Charnwood?’ Bandit’s face went white. ‘Of course: he was too close to Starr not to have known what was going on, yet I bought his innocent act. Christ, that’s how far up my arse my head must have been.’
Sixty-three
‘How did your big meeting go today?’ Bob asked. ‘What’s the view on super-casinos?’
Aileen smiled ruefully. ‘My opposite numbers in the Westminster parliament,’ she replied, ‘still have their fingers crossed that the questionable positives will outweigh the undoubted negatives. Personally, I wouldn’t have had any in Scotland, but gambling isn’t a devolved power, so the decision wasn’t entirely in our hands. What’s the police view?’
‘We don’t really have one. We are but poor public servants put on earth to perform the tasks wished upon us by our political masters or, in your case, mistresses. If you tell us you’re going to set up bloody great gaming halls and we’ll have to police them, that’s what we’ll do.’
‘Bollocks,’ she said cheerfully. ‘The police have a view on everything.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘In this case it will have to be a moral one, founded on whether or not we agree with gambling in principle. Casinos are not a policing problem, and it’s most unlikely that they ever will be. My personal view is that I regard gambling as an entertainment; like everything else, how much a person spends on it should relate to what they can afford.’
‘There are gambling addicts, remember.’
‘And alcoholics and junkies and foodies and inconsiderate bastards in sports cars who can’t help turning up their stereo systems to full volume, then driving through my home village at night with the top down. Addiction is a fact of life: self-control is impossible for some people until it’s imposed upon them by poverty or death. Yes, some people bet more than they or their families can afford, but for the majority, gambling on a horse race or on who scores first in a football match is a reasonable investment, because they understand it and accept the odds. So why penalise them by banning it? You won’t stop it, you’ll only drive it underground, and then it will become my problem. The core task of the police service is ensuring peace and order in society: let us concentrate on preventing crime against property and the person and let everything else, wherever possible, be a matter of self-discipline, with economic rather than criminal consequences for failure.’
Aileen de Marco picked up her coffee cup. ‘That, my darling, is as fine a mix of cynicism and practicality as I’ve heard in a while. I will make a politician of you yet, for all your protests.’
He took her free hand in both of his and looked into her eyes. ‘There’s something you should know about me, something I only admit to people I love.’ He paused, enjoying her sudden uncertainty. ‘I am a politician.’
She laughed. ‘I thought you were going to tell me something serious. I know: you’ve got an honours degree in politics . . . more than I have if it comes to it . . . but I’m talking about practical application.’
‘So am I. What’s a politician’s job? To work for the benefit of the people, in a variety of ways; legislation is only a small part of it, as you’re well aware. What do you do with the rest of your time? You get things done, for your constituents and others. How? By considering, discovering, persuading, but only occasionally by instructing. What are your basic skills? I’d say they lie in knowing which buttons to push, knowing where the expertise lies in relation to each problem you face, and knowing who the decision-maker is in each situation. I’ve been doing that all my career; before I ever went to university and took the degree you mentioned . . . which also includes philosophy, in case you’ve forgotten . . . I learned it from my father, and I never even knew he was teaching me. I’m bloody good at it, much better than people give me credit for. They think I open doors by kicking them in.’ He shot her a quick smile that seemed to wipe all the tiredness from his face. ‘I suppose I do, from time to time,’ he chuckled, ‘but only as a very last resort.’
‘We are going to be some combination,’ she murmured. ‘Scotland doesn’t know what it’s in for.’
‘I’m thinking outside Scotland at the moment. And just to show you how good a politician I am, I’m going to ask you to open that door for me, the one I mentioned last night, not because of our relationship . . . I’ll never do that, I promise . . . but because I reckon you owe me one.’
‘I owe you more than one. What do you need?’
‘I’m in a position with my investigation where I need some questions answered and maybe some orders given. There’s only one person who can do all that, and I need to get to see him, in total secrecy. You’re my key.’
‘If I can I will. Who’s behind this door?’
‘The Prime Minister.’
Sixty-four
‘How was your dinner date last night?’ Merle Gower asked, as a waiter laid a full English breakfast before her.
‘Fine, thanks,’ Skinner replied, cutting a piece of melon. ‘She had to leave for a while to make a phone call, but other than that it was a very pleasant evening.’
‘She’s a very attractive lady, I’m told.’
‘In many ways. Were my suspicions justified?’
‘Yes, they were.’
‘In that case, the sooner she’s out of town the better.’
Shannon looked from one to the other, puzzled by the exchange.
‘We’re being tailed, Dottie,’ Skinner told her, ‘or at least I am. Merle had a couple of her people watch over me after I left the Clarence last night. From what she’s just said they spotted my followers.’
‘All the way to the Charing Cross Hotel, and into the bar.’
‘So now they know who I was meeting. That’s no problem, for half of Scotland knows that Aileen and I are friendly. Still, I’ll be happier when she isn’t around here any longer.’
‘If we were followed last night,’ said the inspector, ‘won’t they know that we were meeting Merle?’
‘Our watchers may not have known who she was. But suppose they did, we’re old friends too, so there’s a valid reason for our meeting. On top of that, who’s going to have a business meeting with a spook in a pub in the middle of bloody Whitehall?’
‘I accept that, sir, but if we’re being watched, won’t they have seen her arrive here this morning?’
‘No,’ Gower replied, ‘they’ll have seen a woman in a white coat with a huge hood get out of a taxi. I know this because my people can talk to me, right into my ear, right now, and they report that neither of their rivals reacted when I entered.’
‘Where are they, the people who are watching us?’
‘One’s in a car parked on the street outside; the other’s at a newspaper stall.’
‘And who are they?’
‘Take your pick,’ said Skinner. ‘Five? Six? Military Intelligence? It’s not Merle’s lot; that’s all I know for sure. Are you going to ask me why now?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’
‘Because we’re good at our job. We’re being set up.’
‘By whom?’ Shannon asked anxiously.
‘I’ll know for sure before the morning’s out. Merle, what have you got for us?’
The American frowned at him. ‘Short answers about each of your three names. Peter Bassam is a CIA asset who was active in the Balkan republics; he was a member of Milosevic’s secret service, but he was a double, until the Agency made him disappear.’
‘The CIA?’ Shannon exclaimed. ‘We were told he was one of ours.’
‘We’ve been told lots of things, Dottie. I’ve rarely met anyone who was as co-operative as Miles Hassett. Go on, Merle.’
‘Moses Archer, we’ve never heard of,’ she said. ‘Surprised?’
‘Not yet. How about the third name I gave you?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘And where exactly did you come across it? I’ve been told to ask you that before I tell you anything.’
‘Ask away, I’m not saying at this stage.’
‘I didn’t think you would; never mind, I tried. Titus Armstead is CIA from way back, but like me, he has links with national security.’
‘Has? I was told that he’s retired and living in Delaware.’
‘The second is true, the first is not: he’s still active, but he works away from the centre, out of Dover Air Force Base. That’s as secure as anything in the US apart from the Strategic Air Command headquarters and the White House itself.’
‘Would it be possible for him to have someone on the payroll whose identity was unknown to Langley, or to your boss?’
‘In some areas of the world, it would almost be essential that an asset’s identity was kept secret.’
‘I don’t imagine that Britain is one of those areas.’
‘Of course not.’
‘And yet that’s what he did.’
Gower gasped. ‘He ran an agent here? The third name you gave me, Moses Archer, that was him, right?’
‘Right. He was Armstead’s stepson, and you’ve met him, but not going by that name. You knew him as Adam Arrow.’
‘You’re crazy. You’re telling me that my department has someone within British Military Intelligence as an asset?’
‘For the last seven years, but not any more: he’s dead.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘I don’t suppose you could find out who authorised his recruitment.’
‘No, I couldn’t. That is so off base that nobody will ever admit to it.’
‘Is it possible that nobody did, and that Armstead operated independently?’
Gower rubbed her chin as she thought. ‘Seven years ago,’ she murmured, ‘just when terrorism was beginning to expand globally. If he had a covert budget back then, and someone like him might have . . . yes, I suppose so.’ She gazed at Skinner. ‘Bob, you’re telling me stuff here that maybe I shouldn’t know.’
‘Then forget I ever did. You don’t need to know it. But I’d like you to do one more thing for me.’
‘I don’t know if I should.’
‘This is easy,’ he told her, then glanced at his watch. ‘I’m being picked up out front in five minutes by a car that’s going to take me to a very private meeting, and I don’t want anyone tailing me there. When your people see me in the doorway, I’d like them to take my watchers out of play. They don’t need to be subtle about it, just effective.’
‘What if I wind up fielding complaints from your Foreign Secretary?’
‘You won’t, I guarantee it. I’m going to meet his boss.’
Sixty-five
Mr Arnold Solomons was expecting him. Before driving through from Edinburgh, Proud had taken the precaution of phoning, to make sure that the man was willing to talk to him. He was, although conversation was not what was uppermost in the chief constable’s mind. More than anything, he wanted to see another place where Claude Bothwell had lived, to see if the man had left any trace of himself.
As Ina Leslie had said, Dundyvan Drive was ‘up Broomhill’, a left turn off a twisting road that climbed up from the Clydeside Expressway. The street was lined with leafless trees, and seemed quiet; number fourteen was a red-brick semi-detached bungalow, an unusual type of house for that part of Glasgow where most of the older dwellings are stone-built. Proud parked in front and walked up the driveway.
The man who answered the doorbell’s summons would have been tall in his youth, but a spinal condition had given him a permanent, hunched stoop, so that he had to twist his neck awkwardly to look up at his visitor. ‘Mr Proud?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Mr Solomons, and thank you for seeing me. I hope it isn’t an inconvenience.’
‘Not at all; if anything it’s a convenience. It’s given me an excuse not to go into the shop.’
‘What sort of shop?’
‘A jeweller’s, up in Hyndland.’ His eyes took on a wary look. ‘You said you’re a policeman, when you called. Do you have anything to prove that?’
Proud smiled at the man’s caution and handed him his warrant card, watching as Solomons peered at it through thick spectacles, taking in his reaction as he read it
‘It’s Sir James, is it? I beg your pardon, Chief Constable. This is a very puzzling honour. Come into my parlour, and I’ll get the tea organised.’ He led him straight into a receiving room with a bay window that looked out on to the street, then stepped back into the hall and called out, ‘Rachel, my visitor’s arrived.’
Proud guessed that the organisation of the tea had just taken place. He glanced round the room, noting that practically every flat surface was occupied by painted china dogs. He looked at the old jeweller as he settled into a well-used armchair, his face relaxing as the strain was taken off his deformed spine. He tried to guess the man’s age, and decided he had to be in his mid-seventies, although his disability may have had an ageing effect.
‘I haven’t had a policeman in this house for over twenty years,’ he mused. ‘Not that I had done anything myself, you understand. There was a robbery in the shop, and I was beaten up. Bastards hit me with baseball bats; that was the start of my back trouble. Anyway, the CID came here to interview me when I was recovering, to get an inventory of what was taken.’
‘Did they arrest the robbers?’
Solomons’ laugh was derisory. ‘That lot? They couldn’t have found their arses with both hands. No, they never caught them, and I never got any of my property back. I’m not at the top end of the business, Sir James. Most of the stuff probably wound up being sold on market stalls down south. My insurers coughed up, although they made me install expensive security systems, both at the shop and here.’ He paused as a white-haired, bird-like woman came into the room, carrying a tea tray that looked as if it could have been silver. Proud rose to help her, but she placed it unaided on a table in front of the fireplace. ‘This is my wife,’ the old man said. ‘Rachel, this is Sir James Proud.’
The old woman gave a tiny bow as she shook the chief constable’s hand. ‘Very pleased to meet you,’ she whispered.
‘We had our golden wedding two years ago,’ Solomons told him, as she poured the tea from a pot that matched the tray.
‘Congratulations,’ Proud replied. ‘Mine’s fifteen years away; I hope I make it.’
‘You look a pretty fit chap; I’m sure you will. Now, how can we help you?’
The chief constable accepted a cup of tea from Mrs Solomons, and added a little milk. ‘I’m trying to find someone who lived in this house before you,’ he said. ‘His name was Claude Bothwell and he taught in Jordanhill School. He was a tenant here in the late fifties: I understand that you bought it in 1964.’
‘Sixty-five,’ the old lady corrected him. ‘I’m better with dates than Arnold.’
‘She is,’ her husband admitted. ‘Mind, we were tenants ourselves before that. The landlord was Mr A. E. Pickard, a very famous man in Glasgow: he owned all sorts of property, flats, houses, theatres, cinemas, everything. He was a great man, Mr Pickard; famous for the jokes he played on people. My father knew him well; he told him that Rachel and I were needing a house, rather than the flat we were in, as our second child was on the way, and he offered us this place. Remember when we went to meet him, Rachel?’
The old lady smiled. ‘Oh, yes. We were shown into his office to sign the tenancy, but there was no one there. So we sat down in chairs opposite this great big desk and waited for, oh, it must have been ten minutes at least, neither of us saying anything, but with Arnold getti
ng fidgetier and fidgetier. We were both wondering where he was when all of a sudden he climbed out from the kneehole under the desk, all smiles. “I fooled you there, didn’t I?” was what he said. And, you know, he must have been about eighty-five at the time.’
‘Eccentric,’ Solomons declared. ‘That’s what he was, the last of the great eccentrics.’
‘Well, maybe not the last, dear,’ his wife murmured, glancing at the china dogs. ‘There’s still you, in your own quiet way.’
‘When did you move in?’ Proud asked her.
‘1960; in the autumn.’
‘That’s right,’ said the old man. ‘We signed the lease, then Mr Pickard gave us the keys and drove us out to see the house in his Rolls-Royce. He owned this one, the one next door and the two beyond that, but he walked us up the drive to here, and said, “This is the best of them all; a palace fit for a prince.” I’m sure he said that to all his tenants, but who cares? He was a great man, and he made you feel good.’
‘Do you recall him saying anything about the previous tenant?’
‘No, I can’t say that I do.’
‘Yes, you can,’ Rachel exclaimed. ‘There was the garden shed.’
‘Oh, yes; ach, my memory’s shot to hell these days. After he showed us through the house, Mr Pickard took us out to the back garden. In the far corner there was a shed, a big timber thing with windows in it, so new that the maker’s stickers were still on the glass. I asked him if we would be expected to pay for it, since it wasn’t mentioned in the lease. He laughed and said no, that we could thank the previous tenant for it. He told us that the man had asked him if he could put a shed in the garden, and that he’d said he could. Then, less than a month later, the fellow came back to him. He told him that he and his wife were moving from Glasgow to a new job, paid him all the rent that was due and handed back the keys. “Imagine,” he said, “paying all that money on a new shed and then just walking away and leaving it. And here’s me thinking that teachers are poorly paid.” You’re right, Rachel, there was that, right enough. When I think about it, I can still hear Mr Pickard laughing.’
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