As he spoke the technician stopped and turned towards him. ‘That’s it, sir,’ he called out. ‘That’s as much as I can do; I’ve been over the lot and there’s nothing detectable here.’
Proud stepped out into the garden, with McIlhenney following, and strode across to a greenhouse that stood in the corner of the garden that was most exposed to the sun. ‘You haven’t covered this,’ he said.
‘The sensor can’t penetrate concrete, sir,’ the man replied.
‘And this is a modern structure, Chief,’ McIlhenney added. ‘From the looks of it, it’s only been here for a few years.’
‘Perhaps, Neil, but was that concrete base used for something else before it?’ He looked over his shoulder at Dorward. ‘Arthur, I want this dismantled and the base broken up.’
The three senior officers retreated inside the house, watching through the kitchen window as the greenhouse was emptied of the chilli plants, which had been, apparently, its late owner’s hobby, and as its sections were unbolted and laid flat on the grass. Then, just as their Strathclyde counterparts had done, the team set to work breaking up its solid floor, attacking it methodically until it was in pieces small enough for them to pick it apart with their gloved hands.
Almost all of the broken lumps had been removed, when the workers stepped back, as if at a command; one of them turned towards the house and beckoned. Again, the chief constable led the way outside. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Take a look, sir,’ said the officer who had waved them over, as his colleagues backed off, clearing the area of their shadows.
Proud crouched beside the fresh earth, and saw . . . the edge of a rolled carpet protruding through it. He knelt and began to scoop out the soil until enough of the fabric had been freed for him to grab a corner and yank it away, revealing, unmistakably, the skeleton of a human foot.
Eighty-four
Dover, the capital of Delaware, first state in the Union, presented a complete contrast to its English namesake, as Skinner swung the Corvette off the Dupont Highway into East Lookerman Street. There were no white cliffs in sight. The buildings were all low-rise; they were old and seemed to be built either of wood or brick. A few hundred yards down, he obeyed the navigation system and turned left, driving past the Legislative Hall, and on until he reached the long and tree-shaded Duke of Melbourne Street.
The house he sought was at the end of the avenue, two-storeyed, wooden-faced, with a veranda extending across its full width. He knew it before he reached it; there was a red Plymouth parked outside.
He drew to a halt a hundred yards away, looking up and down as he stepped out into the cool December afternoon. The street was deserted; and there were no signs of any watchers behind curtains. He smiled: it was perfect, so perfect. What could spoil it? he asked himself. The answer was obvious: if the wrong man was waiting in the house, that might put a considerable damper on his day. The people he was dealing with were experienced, and demonstrably dangerous. Walking up to the front door and ringing the bell would not be the wisest thing he had ever done.
He considered his options for a few moments, then slid back inside the low-slung car, switched on the engine, and drove on, past the house, turning right into Malmsey Street, and stopping after a hundred yards. He took a small pair of binoculars from a tote bag on the passenger seat and studied the house from the rear: it stood on a big plot, enclosed by a very low perimeter fence over which he could see easily. All the windows on the upper storey were shuttered, but there was one on the ground floor that was open and uncurtained. He focused the glasses on it, making out a big oak dresser with plates displayed, but no sign of any movement within. ‘Kitchen,’ he murmured. ‘Climbing in the window’s not an option, so what else?’
He studied the building for a little longer, looking for potential entry points, until he saw, not far from the three steps that led up to the back door, a hatchway similar to that he had opened on board the Bulrush. ‘Cellar,’ he murmured. ‘Let’s just hope it’s empty.’
He stepped out of the car once more, his bag slung over his shoulder, and walked back up the tarmac sidewalk for a few yards, before stepping over the low fence and sprinting across the open lawn to the doorway. Crouching beside it, he saw that it was secured by what appeared to be a simple mortise lock. Using Amanda Dennis’s toolkit, he set to work: it was more complicated than it looked, but within a minute he heard a satisfying click.
He swung the hatch open: the cellar was in darkness, but he was well prepared. His flashlight revealed a small sloping ramp, leading down to a concrete floor. He looked into the big den and saw wine-racks, tools, a lawnmower, a rowing-machine, free weights and a bench, and against the far wall, a cabinet containing two shotguns, a hunting rifle, an M4 carbine and a fifth firearm, which he recognised as the new state-of-the-art XM8 assault weapon. Beside it was a second case, containing five pistols; there was an empty space where a sixth might have been. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered, ‘and I got in here with a toothpick. Something’s not right.’ He looked at the inside of the door and spotted an alarm sensor. ‘Deactivated?’ he asked himself. ‘Or is it a silent system? Ah, bugger it!’ He slid down the ramp and closed the hatch behind him.
The area in which he found himself approximated to half the floor area of the house above. He saw a door facing him and opened it to find himself in a small corridor, with another door, and with a flight of stairs rising to his left. He paused, reached into the tote bag once again and took out the silenced Sig Sauer. As he felt its weight, he thought of its owner, and of their respective fates, sealed by a shot in the dark, and suddenly he realised that his heart was pounding.
He was seized by a strong urge to get out of there, to jump back into the Corvette and leave the dust of Dover behind him. He thought of his family, the kids who needed him now more than they ever had, and he asked himself what the fuck he was doing in a stranger’s cellar with a gun in his hand. But he knew the answer to that question also. Until the thing was resolved, and he had dealt with what was above, he would never be safe. He had never considered fear before; having been brought to it, he found to his great surprise that it made him angry, with himself, for lowering his guard to allow it into his presence, but most of all with those who were its cause. He secured the bag on his shoulder, shone his flashlight up the staircase, and followed its beam.
The door at the top had no lock, only a simple roller catch. He stood on a narrow landing and listened: somewhere in the house, music was playing, but not close, not immediately outside. He wrapped the fingers of his left hand round the handle, put his thumb on the door jamb and eased it open a fraction. He saw a sliver of a hallway, and beyond that a front door, slightly ajar, the curtain beside it waving in the breeze. He widened the gap a little; a long mirror came into his field of vision; framed within it he saw the back view of a man, standing, his shoulders rounded and slumped, in a bay window, looking out into the street. Loosely, in his right hand, he held a revolver.
Skinner stepped noiselessly into the hall and raised his own gun, gripping it in both hands. ‘Titus,’ he called out, his voice sounding above the music, ‘drop your weapon, and raise . . .’
The speed of Armstead’s reaction almost took him by surprise. He spun round on the ball of his right foot; his pistol coming up towards firing position. It was almost there when the Scot shot him.
The bullet struck his right elbow, knocking him backwards and sending the pistol flying, clattering on to the wooden floor. Instinctively he clutched at the wound, his face twisted with pain. He stared up at the intruder, fear in his eyes. ‘I was only expecting one,’ he gasped. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I’m what passes for the good guy in this situation,’ Skinner replied. As he spoke, he felt unexpected elation, as if a weight had been lifted from him. ‘I wasn’t going to shoot you, Titus . . . at least not right away.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that if you do what I ask, I’ll walk out of here, and so wil
l you. Where is he?’
Armstead nodded towards the floor. ‘In here.’
‘I’ll tell you what, I’m feeling ultra-cautious today, so why don’t you just come over here and stand in front of me, in the line of fire, while I take a look. Maybe you two decided to surprise me by teaming up.’
‘Oh, we didn’t, buddy, but if it makes you happy.’ He did as he had been instructed, holding his bleeding arm as he shuffled over to form a human shield as they stepped through the archway that led into the living room. There was no need for the precaution: the corpse of Miles Hassett lay in the middle of the floor, a single bullet-hole in the middle of its chest. Bizarrely, it was covered with feathers, from the devastated cushion that Armstead had used as a silencer. Beside the body, Skinner saw a long-bladed knife.
‘Do you know who sent him after you?’ he asked.
‘His father, I guess; my old buddy.’
‘Technically, but actually it was me. But to square things between us, it was me that warned you he was coming, too, through Merle Gower in your London office.’
‘Clever.’ The American grimaced. ‘I take him out and you come in to pick up the pieces. But what if it had gone the other way?’
‘He’d still have been taken out, by somebody if not by me. But I had faith in you, Titus. An old soldier like you against a poser like him? I’ll back experience every time. Now, sit down.’ He took a white linen cover from a table by the window and tossed it to him. ‘Here, use that to stop the bleeding.’
‘Thanks.’ Armstead slumped into an armchair. As Skinner stepped across to silence the radio, he rolled up his right sleeve, gingerly, and bound the cloth round the hole in his arm. ‘Feels like the bone’s shattered,’ he said. ‘Was that a lucky shot?’
‘It was for you; I was aiming at your hand but I missed. If it hadn’t hit you there it would have gone clean through your chest.’
‘Remind me to salute you some time . . . if I can ever bend my arm again.’
‘Come on, no hard feelings. Give me credit for a bit of class too; I used your own gun. I found it on board your stepson’s houseboat. It’s a CIA weapon of choice, with no serial number, so I assume it came from you.’
‘You assume right. What do you want from me?’
‘I want the truth, the whole truth, and fuck all else, as a colleague of mine named Haggerty is fond of saying. And I want it on this.’ He produced a camcorder from his bag, and displayed it. ‘But first,’ he continued, as he produced a collapsible tripod, ‘I want you to tell me why you put Adam . . . I’ll call him that, because that’s how I knew him . . . on your payroll.’
‘Why not?’ the wounded man replied. ‘I have discretionary use of considerable funds, and my stepson was in the same business as me. As a matter of fact, I mentored him; I followed his career all the way through, and once he had made his reputation as a killer in the SAS, I used my contacts to get him into the intelligence world. Why shouldn’t he have worked for me as well as you? We’re both on the same side, and after the same people. Reviving his old identity and letting him make a little money out of the business seemed sensible to both of us.’ Titus Armstead stopped, his heavy-lidded eyes narrowing. ‘You knew Moses; in that case I know who you are now. He told me once about a Scotch buddy he had; a cop, tough bastard. Is that you?’
Skinner nodded.
‘Yeah, I guess. He said you were the scariest fucker he ever met in his life . . . apart from me, that is, but I guess I’m getting old.’
Eighty-five
Another ‘ Saturday night.’ Alex found herself singing the familiar song quietly in the back of the cab as it cruised through Comely Bank just after ten o’clock. When she had awakened, uncomfortably, on Pippa’s couch, she had felt better in her life, but despite her mild headache, the night out had done her good, and the crisp clear winter morning was lifting her spirits with every moment. It was her habit on Saturdays to go out to Gullane to see the kids, but this one was going to be different: this, she was determined, was the day when her trouble was going to end. She would lock herself in her flat, she would wait for the phone to ring, and she would trust the police to nail her perpetrator, good and hard.
Despite Raymond Weston’s denial, she still harboured a nagging suspicion that he was her stalker, more by default than anything else, for she had no other suspects. He was cocky, he was arrogant, and thinking back to their brief relationship, she had suspected then that there was a dark vein of cruelty running through him. Good luck to him: she thought of him in a small room with Mario McGuire and Neil McIlhenney and wondered how self-assured he would be then.
She told the taxi driver to drop her at a convenience store close to her apartment, where she bought a copy of The Times, a bottle of Lucozade and a Mars bar, to serve as breakfast. Walking home, she stopped, on impulse, on the bridge on Deanhaugh Street and looked along the river. Yes, she reckoned, there was room to swing a cat on the footpath, and it would not have required superhuman strength to launch it on to her balcony. As she stood there, her neighbour’s patio door opened and Griff stepped outside. He glanced up towards the bridge, saw her and waved: she returned his greeting and moved on, feeling guilty and embarrassed. God, she thought, the other day he saw me seeing off my gentleman caller, now I’m getting in well past daylight in my party clothes. The man will think I’m a call-girl.
When Edinburgh enjoys a night out, it takes time to recover: Leith Water Lane was deserted as she approached the building. She let herself in, then, happy that she had encountered nobody in the hallway, unlocked her flat and cancelled the alarm. As she did she noticed that she had mistakenly put it on night setting when she had gone out. ‘Silly girl,’ she muttered, ‘but no harm done, the living-room sensor was still active.’
She laid the paper and the bag containing her makeshift breakfast on her desk and slipped out of her coat. She was on the point of heading for the shower when the phone rang. The red light was unblinking: no calls were waiting. She was on the point of letting the machine answer when she remembered that her watchers were back in place. She picked it up. ‘Alex.’
Silence.
‘Ah,’ she said wearily, ‘it’s you again. Your timing’s immaculate: I’ve just this minute walked in the door.’
Silence.
‘Be that way if you want, but since you’re on the line, let me give you a piece of my mind. That thing with the cat: how could you do something like that? You’re not just a pervert, you know. You’re a fucking sadist. I reckon when my friends catch up with you they’ll have to send for the men in white coats.’
Silence.
‘That’s right: I reckon you’re mental, friend. You know, until yesterday, you had me feeling just a wee bit guilty, in spite of myself. Not any more. Now I’m just one hundred per cent angry, you ba ...’
The cord came over her head in an instant, knocking the phone out of her hand. She had no time to react before it was tight round her neck, choking her, cutting off her breath with a man’s strength. It felt cold and soft, as if she was being throttled with a silken rope. Her defence mechanism and her martial-arts training kicked in at the same moment. She sagged back into the figure behind her, twisting and throwing her right elbow into his gut, and at the same time lifting a foot and slamming it down, hoping against hope that her high heel would find his instep, hearing a crunch and a gasp of pain as it did. The ligature slackened, only for a moment, but long enough for her to grasp it with her left hand, slipping her fingers under it, scratching herself but not caring. She pulled as hard as she could against it, but her attacker used her own momentum against her, turning her and forcing her down on to the floor. She felt his knee in the small of her back, she felt the pressure grow, she felt herself weaken, she heard a crashing sound, and as red spots swam before her eyes, she wondered if she would ever hear anything again.
And then the pressure was gone, and the weight was lifted from her. She lay there, her face pressed into the carpet, gasping for breath. Something was hap
pening in the room: she heard snarling, the sound of flesh on flesh, and finally a crash, but she was too shocked and too dazed to be concerned by it. Her only interest at that moment lay in sucking air into her lungs. She lay there until the hammering of her heart subsided and its beat came back to something approaching normal.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. Instinctively, she turned away, then sprang lithely to her feet, kicking off her shoes to give her greater freedom of movement, holding her hands like blades before her, ready to kill, if she could.
Griff stood facing her, hands up, palms facing outwards. ‘Whoa there, Alex,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m the cavalry.’ And then she saw the man on the floor behind him, unconscious on his back. Suddenly, her legs seemed no longer able to support her; she felt herself sag, but he grabbed her forearms, and held her steady. When she was ready, she shook herself free of his grip and stepped past him, to look down at the bloody face of Guy Luscomb.
‘I don’t understand any of this,’ she murmured, in a strange, weak voice that seemed to belong to someone else. ‘How did he . . . How did you know what was happening?’
‘DI Steele called me, and told me to get in here on the double.’
‘Stevie Steele?’
‘I’m a police officer, Alex: detective constable. I was in the force in Cape Town, until I applied for a transfer over here. I was asked to keep an eye on you when this whole thing began. You’ve hardly been out of my sight; I shadowed you last night till you went back to your friend’s place.’
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