As Mackenzie left, the DCC led Aileen and her private secretary upstairs and past the reception desk. When they arrived at the command floor, Sir James Proud was waiting in the corridor to greet them. He stepped up to Skinner and shook his hand. 'Well,' he murmured, 'even by your standards, you've had a hell of a night.'
'More than you'll ever know, Jimmy,' he thought. Suddenly he found himself close to tears, but he held them back.
The chief constable turned to the minister. 'Ms de Marco, welcome, and thanks for bringing him back. All of you, come into my room.'
They followed him in through the small antechamber. In the office several people were waiting. As the group entered, they burst into applause. Surprised and embarrassed, Skinner took in the faces of Willie Haggerty, Jack McGurk, Ruth Pye, Alan Royston, several other fellow officers and, among them, two people, a woman and a man, whom he did not know. He looked around for Neil McIlhenney and felt a strange pang of relief and reassurance when he stepped out from behind the skyscraper form of McGurk.
The chief thrust a slim glass into his hand, then waved McIlhenney over to join them. 'Gentlemen,' he announced, 'I want you to know that this gathering is entirely spontaneous. When your colleagues heard that something big was afoot, they stayed here, and when they heard the outcome, they all insisted on waiting for your return. I've only got one thing to say, but it's on behalf of a lot more people than are here. Thanks, boys, you've done us proud.'
Skinner looked at McIlhenney; his mouth went tight, and he read the same thing in his friend's heart that he felt in his own. 'Thank you, sir,' he replied, formally. 'We, and Bandit, who's gone home to his wife…'
'No, I haven't,' came a tired voice from behind him. 'I got hauled up here.'
'In that case, all three of us thank you for your concern and for your welcome.' He laid his glass down on the chief's table. 'Thanks for that too, Jimmy,' he said, 'but honestly, I can't drink it. Give me a beer and then several more and I'll slaughter them all, but not that stuff. Champagne's for celebrations, and this isn't. The three of us saw people dead on the ground tonight, brother officers, comrades, and kids who just got in the way. Their families will be grieving, and so am I. Thank you for staying, and thank you for caring so much about us. Now, we would like you all to go home.'
He took McIlhenney by the elbow and led him into a corner. 'Where is he?' he whispered.
'Safe. An SAS detachment arrived half an hour ago; they took him out the back way. There was a plane waiting at Turnhouse. He'll be on his way to London by now.'
'An SAS detachment that was supposed to be deployed elsewhere,' thought Skinner. 'Thank Christ for that,' he said.
'Back in St Andrews,' the chief inspector asked, 'who was that other man?'
'Nobody. He wasn't there, he never existed. If you have any theories, keep them to yourself, pal, please, for my sake.'
'What man?' McIlhenney murmured.
'Excuse me, Bob.'
Skinner turned to see the force press officer standing before him. 'Alan, what can I do for you?'
'I've got an army of media outside, all wanting to talk to you. Do you want me to set something up? I could use the gym.'
'No way,' the DCC replied, firmly. 'We're not talking to any journalists, not even old John Hunter. Get rid of them. I don't care whether you're polite about it or not. And tell them also that if anyone is thinking about camping outside my house, or Neil's or Bandit's, they should reject it as a very bad idea indeed.'
'Maybe I shouldn't say this, but do you have any idea how much the media would pay for your stories?' asked Royston. 'You could live on it.'
'We couldn't live with ourselves, though,' said McIlhenney. 'So please, Alan, do as you're told.'
As the press officer left, Skinner pointed to the two strangers. 'Who are they?'
'She's Martina Easterland; she's the Scottish representative of the Royal Household. He's from MI6; he says he wants to debrief us. He says that you and Bandit and I have got to stay here when everyone else leaves.'
'Indeed?' The DCC looked at the man until he caught his eye, then summoned him like a schoolboy, with a crooked finger. 'Are you the director general of MI5?' he asked him.
'No,' he replied, startled.
'In that case, you can go away. He's the only person I'm talking to.'
'You'll get the chance,' the man said, almost pouting with displeasure. 'He's on his way up.'
'Tonight?'
'As we speak.'
Skinner smiled, wryly. 'That doesn't surprise me. You will not be involved in our meeting, so you can take the advice I've just given you.'
'Five is compromised; I insist that you speak to me first.'
'Listen,' the DCC barked. 'I'm a tired, angry man with a warrant card in his pocket and a gun on his hip. Who are you to argue with me? Now fuck off!'
His voice had risen as he spoke. Sir James Proud and Aileen de Marco, the only other people left in the room, looked round anxiously. The intelligence officer looked to the chief constable for support, but he simply jerked his thumb in the general direction of the door.
'Hold on a minute,' exclaimed Skinner, suddenly. 'On second thoughts, you stay here.' He turned to McIlhenney. 'Are Bandit and Jack McGurk still around? If they are, bring them here.'
The chief inspector left, and returned, seconds later, with his two colleagues. 'Gentlemen,' the DCC ordered, grabbing the MI6 operative by the shoulder. 'Take this man away, examine his credentials, then detain him until I'm ready to question him.'
'You can't do that,' the stranger protested.
'Sure I can. Hold your arms out wide. Guys, frisk him.'
With Sir James Proud and the Justice Minister looking on, the two detectives patted the man down. McGurk reached his trouser pocket and stopped, reached in and removed a tiny automatic pistol. 'Let me guess,' Skinner laughed, 'you're just looking after that for your wife.'
'I'm an officer of the intelligence service,' the man protested.
'You're also under arrest for illegal possession of a firearm.' He took out his Glock and waved it under his nose. 'Mine's legal, you see; properly signed out from our store. Bandit, Jack, cuff this guy and lock him up.'
'You can't do this!'
'If you have a problem with reality, try closing your eyes and pretending nothing's happening.'
He watched, smiling, as McGurk stripped the man's belt from its loops and used it to tie his wrists together, then, with Mackenzie on his other side, marched him out of the door.
'It's always exciting around you, isn't it?' said McIlhenney, drily, when they were alone once more.
Skinner sighed, mournfully. 'I really wish it wasn't, mate,' he murmured.
'Would you like to know what's happening back in the real world?' the DCI asked. 'You've had a few phone calls this evening, but only three of significance. One was from Alex; I've called her and assured her that you're okay. Another was from Sarah: she's home. That one, I left for you to handle on your own. The third was from Stevie Steele. You'll want to talk to him.'
'Okay. You and Bandit make yourselves scarce while you can. I'll wake the boy and Maggie from their slumbers.' He headed for the door. 'Aileen, once you and the chief are finished, I'll be in my office. Where's Lena?'
'Gone on ahead. She's being given a lift home in a police car.'
He stepped across the hall and into his own room; before switching on the light he drew the curtains, to avoid being filmed or photographed by the cameras outside. As soon as he was settled he took off his holster and opened his safe, put the gun inside, took out a brown foolscap envelope, and locked it once more. He took a beer from his fridge. As he was opening it, Aileen came into the room. He handed it to her and took another.
'What was all that about just now?' she asked, as she pulled one of the visitor chairs round to sit beside him.
'It's what can happen when you piss me off'
She laughed, then looked at him. 'Did you mean what you said, back on the road, or were you talkin
g to someone else?'
'I was talking to you, and I meant it. Want me to say it again?'
'Yes, please.'
'I love you. Now you.'
She leaned over and kissed him. 'I love you too… and I never had anyone else to talk to.'
'Are you happy about it?' he asked her.
'Happy about loving you? How could I be anything else?'
'I'm an obsessive, driven guy, you know, plus I'm married. Most people would say you were asking for trouble.'
'I'm driven too, remember, and when it comes to social justice, yes, I'm obsessive. Why do you ask the question? Didn't you want to fall in love with me?'
He smiled. 'It doesn't make my life less complicated but, yes, I reckon I'm ready for it. I'm still numb from the things I've seen and done tonight, so it's difficult for me to talk about happiness right now, but I've worked out what I feel for you, and it's good.'
'Will you leave your wife? Don't get me wrong,' she added quickly, 'I'm not asking you to. I'll love you from afar if it comes to it'
He reached out and squeezed her hand. 'Let me deal with that, then tell you how it's going to be. Meanwhile, Minister, you've got a big day tomorrow. You've got to present Mr Murtagh's bloody Police Bill to the Parliament, a task I know you're anticipating with relish.'
She showed him her best sour expression. 'I'm not so sure about that any more. I went along with it to protect you as much as anything else. After tonight, you'll be beyond Tommy's reach; maybe the whole police service will be for a while. A very public resignation tomorrow morning is back on my list of options.'
He tossed her the envelope. 'There's some briefing for your speech. Read it, while I make a call.'
He picked up the phone and dialled. He knew Steele well enough not to be surprised that he was still awake and that the call was answered quickly.
'Stevie? DCC, what have you got for me?'
'A new suspect, sir.'
'So go and pick him up; interview him.'
'It's not that simple, boss. He's Patsy Aikenhead's brother.'
'I don't care if he's Charlie's bloody Aunt, lift him.'
'Patsy Aikenhead's birth name was Cleopatra Murtagh.'
'What? Say that again, just in case I imagined it.'
'My suspect is Tommy Murtagh, sir. He's the right age, he's fit and he's formidably strong. He doesn't quite fit Miss Bee's height profile, but it was a split-second sighting. I've spoken to her again and she acknowledges that she could have been wrong.'
Skinner inhaled, deeply. Aileen, who had barely begun to read, stopped and looked at him. He motioned her to continue, then turned back to Steele. 'You're right, Stevie: you don't just go along and arrest him. We both go, and we tip the press off in advance. But before that, there's something we have to establish. We've got the motive, but have we got the opportunity?'
As he spoke, he remembered something, and his elation began to disappear. 'Just a moment, Stevie,' he said. 'Aileen…'
He might as well have spoken to the pictures on the wall; suddenly the documents from the envelope had grabbed her attention, one hundred per cent.
'Aileen,' he repeated.
She looked up, wide-eyed. 'What? Sorry, Bob.'
'Something I need you to confirm for me: when did Murtagh call you in to tell you about the terrorists?'
'Sunday, last week.'
'What time?'
'I got there at quarter past eight in the evening, and I didn't leave till after nine.'
'Normally, how familiar are you with his diary?'
'Very: his office circulates his engagements weekly.'
'Can you remember where he was on Saturday afternoon?'
'Yes, I can, because I was there too. We had a Labour National Executive Committee meeting in Glasgow.'
Skinner grinned. Some things were just too bizarre to be true. 'I'm sorry, Inspector, but it wasn't him. His alibi is sat right beside me.'
'Oh, damn,' Steele exclaimed, 'back to the beginning again, then. Sorry to bother you, boss.'
'Don't be too sorry yet. Tell you what, Stevie, I think you should take what you've got and see Andy Martin in his office in Dundee, first thing tomorrow morning.'
He hung up and watched Aileen as she read, his smile widening with her eyes. When she was finished she laid the papers back on his desk. 'Bob, this is amazing. How did you get it all?'
'How can I put that?' he replied. 'Let's just say it was good detective work by some people I can trust when the chips are down. Does it add to that list of options you mentioned earlier?'
'Oh, it does,' she said eagerly. 'Very definitely it does.'
'Honey,' he said, 'that's just the tip of the iceberg. Let me give you a little more background on the man who leads our nation.'
Eighty-six
She was awake when he returned home just before eight, in the kitchen making breakfast for herself and the children, while Trish readied them for school. As he came through the door, she thought he looked more tired and dishevelled than she had ever seen him and her heart went out to him. 'Was it bad?' she asked him.
He nodded. 'It was worse than bad, worse than terrible. I'm sorry to be coming in like the cat, but I've been up all night being debriefed.'
'In the circumstances, I won't make the obvious wisecrack. But don't let the kids see you looking like that. Go shave and shower; sleep if you have to.'
'That's a luxury I can't afford today. I don't look that bad, do I?'
'Yes, but that's not what I'm protecting them from. That looks to me like blood on your pants.'
He looked down and saw that she was right. There were dark stains on each of his knees: the blood of Adam Arrow, his dead, anonymous friend, unmourned except by him, and he hoped by a family somewhere, who would be told a discreet lie. He rushed out of the kitchen and upstairs, into his bedroom, where he stripped naked, tearing his clothes off and shoving them into a bag, to be burned in the garden incinerator at the first opportunity.
It was only when he came out of the bathroom in his robe, still towelling his hair dry, that he realised that all of Sarah's familiar things had gone from the dressing-table: her perfumes, her lotions, her potions, and her most personal family photographs, which she had kept there. The bed had not been slept in either: the book that he had tossed on to the duvet after spreading it the morning before was still there, undisturbed. The scene began to answer the questions that had dogged his journey home.
He dressed, casually, and went downstairs: the house was its usual blaze of pre-school activity, with a special excitement because, finally, Mum was home. Yet as soon as he stepped back into the kitchen he realised that there was an edge to it. At the sight of him, Seonaid's eyes lit up, she screamed, 'Daddy!' and rushed over to him as fast as her toddler's legs would carry her.
If Sarah saw the slight, she gave no sign of it, but Bob knew her well enough to realise that the hurt would be there. He snatched up his daughter, and asked her, teasing, 'Have you hugged your mother this morning?' She giggled and tried to bury her face in his shoulder, but he turned her chin gently upwards. 'It's time you did, then. Let's both do it.'
He drew Sarah to him in a clumsy, three-sided embrace, from which he quietly withdrew, leaving her holding her daughter, who threw her arms round her neck and squeezed as hard as she could.
'Have you been teaching her a choke hold?' she asked, but her eyes were grateful nonetheless.
As the boys ate breakfast and Sarah fed Seonaid, Bob made his own, an unhealthy and untypical sausage, black pudding, bacon and eggs. James Andrew watched him jealously: his personal larder was being raided.
Sarah drove them to school. There was still snow on the ground, but it had started to melt, and she was all too aware of the slush-ball havoc that her younger son could cause had the boys been allowed to walk. When she returned, Bob was watching the BBC all-day news channel, seeing, for the first time, how the attack was being reported.
He saw the shots from the night before, and more live from th
e scene, as the reporter delivered a monologue to camera. He saw Clarence Tallent in the harsh media spotlights, and then Aileen, her name misspelled by the caption writer. He saw the prince, library footage of him in his red student robes. And then he saw himself, the smiling official photograph from the force's annual report, and heard himself described as the hero of the hour.
'Thirty seconds later and it would have been zero, not hero, pal.'
'But it wasn't,' said Sarah, from behind him. 'You came through for him.'
'Took a hell of a risk with his life,' he told her. 'I took a shot in the dark, literally, at one of the guys who was holding him. I got him, but I could just as easily have hit the prince.'
'And if you hadn't taken the risk?'
'They'd have got away, but I suppose the boat might have been intercepted.'
'The boat was destroyed.'
'Was it?' This was news to him, although no surprise.
'They said so earlier; it and the bigger boat that it was meeting. The RAF blew them up; no survivors.'
'Of course not,' he whispered.
'You were well known before,' she said, 'but now you're famous, nationally, internationally.'
'Will it make it more difficult to leave me?' he asked.
'Who said it was ever going to be easy?'
'You will, though; that's what you came back to tell me.'
'Yes, Bob.' She smiled at him, gently. 'Let me guess, you had a hunch?'
'Something like that.'
'I admire you,' she said, 'more than anyone I've ever known, and it would be great to go on being your wife and bask in whatever glory is coming your way. But I can't: because I don't love you, and I don't belong with you. That's the bottom line… and it's mutual, isn't it? Go on, admit it. I'm offering you the easy way out; all you have to do is sit there, silent, and let me be seen as deserting you. But don't, please. Tell me what you feel.'
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