She rubbed the bump under her smock. ‘Oh, no?’
‘Why should motherhood hold you back? It can’t be held against you at interview.’
‘Get real, Bob; maybe it can’t but it would be.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘With the First Minister looking on from a distance, and me from a hell of a lot closer? I don’t think so.’
‘Okay, maybe not, but you’d form a pretty big obstacle to any move back here.’
Skinner shook his head. ‘No, I wouldn’t. If I were to succeed Jimmy . . . and it’s IF in capital letters . . . I would not hang on for the duration. I’d do five years maximum, then I’d be out of there. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking on this sabbatical, Maggie; it’s not just your career I’ve got mapped out.’ He laid his leather case on a work surface as he accepted the mug from her.
‘What would you do?’
‘I’d be open to offers; I had a very big one a few months ago, but I turned it down because the time wasn’t right, and because it would have been difficult for Aileen and me. If I was offered that again, when we were both ready for it, I’d maybe give a different answer. But if not, and if no other opportunities crop up, I’ll write and teach. I’ve started both already.’ He nodded towards the document bag. ‘The paper I told you about yesterday: it’s in there. I’d like you to read it . . .’ he chuckled ‘while you can still think professionally ... and let me have your views, your frank and honest views, on my findings and on the thinking that’s led me there.’
‘I’m honoured; I really am. In confidence, I take it.’
‘Please; if you’re comfortable with that. It’s rotten of me to ask you to keep a secret from your husband, but he’s a serving officer.’
‘I understand, and so will Stevie, I promise. Do you have a time frame?’
‘Take as long as you like.’
‘A couple of weeks, then. I’ll have plenty of time: we’re hiring a domestic, Ray Wilding’s cousin. She starts on Monday.’
‘Quite right too.’ He followed her through into the sitting room and settled into an armchair as she reclined on her couch.
‘That was quite a thing,’ she said, ‘being asked to lecture by the FBI.’
‘Yes, it was. Mind you, I’ve had a few dealings with them over the years.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘The broad approach to integrity; the difficulty of holding on to it in the face of every situation, and the recognition that sometimes what might seem to be morally unthinkable can be the only possible moral choice we can make.’
‘Were you speaking from personal experience?’ she asked quietly.
‘Oh, yes,’ he murmured, ‘all too personal, I’m afraid.’
‘Maybe you could turn that into a paper too.’
‘Not in a hundred years. It would be no use without specifics, and they’re buried very deep. But I am writing, apart from that document. I’ve started working on a book about the difficulty of detection; it’ll look at successful criminals and examine how they manage to get away with it over an extended period, and it’ll develop the theory that none of us ever catches criminals, that ultimately they give themselves away. The perfect detective doesn’t exist.’
‘Are you going to describe the perfect crime?’
He smiled. ‘How could I, Maggie? To my mind, the perfect crime is one that nobody even knows has been committed.’
‘We could debate that for hours.’
‘And maybe we will, now that you have the time at your disposal. I know you’ve bumped into Aileen professionally, but I’d like you to meet her socially. You’ll get on like a house on fire.’
‘Is it the real thing this time, Bob?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied, without hesitation. ‘I love her; to be honest I have since the first moment I laid eyes on her, when she was deputy justice minister and she walked into a briefing at Fettes. But that’s an admission I could only make to close friends, since I was still married to Sarah at the time.’
‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am to be included in that category.’
‘You’ve been there for a long time. And now, close friend, are you going to tell me what’s up?’
She looked at him, surprised, and instantly defensive. ‘What makes you think that anything is?’
‘I may not be the perfect detective,’ he told her, ‘but I’m pretty damn good. Your announcement last night was untypical. You don’t make spontaneously emotional gestures, Maggie. I’m not questioning your decision to resign, but the way you sprang it on us: that was the act of someone with more on her mind than impending childbirth.’
She looked away from him. ‘Bob . . .’ she murmured.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said at once. ‘I’ve touched a raw nerve. I’m being presumptuous.’
‘No,’ she assured him, ‘you’re not. As always, you’re being perceptive. I’ll tell you, on the same basis that you gave me that report through there. Yes?’
‘Of course.’
She looked back at him, dead in the eye. ‘I have a medical problem, one that’s unrelated to my pregnancy.’
It was his turn to be taken aback. He inhaled deeply. ‘Serious?’ he asked.
‘Potentially very serious.’
‘Life-threatening?’
‘Yes.’
‘And are you being treated?’
‘Not yet. While I’m carrying the baby I can’t be, and I won’t ...’
‘I understand. Stevie doesn’t know, does he.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘No, and he can’t, not until she’s been safely delivered. You will respect that, Bob?’ she added anxiously.
‘Of course. You have my word on it, I told you. I see exactly why you can’t tell him, even though he is your husband and the father of your child. What was I just saying about the morally unthinkable sometimes being the only possible course of action? You’re shielding him from such a choice. However, it will not stop me worrying like hell about you. That paper of mine, Maggie: forget about it.’
‘Absolutely not! I’ll live my life as normal; I have to. Bob, you may find this surprising but I feel . . . what’s the word? Yes, that’s it. I feel serene. With this wee girl growing inside me, I’ve done something that I never dreamed of achieving, something that’s far, far more important than adding all the silver braid in the world to my uniform.’
‘I can understand that,’ he admitted. ‘Fathers can feel that way too. We’ll keep each other’s secrets all right, Maggie. And while all this is happening, I’ll be there for you, if ever you need me.’
‘I know you will, and that helps a lot, believe me.’ She smiled. ‘Now you’d better go and get on with your consorting duties!’
‘Christ,’ he exclaimed, as he rose, ‘I never thought of myself like that.’
‘It’s a sort of a Stevie-ism,’ she told him, accepting his hand to pull herself to her feet. She had just regained the vertical when his mobile sounded.
‘Damn,’ he said, ‘I always forget to switch it off.’
‘That’s what they all say. Go on, answer it.’
‘I’d better; it could be Aileen.’
She watched him as he walked to the window, his back to her as he answered the noisy summons.
‘Mario.’ He sounded surprised. ‘Yes, go on.’ As he listened, she could see his back straighten, his shoulders draw back. ‘There is no doubt about this?’ he asked. ‘I see,’ he said eventually, his voice as stiff as his posture. ‘No, don’t do that. I’ll take that on board. I’m better placed than you to do it. I’m with her right now, in fact.’
He ended the call, and slowly turned towards her. Instinctively she held up a hand, as if to keep him at bay.
Fifty-nine
Stevie Steele was no newcomer to helicopter flight; in their short time together he and Dottie Shannon had gone on a clandestine winter break to Las Vegas and, rather than risk their spending cash on the tables, had splashed much of it on an excursion to the G
rand Canyon.
Nevertheless he was surprised by the range and speed of the Metropolitan Police aircraft that picked him up from an open area in Regent’s Park, less than twenty minutes after his call to Mario McGuire.
The pilot explained that he would have to make a stop at his depot but that, once fuelled up and under way, they would reach their destination in less than two hours. ‘You’ve made our month, mate,’ he added, jerking a thumb in the direction of the woman in the co-pilot’s seat. ‘We love to take this thing out of the city and really cut loose. Flying over bleedin’ London, day in, day out, stops being fun after a very short while.’
He handed him a headset. ‘You’ll be able to hear us through that,’ he told him, ‘but nobody else. Mostly they’re to stop you going deaf. Noise limitation is the one piece of chopper technology they haven’t cracked yet.’
‘That part I remember,’ he replied.
The warning was well founded: throughout the flight Steele was content to sit strapped in, listening to the background chatter of the pilots and watching as England spread itself out below. The panorama was enthralling; for a while he concentrated on that and nothing else, until they crossed the Tyne and he forced himself to think once more of what might await him in Wooler.
The last part of the journey was over green countryside, flat at first, but gradually becoming more hilly, until they reached the Cheviots, the range that once served as a shield against pillaging Scots. ‘We’ve been ordered to put you down on a flat area at the foot of Humbleton Hill,’ the pilot told him through the headphones, as they approached their destination. ‘You’ll be met there by the local force.’ Steele replied with a thumbs-up sign.
The landing was as smooth as the flight had been. The inspector checked his watch as he jumped out on to the grass, ducking instinctively under the rotors; it showed two minutes after six.
He was near the edge of a big field, mostly hillside, but with an area wide enough and flat enough for the chopper to put down safely. Not far away, there was a gate, where a Land Rover, bright with police markings, stood in waiting. As he made his way towards it a man jumped out; he was in his mid-fifties, big and red-faced, and wore a tweed jacket and grey trousers, tucked into black wellingtons.
‘DI Steele,’ he called out, above the aircraft noise. ‘I’m Les Cairns, deputy chief constable. We’re not far from the location: jump in and I’ll take you straight down there.’
The Scot’s ears were ringing as he climbed into the back seat of the big vehicle. ‘Thanks, sir,’ he said, a little more loudly than was necessary. ‘Have you taken any action?’
‘No, son, this is your investigation, so I felt it only right that you take the decisions. All we’ve done is secure the area, and keep the house under observation. Oh, yes, and we’ve secured the man Spicer and his associate too. We assumed that you’d need them for questioning.’
‘That may depend on what we find in the house . . . or don’t find, as the case may be. If it turns out that their failure to tell us about Ballester’s hidey-hole as soon as they knew where it was has led to him getting away, then I’m going to take the biggest book I can lay my hands on and throw it at them as hard as I can. On the other hand, if we make an arrest, I’ll probably thank the pair of them for their assistance and let them go.’
‘That’s what I’d be doing,’ said Cairns. He tapped his driver on the shoulder. ‘Let’s go, Constable.’
The vehicle headed off down a narrow, twisty road until, after no more than half a mile, they came to a crossroads. Facing them was an even narrower road, little more than a driveway, with houses on either side. Two police people-carriers were parked on either side, and beyond, a silver Jaguar S-type.
‘The Jag belongs to Spicer,’ the DCC volunteered, as the Land Rover came to a halt. ‘We’ve taken him and his mate to the local office. This is an armed operation, so we couldn’t allow them anywhere near it. I’ve had the neighbours moved out too, discreetly. One of them told us that she’s seen a man answering Ballester’s description coming and going from Hathaway House.’
‘When was the last time?’
‘She told us that she thought she heard his car on the gravel yesterday, around midday. She can’t swear to it, but she thinks it’s been there ever since. How strong is your evidence against this man, Inspector?’
‘At the moment, it’s circumstantial, but it’s very strong nonetheless. Amy Noone was killed in Edinburgh yesterday morning: if he did that, then drove down here, the neighbour’s arrival time would have been about right. That fits the pattern. A single piece of firm evidence would wrap it up.’
‘Such as?’
‘First, there’s the gun; the murder weapon. Also, items were taken from the first two victims; if we found any of those in his possession, it would seal it.’
‘Yes,’ Cairns murmured. ‘The gun. I’ve got sharpshooters in position, front and back of the house. So far they’ve seen no sign of movement. The fire seems to have gone out, though; there’s no more smoke coming out of the chimney.’
‘Could he have seen your people? We believe that this is a resourceful man.’
‘I doubt it. They’re good. Plus, they can’t actually see into the house themselves. It’s in a gully, so they’re well above all the windows. They’re really waiting for him to come out. If he does, their orders are to let him climb up to the drive where his car’s parked, unless he displays a firearm. I have more men there, waiting to take him down.’
‘That’s sound,’ Steele conceded, ‘but if there’s been no movement since you’ve been here, sooner or later we’re going to have to take the initiative.’
‘I agree with you,’ said the Englishman, ‘and I don’t really want to wait till dark.’
‘Can we get close enough to see inside?’
‘That’s where the risk will lie. Come on; let’s get as close as we can and have a look.’
The two officers stepped out of the Land Rover. Cairns led the way down the narrow road until he came to a sign reading ‘Hathaway House’ fixed on a white-painted post. Beyond, a path, barely wide enough to take a car, led up to a circular area, where a garage faced them. To his left, Steele spotted the roof of what he knew was a blue Suzuki.
Quietly they approached the house, until they could just make out a chimney stack. Suddenly a man in a black assault uniform appeared from behind a hedge. ‘No sign of movement yet, sir,’ he murmured to Cairns, with a nod to Steele.
‘This is Chief Inspector Roberts,’ said DCC. ‘He’s based at our Berwick station.’
‘I want to get closer,’ the Scot told him, as they shook hands.
‘Dodgy,’ Roberts replied. ‘However, there’s a steep bank to the right of the cottage, as we’re looking at it. You could get down from that side. We’ve pulled original drawings of the place from the local-authority office. They show that you can see into the kitchen and the living room . . . that’s closest . . . from there. You have to go all the way around to access the bedrooms and bathroom. If the chief okays it, I’ll send a man down to take a look.’
‘I’ll do it myself,’ said Steele, at once. ‘This is my shout. Can you give me a flak jacket and a weapon?’
‘Yes, if you know how to use it.’
‘I’m qualified.’
‘Qualified and foolhardy,’ Roberts suggested, ‘from the sound of things.’
‘Maybe, but do you want to wait him out for a day or two, only to find that he wasn’t there after all?’
The chief inspector grimaced. ‘Okay, if that’s what you want to do, go ahead. I’ll have two of my shooters give you cover from the top of the bank.’
‘Sure,’ Steele chuckled, with dark humour, ‘and that way I’ll be between them and the target if he makes a break for it. Thanks, but I’d rather trust my luck; it’s been pretty good so far.’
‘Fair enough.’ Roberts eased off his own flak jacket and held it up for Steele to slip on, then took a revolver from his belt and handed it to him. ‘Six shot
s,’ he said.
‘If I have to use it,’ the Scot told him, ‘I’ll only need one.’ He took the heavy weapon and flicked off the safety.
The chief inspector unstrapped his military-style helmet, and began to take it off. ‘Here, you should wear this too.’
‘By the book, yes, but if I do, it would just make it easier for him to spot me.’
‘It’s Kevlar, man: bulletproof. Are you sure about that?’
‘Certain.’
‘Even if I ordered you to wear it?’
‘As DCC Cairns said, this is my shout.’
‘On your own head . . .’
Stevie grinned. ‘. . . be it not.’
Roberts laughed. ‘Touché. Go on, then,’ he said. ‘Make your way round the edge of the circle, otherwise you’ll make a noise on the gravel.’
‘Where’s your sniper on this side?’
‘She’s hidden over there in the trees, watching the door in the far gable. It’s the only way in and out of the place.’
‘Do you have a two-way?’
The chief inspector nodded, unclipped a transceiver from his belt, fastened it to the flak jacket, then flicked a switch. ‘That’s it on transmit.’
‘Okay,’ said Steele. ‘I’m off.’
He felt his pulse quicken as he stepped carefully around the edge of the car park, then across, in front of the garage. As he looked around he had his first full view of the long, narrow cottage. The gully in which it sat was so deep that the ridge of its roof was at his eye level. He looked along the building’s length and counted four windows. Below them ran a narrow walkway, no more than a yard wide.
Satisfied that he was out of sight of all the windows, he began to ease his way slowly down the bank. It was so steep that it was almost sheer, and he had to lean backwards to avoid slipping, and sliding noisily down to the foot. His shoes had corrugated soles, or the task would have been impossible, but finally he reached the path. He crouched there, until his breathing and his gun hand were both steady.
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