Skinner's ghosts bs-7

by Quintin Jardine

After al the publicity this business has had, if it was simply dropped, with no prosecution being brought against anyone, that's exactly what would be said.'

  74

  The post lady was early on a Wednesday also, but Skinner was showered and shaved by seven fifteen, ready and waiting when he heard the loud metal ic bang, as the spring-loaded letter box cover snapped back into place. He was alone, having suggested to Pamela that she should spend the night in Leith, to be in promptly for her last day at the Fettes headquarters.

  A bowl, empty save for traces of milk and one sad, solitary cornflake, and a half-finished mug of coffee lay on the table before him as he scanned the Scotsman for any reference to the charges laid against him less than twenty-four hours before. To his satisfaction there was none. Both Lord Archibald and Davie Pettigrew had promised him secrecy until the moment of his first court appearance, and they had been as good as their word.

  Reading the newspaper, which led with a report of widespread demonstrations against a terrorist murder in Spain, he still felt the cold burning anger which had gripped him as Pettigrew had recited the formal charge, that he had corruptly accepted a payment of one hundred thousand pounds from a person then under investigation in respect of serious offences.

  He felt no surprise at all, only an eager satisfaction, when he saw the Jiffy bag, with its handwritten address, a twin of the earlier package, except that this time, the postmark was sharp and legible.

  He looked at it, and noted with interest that the padded envelope had been posted in Inverness on the day before. 'So he's taken them north,' he said to himself.

  He carried the parcel through to the kitchen, and opened it in exactly the same way in which he had unfastened the first, taking the same precautions. However, when the contents of the bag finally fell on to the counter it was, as he had expected, a second tape cassette.

  Quickly he slid it into his hi-fi deck, and pressed the play button.

  The pips broke the silence of the room. 'This is BBC Radio Four

  …' the announcer began. The Monday news headlines included reports of half a million people on the streets of Bilbao in a mass demonstration, and of the relatively peaceful passage of Orange Marches in Ireland.

  As the second story reached its conclusion the radio faded, and Mark McGrath's voice, frightened but control ed, rose once more.

  'Uncle Bob,' he shrilled. 'Mr Gilbert says I've to tell you some things.

  I've to tell you that Tanya's here. She's too frightened to speak, and she cries all the time, but she's here.

  'The next thing I've to say is that Mr Gilbert wants a mil ion pounds each forTanya and me, from the Guv'mint. He says it's to be paid into the bank that you know, the one in…' The child paused as the noise of a low-flying aircraft threatened to drown out his voice:

  '… in Gernzie.' He said the name awkwardly and with difficulty, as if he had needed coaching.

  'It's to be paid in at exactly ten o'clock on Friday morning.' There was a pause: in the background Skinner could hear a murmur, and the sound of a second child crying. Mark went on. 'Mr Gilbert says I've to tell you that it's money he's owed by the Guv'mint, and that if you ask, you'll find out why. He says that if it isn't paid, you know what'l happen.'

  'That is right, Mr Skinner.'The cold, flat voice broke in, suddenly and unexpectedly. 'You know, exactly. And afterwards, there wil be more.'

  The detective stared at the tape as it went dead. Then he rewound it and searched through it, replaying the same section over and over again, putting a face to a voice, and making certain also that the thing which even he had believed unthinkable must after al be true.

  75

  Skinner burst into the CID office like an avenging angel, sweeping past Pam with a nod and a wave, and beckoning Sammy Pye to fol ow.

  'It's here, Andy,' he said to the surprised Martin, waving a cassette.

  'The contact I've been expecting since Saturday. This has got to go to London too. Sammy, it's your turn for the Shuttle. I'll give you the address and contact name.

  'Now both of you, listen to this.' He walked across to Martin's player and put the tape into the slot. Big Ben, fol owed by Mark McGrath's shrill young voice, filled the office.

  'Did you hear?' he asked, when it was finished. 'The bank that I know. The one in Guernsey. I'd thought that it couldn't be possible, Andy, but it's true. The kidnapper and the courier are one and the same man. It has to be. None of that stuff has been in the public domain in any way.'

  The Head of CID nodded as Skinner wrote Caroline Farmer's name and the Ml 5 office address on a pad on his desk. 'Has to be, but how about the rest of it?'

  'Later, Andy, later.' He handed the note and the original of the tape to Pye. 'Get yourself a travel warrant and get going now, Sam.

  Tell the lady I want a ful analysis as usual – with a voice analysis to confirm that the man at the end is the same as in the telephone cal to my house.

  'Come on, shift!'

  As the young constable bolted from the room, Skinner turned back to the Chief Superintendent. 'There's something else, Andy.' He picked up the telephone and cal ed Ruth McConnell. 'Ruthie,' he barked, without pleasantries. 'Find big Mcl henney, and get him down here.'

  Martin looked at him, as he replaced the phone. There was a new edge to his friend, beyond the underlying confidence which Mitch Laidlaw had described to Alex, and which he had observed himself.

  This was cold, hard and lethal, and he had seen it before.

  'Mr Gilbert's made a mistake,' said Skinner. 'You heard the plane on that tape? It was a jet, a military aircraft, flying very low and flat out from the noise, and the duration. Yet it was after ten in the evening; gathering dusk if not dead of night.

  'There are very few places in Scotland where aircraft are allowed to fly at that height, and that late. Every one of those flights is logged and recorded in detail.' He paused, and smiled. 'When I saw Everard Bal iol on Sunday, he went on at some length about low-flying jets over his castle. He told me that the RAF agreed to move the route ten miles to the north. Even so, part of that training run probably still goes over his land.'

  Martin started. 'You don't think Bal iol…'

  Skinner laughed. 'Everard needs a mil ion pounds about three and a half thousand times less than you and I. That's how many of them he's got already. Besides, he's a man who thinks that all rapists and paedophiles should be castrated.'

  He turned as Detective Sergeant Mcllhenney came into the room.

  'I owe you and McGuire a big drink, Neil,' he said, 'but it'll have to wait. For now, I want you to get up to RAF Leuchars. Have them plot the route of every plane they had in the air on Monday night, and show you on the map where each one was at exactly fifty seconds past ten.

  'Then, I want you to bring that map back here.'

  'Very good, boss.'

  As the Sergeant headed for the door, Skinner fol owed, beckoning to Martin. 'Now it's our turn, Andy, yours and mine. Let's leave my lovely Pamela in charge of CID, while you and I go for another consultation with Christabel Innes Dawson, QC.

  'She'l enjoy meeting you again, and this time, you might too.'

  76

  The old advocate looked at Martin. 'You have done well for yourself, young man,' she said. 'I'm wil ing to bet too that you've never again been as bad in the witness box as you were that day.'

  'I hope not. Miss Dawson. You taught me a lesson. It's a long time ago, though. You have a remarkable memory.'

  'Not at all, Chief Superintendent. Counsel rarely score such a comprehensive victory over police witnesses. When we do, it sticks in the mind.'

  Skinner laughed. 'You didn't get your client off, though, did you?

  Or had that detail slipped your mind?'

  She frowned at him. 'No, it had not,' she snapped. 'You may well find yourself hoping that history does not repeat itself

  'I do indeed. Miss Dawson. But let's wait and see whether we actual y get to court, shal we?' He went on. 'We're not here to talk
to you about my case though. I want to search your memory of the trial in which you crucified poor Andy here.

  'You see, although I was the chief police witness in that one, I didn't lead the investigation. Andy and I were drafted into help the burglary unit because of the sensitive nature of the enquiry, and because the Superintendent who ran it, Mr O'Riordan, was on the list for a back operation when it happened. He did the lead work. Al I really did was give evidence.'

  The old lady nodded. 'I seem to recal that. I tried to chal enge you, but John was forced to concede that you were a competent witness.'

  'Your client,' asked Skinner. 'What do you remember of him?

  Didn't he have a German surname?'

  'You are correct,' said Miss Dawson. 'His name was Heuer. That's H. E. U. E. R. His father was German, and his mother Scottish, but he took his mother's nationality. Even served in the British Army for a short while. Strange that he should have turned into a burglar.'

  'Yes. He was caught breaking into the Polish Consul General's residence in Edinburgh, not far from our headquarters building. He didn't really have much of a defence, did he?'

  'No,' the ancient silk agreed. 'But he insisted on pleading Not Guilty. He seemed to think that the charges would be dropped.

  Eventual y, when he agreed to make a statement, he gave the oddest evidence on his own behalf. He tried to say that he had entered the wrong house, by mistake, as if that would affect the relevance of the complaint.'

  Skinner smiled. 'I remember hearing the first part of your examination. You did your best.'

  She looked at him frostily. 'As I do always. But he was guilty, and the fact that he was armed added to the severity of John's sentence.

  Eight years, as I recall.'

  The detective produced a tape player from his case and placed it on the table. 'Think of that voice in the witness box,' he asked. 'Could this be him?'

  He pressed the play button and the recording of the Saturday night cal to his cottage fil ed the consulting room. Miss Dawson sat up, sharply, her ears twitching like a mouse. 'Let me hear it again,' she commanded. Skinner rewound the tape, and played it once more.

  'Oh yes,' said Christabel Innes Dawson QC. 'That's him all right.

  That's Heuer. Peter Gilbert Heuer.'

  77

  'I'd forgotten everything about him,' said Andy Martin, back in his office.

  'So had I,' Skinner agreed. 'But why should either of us have remembered? Neither you nor I ever interviewed him: we only handled the support players. We were hauled off drugs work to do it, remember, and we were pissed off about it.

  'But when Christabel came on the scene as my counsel, and we started to talk about it, I began to have an itch about something.

  When I heard his voice on the tape this morning, insistent, angry, as it was in court, I was almost sure. If the old dear hadn't picked him from the first message, I'd have played her the other, but she knew him well, knew all sides of him.'

  He looked at the case notes on Martin's desk. 'It reads oddly, doesn't it. He was caught in the Polish Consul's house, with a gun, and some of the Consulate silver in a bag, yet at first he wouldn't make any statement. All the notes say that he was arrogant and confident, yet silent as the grave, until the case was almost ready for trial.

  'It reads as if he thought someone was going to spring him.

  'He acted that way in court too. But if you recal, my evidence was about how the technicians had found his prints on the disabled alarm, and about how he had activated the second system, linked direct to Fettes, that he hadn't known about.

  'When I was finished, he knew that he was done for. Thinking back, I remember the way he looked at me, when I stepped down from the box. Pure hatred. It was as if I had been sent along as his executioner.'

  He paused, and picked up the notes. 'When Heuer was arrested, he gave his address as Cromden, in Derbyshire. I'm sure if we had time, we'd find that recently he's been living somewhere in Edinburgh, maybe as Mr Gilbert. You should put Clan Pringle's team on to checking that, but let's not base our hopes on us.

  ' I left Bruce Anderson to consult the Prime Minister about payment of the ransom. I think that he'll agree.'

  'But how will Heuer collect it?' asked Martin.

  'He won't leave it in Guernsey, that's for sure. It'll be forwarded 250 to another bank, and maybe one or two more after that, till it reaches its final destination. I'd guess it'l go somewhere we've no jurisdiction, where Heuer can pick it up and disappear for good.'

  'And the kids?'

  Skinner looked at him. 'You have to ask? He'l kill them, Andy, if he hasn't already. At best,' he checked his watch, 'we have forty-seven hours to find them. And we can't do anything until Neil gets back from RAF Leuchars.'

  Skinner threw open the door of Martin's office. 'I hate hanging around, Andy,' he cal ed from the doorway. 'I'm going off to make a phone cal. After that, I'm going to find Noel Salmon, take him into a quiet corner and find out exactly what he knows about al of this.

  'Once Mcl henney gets back, with a bit of luck, we'l have a good idea of where to look for Mr Peter Gilbert Heuer. Given that, then tomorrow we'll take him, and pray that the children are still alive.'

  'I hate to remind you, Bob,' said Martin, 'but you're stil suspended.'

  'Bugger that. When we run this bastard to ground, I'm going to be there, and no rucking politicians are going to stop me.' He paused.

  'Anyway, I called in to see Bruce Anderson, just after eight, on my way in here. I played him that tape, and this time I let him lift my suspension when he offered.'

  He looked across the room. 'Before I forget, Pammy, come out to Gul ane tonight. After al, you start your new job tomorrow. Somehow or other, we must fit in dinner to celebrate that.'

  78

  Skinner sat behind his desk for the first time in days. It felt secure and comfortable as always, not defiled at all by its temporary occupancy by Algernon Cheshire.

  He picked up the telephone, and dial ed Mcl henney's mobile number. Road noise almost drowned the Sergeant's voice as he answered.

  'Neil,' he said, in something approaching a shout. 'A slight change of plan. If you get a result up at Leuchars, meet me at Fairyhouse Avenue. Got that?'

  'Understood, sir.' There was not a hint of a question in his assistant's voice.

  Skinner replaced the phone and picked up another. From a book which he never left in the office, he selected another number. 'Yes?' said the voice at the other end of the secure line, knowing that wrong numbers can happen anywhere.

  'Adam,' snapped Skinner tersely. 'It's Bob here.'

  'Hello mate.' All of a sudden, the Derbyshire accent was warm and friendly. 'How are you doing? And 'ow's that lovely wife of yours?'

  'Living in America,' said Skinner, even more shortly than before.

  'I'm with another lady now. Don't you read the Spotlight? Have you been abroad for the last couple of weeks?'

  'As a matter of fact, I have. But stil, I mean, Jesus Christ, Bob.

  You and Sarah?'Adam Arrow was rarely knocked off balance, in any respect.

  'No time for explanations, Adam. I need a favour, very fast.'

  'If I can.'

  'Let's hope. I want you to try a name for me. Peter Gilbert Heuer.

  Mixed German-UK parentage. A few years ago he was nicked in the Polish Consul's residence in Edinburgh with a gun and a bag which more or less had "swag" written across it.

  'I was young and naive then, but now I don't believe for one second that he was a burglar. I need to know what he was there for, who sent him, and what his deal was meant to be.'

  'Okay,' said Arrow. 'I'll try. Why's this name come up al of a sudden? Can you tell me?'

  'Sure. Mr Heuer seems to have diversified into stealing politicians' children and selling them back to the Government for a mil ion pounds a time.'

  'I see. I've heard about that al right. Let's not hang about then.

  Where can I get back to you?'

 
'Use my mobile number. We've no time for niceties, even if the MI5 snoopers might overhear something that could be hazardous to their health.'

  79

  Noel Salmon was easy to find. There was no answer to the doorbell of his seedy flat, when Skinner rang it, but a single phone cal to John Hunter established that the Spotlights former ace reporter could be found on most mornings in a pub cal ed the Eastern, not far away.

  Skinner knew it well. It was the type of place where knives were regarded as fashion accessories.

  The journalist had his back to the door as Skinner opened it. The two men's eyes met in the mirror behind the bar, but before Salmon had time to react, far less to run, the policeman reached across, seized his col ar from behind and hauled him out into the street, into the summer rain. 'Your place, or mine?' he hissed. 'Yours I think, this time. More discreet and I don't mind making a mess there.'

  He hustled his helpless captive along the wet pavement as fast as he could, away from the Eastern, as the first curious morning drunks lurched out to see what was happening. Together they turned a corner, and found themselves almost at the stairway to Salmon's building.

  The policeman was barely breathing hard when they reached the fourth-floor doorway, yet the little man's chest was heaving. 'Open it,' Skinner snarled. Salmon tried to obey, but he could only fumble for his key and poke it ineffectively at the lock, with a shaking hand.

  Impatiently, the detective tore it from his grasp, opened the door, and threw him roughly inside, sending him tumbling and fal ing along the floor of the hallway.

  The quarry scrambled to his feet, completely terrified now. 'You

  … you… you…' he wailed. To Skinner's disgust, his former tormentor wet himself.

  'Through there,' he ordered. 'The living room, if that's what you call it.' Salmon obeyed and collapsed, helpless, into a chair.

  'There are no lawyers about now, Noel,' snarled the policeman.