17 - Death's Door

by Quintin Jardine

  All at once, the sergeant’s face fell. ‘Stevie,’ he said slowly, ‘I’ve been in a helicopter before. The noise, the smell of the engine . . . I can’t find the words to tell you how sick I was.’

  The inspector looked at him, and took a decision. ‘Okay.’ He chuckled. ‘You can stay here as planned, and come up tomorrow. I’ll have more than enough back-up in Wooler. I’ll call you to let you know how it goes.’

  ‘Thanks, pal.’ Wilding sighed.

  Stallings reached out and punched him lightly on the arm. ‘Hey, Ray,’ she said, ‘if that’s how you react to choppers, how would you feel about the view from the London Eye?’

  Fifty-eight

  Why do I feel happy? Maggie Steele asked herself. She sat in what she and Stevie called their ‘playroom’. I’ve been diagnosed with a cancer. I’m carrying a child and I may not live to see her first birthday, I’ve given up a job I’ve loved for nearly twenty years, yet I’ve never felt so fulfilled in my life.

  She was still pondering the mystery when the doorbell chimed. She checked her watch. It showed six on the dot; the big man was always punctual.

  He was standing on the top step when she opened the door, dressed in a dark suit, immaculately pressed, worn over a pale blue shirt and tie that looked newly unwrapped. He was carrying a black leather document case. ‘Very smart,’ she said. ‘Is this normal for a Saturday evening?’

  Bob Skinner grinned. ‘No way: Aileen’s holding a formal dinner for business leaders and wives in the First Minister’s residence this evening, and she’s asked me to chum her.’

  ‘That’s a nice way of putting it,’ she said, as she ushered him inside. ‘Is that how it’s going to be from now on? Will we be seeing the two of you together at official functions?’

  ‘Yes, and unofficial. We’ve been keeping the relationship low-key until now, to let the dust settle after my divorce, but we feel that we can move on now. We’re not making any public announcements; we’re simply going to stop being coy about it. For example, the Scottish Executive’s press office will be issuing the guest list for tonight’s event, and my name will be on it.’

  Maggie chuckled. ‘Yes, and on tomorrow’s front pages. You can bet on that, sir.’ She paused. ‘Listen to me, Bob,’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s going to take me a long time to get used to being a civilian.’

  ‘I still can’t believe that you are,’ Skinner confessed. ‘Honestly, Mags, I had your career all mapped out in my head. There’ll be an ACC vacancy in Stirling in a couple of years and you’d have walked in there. Good preparation for an eventual move back to Edinburgh as chief.’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’ She led the way into the kitchen, where a pot of coffee stood ready.

  ‘No, I am not,’ he declared, watching as she filled a mug for him, then took a bottle of water from the fridge for herself. ‘That was my master-plan, and it still can come about. You’ve done nothing that can’t be reversed.’

  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 Grand 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.’

&nb
sp; ‘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.’