Lethal Intent

Lethal Intent Page 29

by Quintin Jardine

  Seventy-six

  Stevie Steele had been expecting a report from Arthur Dorward, not a personal visit, so he was surprised when his red-haired colleague walked into his office. 'Hello,' he exclaimed, 'I didn't think that you Howdenhall lab guys could find your way to divisional offices any more.'

  'We get precious little thanks when we do,' Dorward answered, 'so these days we only deliver the good news in person.'

  'Good news? You bear good news?'

  'I do indeed, my son. A double helping, in fact.'

  Steele leaned back in his chair and smiled. 'Let me have it.'

  Casually, Dorward tossed an envelope on to his desk. 'It's all in there, but this is what it says. First, the sock: as you suggested, we had another look at wee George's clothing, and knowing what we were after made all the difference. We took several fibres from his jacket; they were an exact match for the cotton in the sock that socked Mario McGuire. We checked the garment too. That wasn't difficult: it's a Marks and Spencer product, fits size eight to ten shoe, and it's from a range that was withdrawn only six months ago. Before you ask, it could have been bought in any of their stores but, still, it's a big step forward.'

  'True. It eliminates half of the male population and one or two large females as well.'

  'Get away with you. It changes your report on the boy's death entirely, and you know it. Would you like to know about the rock?'

  Steele chuckled. 'I can hardly wait. Did you put your top geologist on it?'

  Dorward looked down his nose. 'Naturally. It's a lump of grey granite from the north-east, the stuff that Aberdeen and a few other places are built out of; very hard, much tougher than sandstone. The interesting thing about it is that it's been machine cut. Superintendent McGuire must have a seriously hard head to have got up after being whacked with that.'

  'He has, take my word for it. He'll be out of hospital by now.'

  'He's lucky he's conscious by now,' the inspector said. 'If that weapon is what was used on young George Regan, the kid didn't have a chance.

  'Now, the other. We went back to Ross Pringle's room, and we dismantled that heater. I put my best girl on it, and on one side of the loosened socket that caused the leak, she found a clear right thumbprint. We had to fingerprint Ross's body, I'm afraid, which I didn't like doing, but it allowed us to eliminate her. We took the lock on the door apart too. There were scratches inside it that my specialist thinks would have been made by a skeleton key. He also… and this is where he got really clever… found traces of two different types of lubricant inside the lock, which led him to speculate that the skeleton might have been oiled to make it work better.'

  'Whose speciality would that be?'

  'Apart from a locksmith? A joiner? A mechanical engineer? A policeman? We're scientists, Stevie, we only go in for guessing when it's founded on something concrete.'

  'Have you eliminated the engineer who did the last service on those gas appliances?'

  'Gimme a break! Of course we have. Match that print and you've got your man.'

  There was a knock at the door. Steele looked up and saw, through the glass, Detective Sergeant Ray Wilding. He beckoned him in, as the smiling Dorward stood. 'When we catch this guy, I'll buy you a beer, Arthur. So will George, Dan and Neil, I'm sure.'

  The two officers passed in the doorway and Wilding took the seat that the inspector had vacated. Steele had taken up Skinner's suggestion that he bring him into the investigation and had found him only too willing. 'You're looking pleased with yourself too, Ray,' he said.

  'So will you be in a minute, Stevie. I've found Chris Aikenhead for you, and he's right on our doorstep.'

  'Yes!' Steele hissed.

  'I read through the file on the investigation, and I found a reference to him, saying that he worked off-shore with a Scottish-owned company called Oriental Petroleum, so I checked with them. He still does. He worked on their platform in the North Sea at the time, and for three years after his wife's suicide, until he was moved to an installation off Venezuela. He remarried out there and stayed until September, when he came back to a job in the Edinburgh office as development manager. The personnel officer was very co-operative: she gave me his address.'

  'Hold on, Ray. What if she tells him that the police have been asking about him?'

  'I asked her not to do that, in case she alarmed him unnecessarily. I told her that something had arisen that related to his late wife's case, and that we wanted to advise him of it. She promised me she wouldn't say anything to him.'

  'Let's hope she's as good as her word. Where does he live?'

  'In the Buckstone area.'

  'Christ, that's close to Neil, and Dan Pringle.'

  'And the ski centre.'

  'It gets better. What was his trade on the rigs?'

  'He was an engineer.'

  'It all fits. We pay a call on him, Ray, but first we get a warrant. We might need to search his house for a sock that's in want of a partner.'

  Seventy-seven

  Skinner was turning into Elbe Street when his cell-phone sounded in its hands-free socket in his car. He hit the answer button.

  'Boss,' Neil McIlhenney exclaimed. 'Got you at last. I tried the office, but Jack said you'd gone. This is the third time I've called your mobile.'

  'That's the trouble with technology,' the DCC grumbled. 'It never works when you need it. What's up? Are you still at Newcraighall?'

  'Yes.'

  'It was Green, then?' The question was tinged with resignation.

  'Yes, but there was never any doubt about that, was there? Are you on your way here?'

  'No. I decided that I'd go to the restaurant instead. I'm just pulling up outside in fact.'

  'Good, I didn't want you driving when you heard this. We've found something on Sean's body that might be the answer to everything.'

  As McIlhenney described the map of St Andrews, Skinner, for all that he had seen and done in his career, felt his blood chill. 'What do you still have to do there?' he asked.

  'Nothing. The van's just arrived to remove the body, and we've spoken to everybody we need to. We've managed to convince the warehouse manager that it was a suicide, and that Sean managed to strangle himself with his own tie.'

  'Okay. I want you to get Bassam's address, and go there. No chance he'll be there, but check it out, and then come here, as fast as you can.' He switched off the cell-phone, took it from its holder, and jumped out of his BMW.

  A uniformed constable was guarding the door of the restaurant. For a second he moved to bar Skinner's way, but recognised him just in time and stepped aside.

  There were no diners inside, only DS Sammy Pye and two other CID officers, four very confused staff members and one angry chef. 'Who you?' he demanded, before the door had even closed behind Skinner.

  'Deputy chief constable,' he replied. 'Now who are you?'

  'I Sukur. I cook here. We have customers; no boss, no head waiter, but we working still, then you people come and tell us we have to close. When Mr Bassam come back, you hear about this, I tell you.'

  'Where is Mr Bassam right now?' Skinner asked him.

  'I no' know.'

  'Has he been in at all this morning?'

  'No, but I have keys. Usually I open up.'

  'Did Mr Bassam lock up last night?'

  'How should I know? I go after we serve the last people. He no' here then, though. New head waiter say I could go.'

  'Who was here when you left?'

  'John, the new guy, and him.' The chef pointed to one of the two waiters, the Asian.

  The man nodded. 'But I left after that,' he said, quickly.

  'So John was alone?'

  'Yes.'

  'Where was Bassam?'

  'I don't know.'

  The DCC turned back to the chef. 'Do you?'

  'No' here,' the truculent Sukur grunted. 'He went out before that'

  'When?'

  'Earlier on.'

  'Don't try my patience,' Skinner warned him. 'At w
hat time?'

  'I dunno, maybe eight, maybe earlier.'

  'Did he tell you where he was going?'

  'The boss no' tell me anything. He just leave me to run the kitchen.'

  'But you knew he had gone. Does that mean you saw him leave?'

  Sukur nodded. 'I see him through kitchen window. He get into van.'

  'What van?'

  'Mr Bassam's van: an old thing he uses to go to the cash and carry. He keep it at his house and sometimes he bring it here. It was here last night, parked out back. He get into it with the other guys.'

  Skinner's eyes narrowed. 'What other guys?'

  'I no' know who they are; they friends of his, though. Not Turkish, but then neither is he.'

  'What do you know about them?'

  'Nothing. They been living upstairs, but they don't come in here, ever.'

  'What's upstairs?'

  'The boss have a flat upstairs; he used to stay there, till he bring his family over and buy his house.'

  'Do you have keys for it?'

  'No. The boss keeps those.'

  'How long have these people been there?'

  'I dunno; not long, a few weeks maybe.'

  'Come on,' said the DCC, 'show me where this place is.' He turned to Pye. 'Sam, with me.'

  The chef, still scowling, led them through the kitchen, and out into Delight's back yard. A flight of stone stairs, on the outside of the building, led to a green-painted door. 'There,' he grunted.

  The two police officers climbed the worn steps, coming to a square landing on top. Skinner tried the door handle, then, finding it locked, kicked it open effortlessly with the sole of his right foot.

  'Sir,' Pye exclaimed.

  'It was stuck: the wood must have been warped.'

  'Yes, but…'

  'Ah, you think they might be in there, do you, Sam? Not a cat's chance, but there's one way to find out.' He stepped into the flat.

  All four doors off the hall were open: two led into bedrooms, each with twin beds, a third to a bathroom, and the last into a large living room, with a kitchen area against the far wall. The place was a mess: discarded cigarette packets, bottles and food wrappers lay everywhere.

  'Not exactly Good Housekeeping,' Pye muttered.

  'Looks a bit like your wife's desk from time to time.' The DCC chuckled. The sergeant was married to Ruth, his secretary. He walked over to a small dining-table positioned at the window. It was strewn with crumpled sheets of paper, which seemed to have been torn from a pad. He picked one up, and saw a few words jotted down. Whatever the language was it was unknown to him.

  'Sir.' Skinner glanced across at Pye. He was standing by a small side table, looking at a heavy black machine. 'It's a fax,' he said.

  'Do you think it might have been used?'

  'If it has, it might have a log that tells us.'

  'Try it'

  The sergeant bent over the device, pushing a button repeatedly as he read the menu. 'Got it,' he whispered, finally, then straightened as a humming sound began, and a sheet of paper started to emerge from a slot below the key-pad. He caught it before it could fall to the floor, and handed it to the DCC.

  He read it, his eye scanning down a list of numbers and dates. Only two entries had any currency, and both showed messages received from the same number. 'Oh two oh seven,' he murmured. 'Thanks, Sam,' he said. 'That was good thinking. Now go back to the restaurant, please, and wait for DCIs McIlhenney and Mackenzie. When they arrive, send them up here.'

  As soon as he was alone, Skinner took his palm-top computer from his pocket and turned it on, using a security code. He opened his personal directory and chose the letter 'A', quickly finding the phone number he sought.

  He switched on his mobile and dialled. His call was not picked up directly; instead he heard a click and the dialling tone change pitch. At last a voice answered. 'Yes, Bob,' said Major Adam Arrow.

  'Are you on a cell-phone?' he asked his friend.

  'I'm in the field at the moment. What can I do for you?' There was none of the customary profane banter that was his usual trademark.

  'Is this secure?'

  'All the way, don't worry.'

  'I need a number checked out.'

  'Have you thought about Directory Enquiries?' The question reassured Skinner; it was more like the usual Arrow.

  'For about a nanosecond: remember those Albanians I told you about?'

  'Yes.'

  'I've found them. I'm in a flat on my patch where these guys have been living since they pitched up here. They've been under the protection of an Albanian Turk called Petrit Bassam Kastrati, who runs a restaurant directly below where I'm standing, and now they've broken cover. In the last four days, they've received two faxes, and I'd like to know the point of origin.'

  'So would I, but so would Five. Why aren't you asking them?'

  'We had a line to one of the Albanians. He was killed last night in Glasgow, in sight of my people, as they were about to follow him back here. We had an MI 5 operative under cover in the restaurant; he was found dead a couple of hours ago. His handler is currently being held in custody in my building.'

  Arrow whistled. 'You don't need to say any more; give me the number.'

  'You'll check it and get back to me?'

  His friend chuckled. 'What's up, Bob? Not sure you can trust me?'

  'Did I call you? You're the only man outside my own team I'm sure I can trust. Adam, if that's a Five number…'

  'Then the fall-out will be in my area of operations, so don't you get into it. From the sound of things you were right to take the handler out of play. Can you tell me who it is?'

  'Amanda Dennis.'

  'Hell, I know Amanda. Are you sure she's a risk?'

  'No, but I'm taking no chances.'

  'I don't suppose I would either. You say the Albanians have gone. Do you have any idea where?'

  'That's the really heavy bit. The only lead I have points to St Andrews, and you know who's there.'

  'God almighty!'

  'Not quite, but the future Defender of His Faith.' Skinner paused. 'Whatever these guys are here for, it's not a drug run. As of now, it looks like they're a hit team.'

  Arrow hesitated for a few seconds. 'There's another strong possibility,' he ventured. 'In fact I'd say it was almost likelier than an assassination. I did some research after you called me and I've come up with a possible answer. As well as all those criminal activities for which they've become world famous, they have another speciality. They stage kidnappings for ransom. Can you think of a victim with a higher price tag?'

  The DCC pondered the suggestion. 'Whatever they're up to,' he said, 'they're equipped for it. We believe that they acquired a load of armaments in Holland; from the sound of things they gave us a sample of their fire-power in Glasgow last night. The guy I told you about, Samir Bajram, was with two locals. He was completing a drug deal, but I reckon he was doing a bit of business on the side, and when Naim Latifi found out, he took him out of play. The car he was in was hit by an anti-tank missile.'

  'Jesus.' Arrow whistled again. 'Why make a small bang when you can make a really big one?'

  'Adam,' Skinner went on, 'if Five's been penetrated, I've got to keep my distance from them. Can you send me fast back-up, from anywhere?'

  The little soldier's sigh sounded full of despair; it gave Skinner no comfort. 'I don't have any specialists, mate. I was with the Secretary of State at Hereford yesterday, and it was virtually empty. The whole world's on fire, and the SAS is fully deployed putting it out. If you want boys in uniform, I'll get them to you, but they won't be trained for that stuff.'

  'Can you alert the protection squad?'

  'I'll alert the Palace. But, Bob, from what you say, this thing, whatever it is, could go down any time. An instant military operation isn't practical; the police will have to deal with it themselves.'

  At his words, a great wave of dread swept over Skinner, and he felt the tension burn within him. 'Adam, if we're right about th
is, the stakes are higher than anything I've ever faced. I don't know if we can handle it'

  'Mate,' the old Arrow's voice came down the line, 'I've seen you in action. I don't think there's anything you can't fookin' handle.'

  'Thanks for your confidence,' the DCC said, ironically.

  'I'd rather you were on this than anyone else. I'll run down that number for you. Is there anything else I can do?'

  'First get me an exact location; I need to know precisely where he is. Also, could you get me a chopper? We need to get to St Andrews as fast as we can. I'll alert the Fife force, but it'll take them time to get an armed team out there.'

  'I can do that: there's one on standby at Redford Barracks. I'll put a detachment of soldiers in it too. Give me a location.'

  'My headquarters building. It can land on the football field. It'll take me fifteen minutes to get back there.'

  'How many passengers?'

  'There'll be three of us.'

  'No problem. Do you want firearms?'

  'We'll take our own: we're familiar with them.'

  'Let's hope you don't have to use them. I'll be in touch.'

  'I hate helicopters,' said a voice from behind him. He turned to see McIlhenney and Mackenzie, the latter wearing a mournful expression.

  'Who likes them? But there are worse places you could be. For example, you could be locked up in Glasgow. Strathclyde Police are after you two for blowing up Bajram and his cousins.' He headed for the door. 'Come on, there's no time to lose: we've got to get airborne as soon as we can. The future of more things than you can imagine could be in our hands.'

  Seventy-eight

  Normally, Andy Martin was a patient man, but as five o'clock approached, he found himself beginning to fret. The contact he had made in the General Register Office in Southport had promised him that he would have the information he sought before the day was out, but time was wearing thin.

  He was on the point of making a wake-up call when his direct line rang. He snatched it up.

  'Bet you thought I was never going to get back to you, Mr Martin,' said an amiable voice.

  'That's not a bet I'm going to take, Mr Donald.' He chuckled. The two men had never met, but when Martin had identified himself to the GRO switchboard, he had been put through to the office of the Deputy Registrar General, who had introduced himself as Rex Donald.

 

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