Skinner's Rules

by Quintin Jardine

  Martin was taken by surprise. ‘I hope not. But since the Gulf War, the Government has been keen to keep the Syrians on-side, so you never know.

  ‘Thanks for the tip. I’ll pass it on down South. There’s a bloke in the Foreign Office whose day I’d just love to ruin!’

  ‘Be my guest!’

  59

  Skinner was still in his office when his secure line rang at 6.35 p.m. He picked up the receiver and quoted the number, listening cautiously for the voice at the other end of the line.

  ‘Bob? Aye, it’s me. I’ve got that info you’re after. The only thing is that the Lebanese don’t publish a separate list of the people in the Syrian interest section. That’s because they’re all Syrians with Lebanese passports and they don’t want to single them out for special attention from the security services, or from the Israelis. So what I’ve got for you are the names of all the Embassy staff. If your man’s on it, you’ll spot him ... assuming that he’s using his real name, that is.’

  The voice on the other end of the line read out a list of names slowly and deliberately, although he knew that Skinner would be waiting for one name rather than noting them all down.

  ‘Fazal Mahmoud, cultural attaché,’ came towards the end. Skinner made no sound of recognition, allowing the caller to complete the list. ‘That’s it. Whoever this lad is, he must be a bit dodgy to be taking up the time of an Assistant Chief Constable, not to mention using up his favour bank!’

  Skinner spoke for the first time since picking up the telephone. ‘Don’t worry, Robbie, I’ll make it up. That’s been helpful.’

  ‘In that case,’ said the voice on the line, ‘I’ve got a bonus for you. Some of the Walworth Road researchers have contacts that are better informed than your secret police down there. The guy who gave me that list told me that the Embassy’s a bit tense these days, because one of their blokes has disappeared. Diplomats vanish off the face of the earth from time to time, but usually it’s because they’ve upset someone at home. Not this time apparently. One of the alleged Lebanese is missing without trace, and without his diplomatic passport, and no one in the Embassy has a clue where he is.’

  ‘Which one?’ Skinner’s heart pounded as he waited for the answer.

  ‘Fazal Mahmoud, the cultural attaché.’

  Skinner did not respond in any way. When he spoke again it was to change the subject.

  ‘Robbie, one more thing. Would you throw the name Ali Tarfaz at your Middle-East watchers, particularly any of them whose student days cover the late seventies and into the eighties, in Edinburgh. Nationality Iraqi. There’s one other thing I can tell you about him, although just for fun, I’d like you to keep it to yourself.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  60

  ‘Come along here, Andy, please.’ Martin too was working late. He was in Skinner’s office two minutes after his call.

  ‘Hello, boss, you been making progress? I won’t get word on Harvey till tomorrow, but I’ve got some other news that might make your hair stand on end.’

  ‘In a minute. It seems that the Lebanese have lost a diplomat from their London Embassy. They can’t find hide nor hair of him. Bloke called Mahmoud. Deals in used Bank of England notes.’

  A broad grin crossed Martin’s face. ‘Fuzzy’s done a runner, d’you think?’

  ‘Could be, and if he’s our killer, why should he do that? If he is, then he set up Yobatu. And no one but us and Shi-Bachi knows that the Yobatu frame-up has been rumbled.

  ‘No, the fact that Fuzzy’s vanished says to me that he didn’t do it. He’s either running for his life, literally, or he’s anchored to the floor of the Thames by some very heavy weights!’

  Martin’s smile vanished. ‘Great. If Fuzzy’s been taken out as well, we’re at a dead stop. I’ve got a bad feeling about our three searches. I checked the two flats this afternoon. There’s nothing so far. And Aileen Stimson called in to see me half an hour ago. The only thing that’s happened up there is that she likes the atmosphere so much that she’s thinking of chucking in the force and taking her law degree off to the Bar!’

  Skinner laughed, ironically. ‘Wouldn’t you, if you had the chance? The hours aren’t any longer, and the pay’s a lot better, especially when it’s given to you in suitcases by Syrians!’

  He paused for a moment. ‘Listen, it’s no wonder the girl’s being distracted. We’ve sent her up there to do what we’ve done twice already. Let’s try something different. Ask her to get from the Librarian, very quietly, through Pete Cowan, a list of all the books withdrawn for study by Mortimer and Rachel, since the first meeting with the boy Fuzzy. Maybe their reading list will give us a hint. I know that the Advocates’ Library owns some of the rarest books in the world. I wonder if it has anything on its shelves that can get you killed!’

  ‘Right, boss. I’ll call her in ten minutes. She should be home by then. Meantime, the other thing I was going to tell you. Apparently there’s a chance that we’re going to have the Syrian President in town in a couple of weeks.’

  Skinner looked up in surprise. ‘Until now Syria has only been a place on the TV news. Now it’s come up twice in this office in different contexts in a single day. As a copper, that’s the kind of coincidence that makes my skin crawl.’

  ‘Same here, except that the invite is in connection with a university debate, and it comes from the students. Maybe he won’t accept, or, maybe the Government won’t want him stirring up Middle Eastern politics here. Except ...’ He allowed the sentence to tail off.

  ‘Yes,’ said Skinner. ‘Except that as far as the Middle East is concerned, we can’t be sure of anything.’

  ‘Let’s keep our fingers crossed anyway. The one good thing about it is that I get to break the news to friend Allingham.’

  ‘Then do it quick before the Chief finds out, or he’ll grab the pleasure for himself. Use my phone.’

  Martin dialled the Foreign Office number, without expecting to find Geoffrey Allingham in the building so late in the day. The extension rang unanswered, and so he left the Fettes Avenue switchboard number, and his own, with Foreign Office security, asking that Allingham be contacted and told to call him. Three minutes later, the telephone rang. The Whitehall policeman was stuck in a traffic jam in Cheyne Walk, and was calling from his car.

  ‘Good evening, Martin. What’s the picture this time? You haven’t nicked another diplomat have you?’ There was an unmistakable sneer in the voice.

  Skinner broke in. ‘Allingham, I have to advise you that you are speaking on a conference telephone and that this call is being recorded. Any more indiscreet and offensive remarks like that and I will personally arrange for the tape to be played to your Commissioner. Now cut the crap. Chief Inspector Martin has some information which may be of interest to you.’

  Quickly, Martin related Henry Wills’ story.

  ‘I see,’ said Allingham. ‘My apologies for my indiscretion, gentlemen, and thank you for this news. I shall inform my Permanent Secretary. He will wish to advise ministers.’

  Skinner came in again. ‘We could have the invitation withdrawn, if we persuaded the University to disband the sponsoring club. Shall we do that?’

  Allingham thought for a few seconds. ‘Eh, no. Hold on that one, please. Ministers may regard this as a useful icebreaker with the Syrian President. He’s a very new boy. Let’s wait and see for a few days. Thank you again.’

  There was a buzz as the line was disconnected.

  ‘You weren’t really taping that call were you?’ Martin examined the conference telephone for an extra wire.

  ‘Course not. It just seemed like a good idea at the time.’

  61

  It was almost 4.00 p.m. next day before Henry Wills called Martin.

  ‘Chief Inspector, about your request. I’m sorry to have taken so long, but one doesn’t want to arouse unnecessary suspicions, when one makes casual enquiries about an individual. I’ve got something for you now on
Mr Andrew Harvey. It seems that he has turned into a very respectable citizen, an entrepreneur, no less. I gather that he established and runs a very specialised computer software design company in a place called Cumbernauld. He calls himself Harvand Systems Limited. Now there’s original for you!

  ‘Your assessment was very perceptive. He is indeed a member of our Graduates’ Association. He donates about one hundred pounds every year, and he’s spoken at a few careers seminars for final year maths and science students. He goes down very well, from what I’m told. Does that help?’

  Wills sounded pleased, like a man expecting praise. Martin did not disappoint him.

  ‘Very much, Mr Wills. Thank you.’ As an afterthought he added, ‘Any news on that other matter you mentioned?’

  ‘Only that I heard that the Zionists have invited the Prime Minister of Israel to speak in opposition to the Syrian. He turned them down flat, apparently, and won’t even allow his ambassador to represent him.’

  ‘That might encourage the Syrian to accept, if he was in doubt.’

  ‘Let’s hope not! Dear God, imagine it!’ Martin could picture Wills eyes rolling towards the heavens.

  ‘Thank you again for yesterday’s information by the way. Securicor’s shareholders can look forward to a healthy dividend. It seems that universities and colleges all over the country are hiring extra people for the week in question. I can only guess at your source.’

  Martin laughed. ‘That’s right, Mr Wills, you can only guess!’

  He went straight to Skinner’s office to report Wills’ information on Harvey. ‘Will I check him out?’

  ‘It sounds as if he’s one rebel who’s been tamed, but talk to him anyway, to eliminate him from the inquiry if nothing else. Go in with a good cover story. I want him to forget the conversation as soon as it’s over, if he has nothing to do with this business.’

  62

  Martin found Harvand Systems Ltd in a refurbished factory unit in Wardpark, one of Cumbernauld’s older industrial estates. He located the building after a few wrong turns.

  He announced himself in the neat, well-furnished reception area; the girl behind the reception desk was very young. ‘YTS,’ Martin thought to himself.

  The woman who appeared within a minute was a complete contrast. She flowed through a security door with hand outstretched. For a second he was unsure whether it was meant to be shaken or kissed.

  ‘Hello, I’m Joy Harvey, Andrew’s wife. I’m a sort of director cum general manager. I’ll take you through to Andrew. He’s just finishing a telephone call.’

  She keyed a code into the panel beside the door and led him through into a narrow poorly-lit corridor. She walked ahead of him, tall, slim, elegant and lightly tanned. Her auburn hair shone with vitality, even under the poor neon lighting, and her body language shouted confidence. As she walked, she explained her role.

  ‘My job in Harvand is to make it run profitably, allowing Andrew and his people to concentrate on creative work without the hassle of day-today domestic things like accounting, paperclips and all that.’

  At the end of the corridor was a door, half-glazed with an opaque panel. Joy opened it without knocking and held it ajar for Martin.

  Andrew Harvey was short, fat and bald. His gold-rimmed spectacles, with their round lenses, gave him an owlish look. As he moved from behind a huge desk to shake Martin’s hand, he seemed to radiate diffidence, but then he looked directly at the policeman, who found that first impression contradicted by the strange intensity of the grey eyes.

  ‘Take a seat, please, Chief Inspector.’ The complexity of the man was compounded by a high-pitched, slightly highly strung voice, and a muted Lanarkshire accent. He led them to a conference table, just as his wife reappeared with a tray, bearing a cafetière and three mugs, each with the company logo emblazoned upon it. Martin kept his eyes on the little man at the head of the table.

  ‘First of all, Mr Harvey, thank you for seeing me on what’s really a personal matter. I belong to Glasgow University Graduates’ Association. I’ve been asked to run a seminar on police work at a careers conference which the Uni. is running during this term. I don’t know how I was talked into it, but I was. Having agreed to do it, I want to get it right.

  ‘Henry Wills, at Edinburgh University, is a friend of mine. I asked him for ideas. He suggested that I should talk to someone who had run one of these things, and he said you do it better than anyone else he knows. Sorry to be so mysterious over the telephone, but to tell you the truth, I’m a bit overawed by the thing. It isn’t exactly my line of country.’

  The ingenuousness of the admission seemed to relax the little man. From the comer of his eye Martin thought that he also detected his wife’s body posture relax. Something to hide, the policeman’s instinct said to him, but the moment passed.

  Harvey, assured now, smiled in Joy’s direction. ‘Just as well my wife’s here. She can tell you a lot more than I can. She’s a business psychologist by training. She plans my seminars, writes my script, designs the visual aid package, coaches me in delivery and all that.’

  ‘Visual aids! God, does it get that sophisticated?’

  Joy replied for her husband. ‘No, it needn’t. It really all depends upon the ability of the lecturer and in his level of confidence. Now Andrew is, by nature, a shy man. It takes a lot of personal courage for him to stand up in front of an audience. The package I put together for him is a sort of crutch to help him stay up there.

  ‘On the other hand, you are a very assertive man by nature, for all your expression of diffidence here.’

  For a second, Martin froze. Had he blown it? But he was reassured as Joy went on.

  ‘It isn’t insecurity that has brought you here. It’s a desire for perfection; even if you don’t know it.’

  Martin smiled at her. ‘Maybe I do.’

  Suddenly a fragment of memory from the past tugged at him. ‘You know, Mrs Harvey, it occurs to me that we must all be about the same age. I knew quite a few Edinburgh people when I was at Glasgow. Which university were you at? You weren’t at Gilmorehill too were you?’

  ‘No. I was at Strathclyde, from 1979 to 1983.’

  ‘We overlapped, then. Did you socialise much when you were there?

  ‘Union dances. Daft Friday, that sort of thing. You do remember Daft Friday, don’t you.’ A tone of laughter crept into her honeyed voice.

  ‘Sure do. A collection of kids in evening dress taking a long time to get plastered.’

  ‘That’s just how it was!’

  ‘We’ll all have changed a bit since then. I remember two girls called Joy. What was your maiden name?’

  ‘Granger. What was your first name, again?’

  ‘Same as your husband. May I be indelicate and ask, were you a blonde then?’ It was an inspired guess. In fact, Martin’s student vanity had been incompatible with the spectacles which he had needed then for close range vision. The faces of the girls with whom he had danced had always been blurred.

  Joy beamed. ‘I have to admit it. I’m sure I remember you too. You played rugby didn’t you? Always bumped or bruised.’

  Martin nodded, surprised.

  ‘We were at the same party together once, out in Thornliebank.’

  Martin searched his memory. Oh Lord, there was a distant night after a rugby international. Dimly, he recalled winding up in bed, for only a little while, but long enough, with a randy blonde; only of course, she hadn’t really been a blonde. Could this be her? Something in her eyes told him that she was.

  ‘After a rugby match. That’s right. We had a drink together. I was on Guinness then, and you knew where it was hidden.’

  Quickly, he took the opportunity to switch the conversation.

  ‘How about you, Mr Harvey, were you at that party?’ Christ, I hope not, he thought.

  ‘No,’ said the little round man. Martin could not decide whether he was amused or bemused by the conversation. ‘I never got through to Glasgow in those days. I didn’t meet
Joy till after we both graduated. At a business seminar, actually.’

  Figures, Martin thought again.

  ‘As I said, I got around a bit. Maybe you knew some of my rugby pals there; Al Reid, Johnny Hall? Do they mean anything?’

  Harvey shook his head. It was hardly surprising. The names were fictitious.

  ‘I had a thing with a girl through there once. What was her name? Marjorie. Marjorie Porteous, that was it. Clever, but a bit of an airhead at the same time. Then there was that Arab who was always hanging around. What the hell was his name again?’

  He paused. He realised, quite suddenly that the figures on either side of him had frozen, as if they were hanging on his next word. It was the sort of tension which shows itself through a mass holding of breath. For two or three long seconds, Martin drank it in.

  ‘Ali something; like Ali Tarbrush. Ali Tarfaz. That was it. An Iraqi bloke.’ Both Harveys exhaled quietly and relaxed again, imperceptibly. ‘I remember; the Glasgow team used to call him Ali Macleod. He really hated that.’

  Harvey looked puzzled. Martin tried an explanation. ‘Ali Macleod. Ally Macleod - 1978 World Cup, Scotland team manager. Gettit? No? Never mind.’

  Joy broke into a laugh which sounded slightly forced. ‘Ali Macleod. That’s terrible. Do you remember any of these people, Andrew?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. None of them. But then I was very serious in those days.’

  Martin decided that the time for reminiscence was over. He turned towards Joy. ‘Anyway, back to this seminar of mine. Any tips?’

  She nodded. ‘Prepare a script so that you know exactly what you intend to say, but speak from brief notes if you can. Take a few slides along, even a short video if you have one. I’m sure the police will have one. Allocate at least fifty per cent of your time to discussion. And at the end of the session, make sure you leave behind an information pack, summarising what you said, with suitable leaflets.