Skinner's Rules

by Quintin Jardine

  He rose to his feet, and joined Martin, who was still talking urgently into his radio, ordering all available men to seal off the Hall.

  Sobbing was audible now from various parts of the auditorium, so Skinner raised his voice. ‘Attention please, everyone. I must ask you to remain seated, exactly where you are, for the moment. The Hall will be cleared as soon as possible and in an orderly way, once we have taken statements and personal details from everyone here. Now, is anyone else hurt?’

  Two voices answered. Herbie Clay had been hit in the arm by a stray shot, but the bullet had passed right through. He remained conscious and calm. A girl student had cut her head badly in diving to the floor, and her boyfriend had fainted, thinking she had been shot.

  ‘Help is on its way. If there are any medical people in the room, either qualified or students, will they please render assistance to the injured.’

  A handful of people came forward, among them two nurses in uniform and a young man in a white coat.

  Skinner walked back to the doorway, where Mackie stood over the fallen Fazal, whose twitching had finally ceased.

  ‘Brian, get on to HQ on the radio. Andy’s called up all the available uniforms, but I want every CID man on duty in Edinburgh here within the half-hour, to take statements from these people before they leave the building. Then get outside, and find out why those fucking clowns on the door let a man with an Uzi just wander in here.’

  Mackie nodded and began to speak into his radio. Skinner turned to find Michael Licorish, the senior of the Scottish Office men, standing at his shoulder.

  ‘Bob, the media want to know if they can leave to file their stories.’

  ‘Sorry, Michael, not for the moment. I want total security on this for the next hour at least. I must give the Foreign Office time to do what it has to with the Syrians. You know what the Middle East is.

  ‘You can confirm to your people that the President is dead. So are David McKnight, and two armed men of Arab appearance. One of my men, Detective Constable McGuire, is badly wounded, and Herbie Clay has sustained what appears to be a flesh wound. There’s also a girl with a badly cut head, but she hasn’t been hit.

  ‘You could remind the people also that this is now officially a murder enquiry, and that they should bear in mind the rules and requirements of the courts in terms of reporting. That isn’t a threat or anything, just advice.

  ‘Oh, and one more thing, can you ask the TV guys if they recorded all that? If they did, I’d like to review their footage as soon as possible.

  Licorish nodded. ‘Sure, Bob. I’ll ask them. But you’ll get them clearance as soon as you can?’

  ‘As I said, give me an hour.’

  Skinner turned back and bent over the body in the doorway. The man had been hit in the chest by several bullets. The face, which now wore the yellow pallor of death, looked young, peaceful and oddly beautiful. But a lake of blood had spread beneath the corpse, like a dark blanket.

  ‘So, Fuzzy — and it is you, isn’t it — you’ve shown yourself at last. But why in Allah’s name did you do it? And who gave you your orders — not to mention your Uzi?’

  He rose and walked up three steps to inspect the man he had himself shot. The body was sprawled along the bench from which he had risen, He stared into the dead face: the eyes were cloudy, and the stubble on the chin was dark against the pallid skin. A long, ragged scar curved round the left cheek, ending at the corner of the mouth.

  ‘Well, Ali Tarfaz — and going by that scar, it’s you right enough — I wish you could tell me what the hell you were doing here, although I can have a good guess at it.’

  Suddenly he remembered someone else, and he looked around the Hall, The Foreign Office man was sitting alone on a bench to the right of the Speaker’s chair. White-faced, he stared straight ahead. He looked stunned by the slaughter, but Skinner was in no mood to be gentle.

  ‘Allingham!’

  The man took a few seconds to react, but eventually he rose and walked, trembling slightly, towards Skinner, who motioned him out of the chamber.

  ‘My friend, I have this feeling that you’re not as surprised by this business as the rest of us. I think you might know something about it. If you do, you’re going to tell me before this night is out. Believe that. For now, I want you to call your panic number in the Foreign Office and tell them that we’ve managed to lose the Syrian President ... before they see the whole thing on telly!

  ‘Then, I want those two Arab stiffs in there positively identified. I believe that one is a Syrian named Fazal Mahmoud, registered as a Lebanese and working out of their Embassy. I’m nearly certain that the other one is, or was, a man known as Rashoun Hadid. He’s only the head of Iraqi Intelligence, that’s all. Just what the fuck he was doing here, I’m not certain He may have been sent to hunt Mahmoud, or just to mind Al-Saddi, or both. Whichever, he finished second.’

  As he spoke, he watched Allingham intently, looking for any sort of a reaction. There was fear in the man’s eyes, and Skinner was sure he saw him flinch slightly at the mention of Fazal’s name.

  He turned towards the entrance as Mackie reappeared with two uniformed constables.

  ‘Sir,’ the inspector called across, ‘there’s something funny outside.’

  ‘Tell me later, Brian. For now, leave those two lads to guard the door. Then take Mr Allingham here to a privatetelephone. Once he’s finished, bring him back to me. And don’t let him out of your sight.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Mackie escorted Allingham away.

  An ambulance crew appeared at the top of the steps, and Skinner led them into the chamber, pointing to the fallen McGuire, who was being tended by the young man in the white coat. ‘There, boys. Be quick.’

  The detective constable was still conscious. Martin crouched beside him, speaking quietly, keeping up his confidence. Skinner called out to the other two casualties.

  ‘Mr Clay. Miss. Can you walk? If so, would you please get yourselve into the ambulance outside.’

  Both Herbie Clay and the girl began to move slowly towards the door each escorted by one of the nurses who had come forward earlier. Clay was clasping his arm tightly, as if afraid it would fall off. The girl pressed something white to her head. As they neared the door, a second ambulance crew appeared to help them away.

  McGuire was lifted up carefully and placed gently on a stretcher. Just before they carried him out to the ambulance, he grabbed Martin’s jacket with one bloody hand. He spoke weakly, his voice whistling occasionally. ‘Tell Maggie I’m going to be all right. I’m glad you sent her to the other place.’

  Skinner stopped the man in the white coat. ‘Will he make it?’

  ‘He should do. He’s been shot through the lung, but the bullet seems to have exited. There’s another one in his upper chest somewhere. It smashed his collarbone and must have lodged in muscle. But the guy’s as strong as a bull. He’ll pull through.’

  ‘Good man. Go on after him, then. Andy, you go, too. Look after all three. Make sure that Clay and the girl get everything they want.’

  ‘Right, boss. Do me one favour, will you. Break it to Maggie Rose, but as gently as you can.’

  ‘Sure.’

  More police had begun to arrive. The senior man present was a uniformed superintendent from the St Leonards station. Skinner called him over.

  ‘Hello, Jack. Good to see you. I want you to run this. CID people will be arriving from all over the place. I want everyone in the Hall interviewed and released as quickly as possible. No one gets in at all — and no media get out until I say so.

  ‘Will you also please let the Press Bureau know that if they have any calls about this, they should say that an incident has occurred in the MacEwan Hall and that details will be released as soon as possible. Clear?’ The Superintendent nodded. ‘Good, get under way.’

  Skinner took his slim two-way radio from his pocket and pulled out the aerial. ‘Blue One to HQ. Patch through to Blue Three please.’

  The line cl
icked. Maggie Rose’s confident voice sounded through the small speaker. ‘Blue Three acknowledges. Over.’

  ‘Blue Three, listen closely. Your package has been damaged and will not now be delivered. Your companions are ordered to return to their digs, their leader to join me here. Understood? Over.’

  There was a short pause. ‘That is understood. Companions will be so ordered. But be advised, Blue One, their leader is not here, only his deputy. Over.’

  Where is the bastard, then? Skinner thought to himself. To Maggie Rose he said, ‘Message received and acknowledged. Please ask local group leader to organise his own transport.’

  Skinner then dropped the code. ‘You should be aware that Mario has had an accident. He is badly hurt but he’ll be okay. You are authorised to go to ERI. Leave your oppo to supervise shut-down of your location, and to advise its management. Over.’

  There was a longer pause this time. ‘Blue Three acknowledges. You confirm that this location is no longer relevant, yes? Over.’

  ‘That is correct. Brief your colleague and get along there. Blue One over and out.’

  Skinner flicked the transmitter off, then had second thoughts.

  He called Headquarters again. ‘Blue One. Please raise the Chief by telephone and patch me through. Over.’

  A minute later the connection was made. Proud came on line. ‘Chief, just listen, no questions. I’m on site at our main event. We have a worst case scenario. Please get here fast.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’ The line went dead. Skinner put away his radio and looked around the auditorium. The uniformed superintendent had taken control efficiently. The crowd had calmed down considerably, and were seated in small groups. Detectives had begun to gather statements. Police stood around the four corpses.

  Skinner summoned over the Scottish Office information man. ‘Michael, once a few more CID boys arrive, I’ll detail a couple to clear your people and get them out of here. But I still don’t want the news released until the Foreign Office has had a chance to act on it.’ He checked his watch It was three minutes past ten. The Press Association man can be processed first and let go, if he guarantees not to file copy before 10.45.’

  Licorish nodded. ‘Fair enough. You won’t be able to keep it tight any longer than that anyway. Your man’s gone to the Royal with gunshot wounds. You know what that place is like.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right.’ Skinner shook his head. ‘Christ, what a bloody night! You try to plan for every possibility, but there’s no way you can. If a determined fanatic with a gun has luck on his side ...’ His voice trailed off for a second, then snapped back to normal.

  He called the superintendent over and told him that the next detectives to arrive on the scene should take statements from the media. Then he turned back to Michael Licorish. ‘Right, let’s talk to the photographers and the TV guys.’

  The press were gathered in a group between the two television cameras They included two stills photographers.

  ‘Did you two get any pictures of the action?’ Skinner asked.

  The taller of the two shrugged his shoulders. ‘I might have. When it all started, I ducked. But I stuck my camera up, held my finger down, and let the motor-drive run out the film. I won’t know until I process it.’

  He looked at the other photographer, who nodded. ‘I did the same, but I doubt if I got anything. Denis is a lot taller than me, and I ducked bloody low, I’ll tell you!’

  ‘Let’s see what you have, then,’ said Skinner. ‘You two grab a CID man, tell him I sent you. Give him your names and office numbers, tell him you didn’t see anything, then get back to your darkrooms and process those films. But send any stuff you have back up to me by midnight. Fair enough?’

  ‘Fair enough, Mr Skinner,’ the taller and older man replied for both. They set off in search of a detective.

  Skinner turned next to the television crews. ‘What about you gentlemen? Do you have anything in there?’ He gestured towards the cameras, As he did so, he realised for the first time that the strong blue television lights were still switched on.

  ‘Turn those things off, someone.’ Two lighting engineers threw all the switches. The Hall seemed suddenly dingy, and much cooler.

  ‘We can take a look right now,’ said one of the cameramen. ‘I had a fair view from this position.’ The cameras were set a few yards back from floor level, two or three feet above the head height of the passageway that had recently become a shooting gallery.

  ‘Ray here was a bit naughty, of course. As usual he took his camera off its fixed position. He was right behind you lot when the shit started to fly.’

  The other cameraman looked sheepish. Skinner threw him a mock glare. ‘I’ll let you off with a yellow card this time ... if you’ve got some decent footage. Let’s have a look — but on my own, if you don’t mind.’

  One of the technicians plugged a cable into the back of Ray’s camera, which had now been returned to its tripod. He linked it with a monitor and checked the battery levels at each end of the line. The cameraman rewound his cassette at high speed, as the technician switched on the monitor.

  The first pictures, taken as the camera was balanced on the man’s shoulder, were shaky, but soon they steadied. Skinner found himself watching a side view of the procession as it snaked its way out of the Hall. A dark shadow moved across in front of the lens, blacking out the screen for a second. That was probably me, he thought.

  The angle of view changed as the cameraman stepped out into the passageway, looking almost directly towards the door. Skinner saw Deirdre O’Farrell step away to the right, to allow her guests to depart, her Reeboks contrasting garishly with the bulky robes of her office.

  And there he was.

  Fazal the assassin.

  The fusillade began.

  The burr of the Uzi sounded louder through the monitor’s speaker, and Fazal’s cry in Arabic was almost completely drowned out.

  Even as he watched the shooting start, Skinner saw himself, staring intently up into the crowd to the right, then reaching into his open jacket for his Browning.

  He made himself concentrate on the main action. He saw David McKnight as he crumpled and fell to the floor, his talent, his charisma and his life all snuffed out in a second.

  He saw Mario McGuire leap across in front of Al-Saddi, then slump backwards as the bullets hit him.

  And then three things seemed to happen simultaneously.

  He saw himself snap off two shots towards his target in the audience.

  He saw the President’s head jerk back as it was devastated by the bullet.

  He saw Fazal begin his dance of death as Martin and Mackie, stand ing up in the face of the Uzi, concentrated their return fire upon him.

  And he saw something else.

  ‘Stop!’ Skinner shouted. The cameraman was startled, but after a second the image froze. ‘Rewind, please.’ The picture zipped back. ‘Stop. Now forward again, please, but frame by frame, if you can do that.’

  Again he viewed the trilogy of death, but this time in slow motion. Almost simultaneous, but not quite.

  His shots seeming slow and deliberate this time.

  Mario McGuire taking his hits, and going backwards like a man beginning a complicated high-board dive. A fine red spray from his back, below the right shoulder, as one of the bullets exited.

  Fazal’s first contortion as a red hole appeared in his chest, the Uzi beginning to droop in his hand.

  Al-Saddi’s head dress jerking up, as it filled with the bone and brain tissue blown out by the bullet.

  And, surely in the same moment, a flash in the darkness of the doorway.

  ‘Stop.’ This time the order was more controlled. ‘Back one frame, and freeze.’

  The picture wound back, like a reversing snail.

  ‘Yes!’

  There it was.

  A light in the darkness and a puff of smoke. And behind it, framed for that millisecond in time by the tiny flare of the gunshot, alone in the entrance hal
l, was a black shape: a tall, slim, short-haired, perfectly balanced silhouette.

  ‘Maitland!’

  97

  The name escaped from Skinner’s lips in a whisper.

  He sat and stared, as frozen as the image on the screen, his gaze unmoving and unblinking. Even as a shadow picture, the grace of the man was unique. The perfect killing machine.

  Michael Licorish, a decisive man by nature, did not know what to do. He gazed at Skinner as he sat there wide-eyed and suddenly white-faced. For a moment, the poetic thought came to him that the Assistant Chief Constable looked like a man who had seen something so horrible that it had turned him to stone.

  Skinner stayed motionless until Licorish, his resolve regained, began to move round from behind the monitor. And then Skinner’s right hand shot up, palm outward, in a sudden clear command to halt. For one of the few times in his life Licorish was suddenly, and irrationally, afraid.

  Skinner reached forward with his left hand and switched off the monitor. Then he stood up and looked at Ray, the cameraman. ‘I must have that tape.’

  Something in his voice forbade argument. Without a word, Ray removed the Betacam cartridge and handed it over.

  ‘Yours too,’ said Skinner to the second cameraman. The second cassette was also handed over. The two men looked to Licorish, testing his willingness to intercede for them. But they found no response.

  ‘You will square it with our bosses, won’t you,’ said Ray. ‘And we’ll get them back sometime?’

  Skinner looked him straight in the eye. ‘Forget that these ever existed. You’ve already sent film out of here tonight. And if your editors ask if you have film of the assassination, then blame Michael here. Tell them he wouldn’t let you move to follow the procession, so you didn’t have a view. But, from this moment, forget these tapes.’

  The two men stared at Skinner, reading his deadly serious expression, and they nodded.

  At that moment they were joined by their reporters. ‘What’s wrong?’ asked one, a tiny blonde girl.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ replied Ray.

  ‘Bob!’ Sarah’s voice carried to him across the Hall. Skinner turned and they moved towards each other. When they met, she clasped him tight.