Thursday legends bs-10

by Quintin Jardine

  'So what about you, mister?' Skinner murmured. 'Let me tell you something. I have a friend in Military Intelligence; not the pal Smith had… if he ever existed. He really does have the power to bury you up on the Pentlands or something like that. Normally you'd be too small for him to bother with, but he owes me a couple of favours, so

  …' He paused, watching Gavigan turn even paler.

  'For now, though, you can have your early retirement, Tommy. I don't want any scandal. You can have your full pension.' He locked on the stare again. 'But if ever I find out that you've breathed a word, a single word about any of this outside this room, or if ever I find out that you've been holding something back from us…

  'You think about me, that's all. Remember me, because I won't forget you. And remember my army friend, and the favours he owes me. You look me in the eye and you know I'm not kidding.'

  He put both palms on the table and pushed himself to his feet. 'Now get out of here. You're stinking the place out. Basement exit please; I'm not having you mixing with my people again, not even on the way out.'

  Gavigan almost ran to the door; as he was about to open it, Skinner called to him. 'Hey, Tommy. You just remember now; we'll be watching you. You're not an SB officer any more, you're a target.'

  33

  Martin read the report as carefully as all the others even though it was the last of the pile. It had been submitted by Detective Superintendent John McGrigor, CID Commander in the big, sprawling division which stretched into the hilly Borders country, summarising an investigation into stock thefts from sheep farmers in his area.

  McGrigor was a big, bluff, ex-lock forward, who respected the young Head of CID as much for his success on the rugby field as for his achievements as a detective… maybe more, Martin thought on occasion.

  The report was solid and workmanlike too, ending with the arrest of a gang of rustlers from South Shields and their initial appearance in the Sheriff Court. 'Sheep-stealers in Selkirk,' Martin chuckled. 'Right up big John's street.'

  He had just initialled the report and placed it in his out-tray when his telephone rang. It was Sammy Pye. 'Sir, I've got Spike Thomson, the disc jockey, on for you.'

  He frowned, surprised. 'Put him through.'

  There was music in the background as the presenter came on line. 'Hello, Andy,' he began in a bright, friendly tone. 'Listen, I'm on air so this can't take long. A thought occurred to me this morning. Remember I invited you to sit in on the show sometime, to see how we do it?'

  'Sure.'

  'How would you like to come in on Monday as a guest, a bit of on-air chat? I promise I won't ask you anything about current investigations, or stuff you don't want to talk about. Just about police work in general. Good PR for the force.'

  Martin's first instinct was to say, 'No, thank you', but he gave the offer a second thought. 'Yes, why not,' he replied. 'I'll have to clear it with Bob, but in principle, okay.'

  'I'm seeing Bob tonight,' said Thomson, 'at the football. I'll mention it to him. Cheers, got to go, CD's finishing.'

  Martin grinned as he hung up, until his direct line rang, a few seconds later.

  'Afternoon, sir,' said Mario McGuire. 'I've had young Alice check with Guardian Security on Lawrence Scotland, like you asked. He works out of their South Gyle depot, but he's been on the sick all week. He called in on Monday with a stomach bug. 'He's at home. He lives in a flat up in Gilmerton, near the Drum: number seven Falcon Street.'

  'How do we know he's actually there?'

  'His office called him this morning,' McGuire replied. 'Just to see how he was… and to check that he was there. He was in.'

  'What do they think of him as an employee?'

  'Quiet and reliable, was how they described him. If they only knew, eh? I wonder why Alec Smith let him stay on at Guardian after he arrived there.'

  'The Hoover Principle again, I guess.'

  'Eh?'

  'Have them where you can see them. Right,' Martin glanced at his watch: four-forty. 'I'll pick him up now.'

  'Look, sir, I could do that,' the Inspector said. 'My feet are clear of North Berwick now; I could lift Scotland.'

  'Nan. I said I would do it and I will. I want a look at this guy, anyway; you don't get to meet too many retired terrorist hit-men in the course of a working day.'

  He put down the phone and walked into his outer office and called to DC Pye. 'Sammy, have we still got that Mondeo in the car park?'

  'Yes, sir. I've got the keys.'

  'Let's have them then.'

  The Detective Constable looked surprised. 'D'you not want me to come?'

  'I'd rather you got those performance-appraisal forms out to Divisions. I'll see to Scotland on my own. I don't think for a minute that he killed Smith. If he was going to do that he'd have done it before now… and he'd have shot him too, I'll bet.

  'I might not even bring him in, I just want to talk to him; to find out what he knew about Alec, as much as anything else.' He picked up the car keys and walked out of the office.

  The white Mondeo was in the Fettes park, where Pye had parked it the night before after bringing it back from St Leonard's. He drove out into the late afternoon traffic.

  The drive to Gilmerton was tedious at the best of times. He switched on the radio, and selected Forth AM. '… and this is for Margot,' said Spike Thomson. 'I know it's a few days late, but it only came up on our play-list today.' His voice faded and the sound of Stevie Wonder singing, 'Happy Birthday' filled the car. Andy grinned to himself as he thought of his Monday appearance.

  Falcon Street was hard to find. It was a cul-de-sac and it only had a few houses, built in two small terraces looking across an open field on the other side. Number seven was one from the end. He parked, stepped out, and walked over to it and rang the bell.

  He was about to ring again, when a thin man of medium height opened the door.

  'Lawrence Scotland?' he asked. 'I'm Detective Chief Superintendent Martin, I'd like a chat.'

  'Yes,' the man replied, quietly, 'I've been expecting you, or someone like you.' He took his right hand from behind his back. It was holding a large pistol, which he pointed at the detective's stomach. 'You'd better come in.'

  34

  Mcllhenney trapped the ball, fired a pass wide to Grant Rock and moved forward into position to take the return. He felt as fit as in the playing days of his twenties and, maybe, even fitter since he trained harder now than then, and drank less.

  Grock's one-two pass was tantalisingly short; Bob Skinner had a fifty-fifty chance of getting there first. No bailing out now: quicken the stride, right foot in, sole-first, big Bob off balance for once, spinning off to the side, clear shot at goal, on weaker foot — so what — drive! Rocket, top-left-hand corner, Spike Thomson in goal, nowhere. Stick that on your turntable, sunshine.

  He turned and flashed a quick thumbs-up to Rock, acknowledging the pass, perfect now that it had worked. 'Lucky bastard,' Skinner grunted as he ran past him, back into his own half. 'Used to be,' he replied.

  And then the door opened, signalling the arrival of the nine o'clock crowd; another gathering of the Legends was over. As usual everyone knew which side had won, although no-one had any idea of the final score.

  Upstairs they showered, dressed and paid their money for the hall, then Mcllhenney drove Skinner, David McPhail and Benny Crossley, whom he had collected in Gullane on the way through, back to the Golf Hotel in Dirleton Avenue, their post-match pub. 'I think I'll arrange to be on your side next week, young man,' said Skinner, as he drove up the slope into the small car park. 'You're coming on to something of a game; four don't usually beat five.'

  'Yes,' muttered McPhail. 'Bloody Diddler not turning up.'

  'Why do they call him the Diddler, anyway?' Mcllhenney asked, as they stepped into the hotel's small bar.

  Skinner laughed. 'That's down to Grant Rock; the man of a thousand nicknames. When he was younger Howard fancied himself as a great ladies' man. He was always going on about did
dling this one, diddling that one. One night in the middle of the game, he's got the ball, dwelling on it as usual, and Grock shouts across to him, 'For fuck's sake, Diddler, over here!'

  'We all fell about laughing and the name stuck. He's never been called anything else from then on. Even Edith, his wife, calls him Diddler now, although she thinks the name refers to his alleged skills with the ball, rather than with his cock.'

  Skinner picked up the pint of lager which Lesley, the barmaid, had poured for him unasked, and eased his way into a window seat, well away from the bar so that it would not be he who went up for the next round. Spike Thomson sat opposite him, then leaned across the table. 'Bob,' he said, quietly. 'I was speaking to Andy Martin today; met him at a disastrous party last weekend. I put forward the idea that he might come on the show next Monday as a guest. I've got more scope for chat on this new AM format, and I want to have more people in.

  'I promised him that I'd steer clear of current stuff and just talk about the generality of his work. He said he'd do it if it was okay with you.'

  The DCC took a bite from his pint, and shrugged. 'Sure, I don't mind. You never bloody invite me, though,' he added, with a grin.

  'I have done and you know it,' the presenter protested. 'You've always turned me down.'

  'Aye, well. More Andy's style than mine. Even if you started playing games on air you'd never wind him up; stick an awkward question at me and I'm liable to put you off air… not that you would do that, of course!'

  'I promise, I promise.'

  'Make way, lads, make way,' came a call from above, as Neil Mcllhenney leaned over the table looking for clear space for a tray, on which he was carrying a bottle of port and nine glasses.

  'What's this?' asked Mitchell Laidlaw, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the W amp;J Graham's vintage. 'You had a birthday two months ago, Neil.'

  The big policeman's only reply was a quiet smile.

  'This is something else,' said Skinner, as his exec filled the glasses. 'As of this week, Detective Sergeant Mcllhenney is now Detective Inspector Mcllhenney. From now on, you lot'll be getting kicked by two line commanders, not just one.'

  'Congratulations, Inspector,' Andrew John called out, triggering of a chorus of congratulation as he raised his glass in a toast. 'Can I sell you an ISA?'

  'Not a chance,' the new inspector replied. 'But the Diddler's been trying to flog me one that his firm operates.'

  'You won't go wrong there,' the banker conceded. 'The wee fella might be an eccentric on the football field, and a grade one chromium-plated gossip, but he's one shit-hot investment manager.'

  He leaned back, allowing Lesley room to clear away some pint glasses; as he did he spotted a newspaper left on the floor by an earlier customer; he bent and picked it up. It was a copy of the Evening News, two days old. 'Have you put a name to this bloke yet?' John asked, pointing to the likeness on the front page.

  'I don't think so,' Skinner replied, 'but I've been away; I don't know the whole story.'

  'Let's have a look,' said Mcllhenney. 'I haven't seen that e-fit yet.' He took the newspaper from John and studied in.

  After a few seconds he started to laugh… and then the laugh tailed off and was replaced by a frown, as he thought of the man who treated Thursday as if his life depended on it, who never missed a game, yet who, without warning, had failed to appear that evening.

  He passed the crumpled News to the DCC. 'Here, Boss,' he said. 'Look at this picture, this unidentified floater. Could that or could that not be the Diddler?'

  35

  'This is very stupid, Lawrence. I'm the Head of CID, for God's sake; my staff and various other people knew I was going to talk to you. It's a matter of time before they come looking for me.'

  Martin had been sitting on the wooden kitchen chair for almost five hours, his hands tied behind his back. In that time neither he nor his captor had said a word. Scotland had simply sat there, gazing at him, levelling the gun at him. He knew that he had been playing a game with him, a game of growing tension, growing terror. Okay, the guy had won.

  'You better start praying that they don't then. For the first time that doorbell rings I'm just going to blow your fucking brains out.'

  The detective looked at him and knew that he meant it; cold terror gripped him inside, but he made a conscious effort to keep it from showing. 'They won't ring the doorbell until there's an armed response team in position outside. How are you going to get out?'

  'I'm not. Once I've shot you, I'll just give myself up. When they try me I'll tell them the whole story of what Alec Smith did to me. That Gavigan bloke; he's still around. I'll call him as a witness.'

  'You've never met Bob Skinner, have you?' Martin asked. 'No, but I'd like to. I'd like to have him sitting in that chair next to you.'

  'You wouldn't, believe me. There's a flaw in your plan; Bob's not going to let you walk away from here. You kill me and he's going to kill you, not just because he's my best pal, but because of the story you could tell in the witness box. He's a crack shot, incidentally, and he's a very patient man. I'd keep well away from that window if I was you.'

  'I don't care about being dead, mister; I've been dead before. But thanks for that advice.' Scotland walked round behind Martin, to the window, out of any line of sight from outside. The kitchen went dark, suddenly. The detective glanced over his shoulder and made out the shape of Venetian blinds, now admitting only the narrowest strips of daylight.

  'Is this your standard practice, pre-execution?' he asked. Keep him talking, Andy. He's got a lot to say.

  'Was, Mr Martin, was. I'm retired now, remember. Alec Smith retired me about ten years ago: or he thought he did. But as it happens, you're right. I always used to do this in Ireland; the Provos, and the Ulster-based Loyalist guys, they would just kill quick and off. There's the target, bang, another couple in the head to be sure, job done.

  'I didn't like that approach. That was much too impersonal for my taste. The way I saw it, the people I was sent to kill were human beings just like me; they had the right to know who was going to kill them, and why. Plus, they had a right to prepare themselves for the end of their lives.

  'So I would pick them up, take them to a safe house and sit up all night with them, talking to them about the conflict, listening to their threats often enough, but very rarely listening to them beg for their lives. They were real soldiers, most of those boys, I'll give them that.

  'Are you going to beg?' he asked suddenly.

  'Fuck off.'

  'We'll see, when the time comes. Anyway, we'd have our death watch, my customers and I, then at dawn I'd give them the Last Rites

  …'

  'You'd what?' Martin interrupted.

  'I'd give them the Last Rites. They were all Catholics, the people I killed over there, and I knew the words, sort of, so I gave them the Last Rites. It meant something to them, believe me.'

  'Sure, the final insult.'

  'Ah, you're a Catholic then. But you don't deserve the Last Rites, you're a copper.'

  He leaned over and tapped Martin in the middle of the forehead with the barrel of the big pistol. 'I used to shoot them right there, so they could see it coming. I always wondered whether they did… see the bullet, I mean. Think about it: if someone shoots you right in the middle of the scone at close range, do you see the bullet just before impact? Do you die before you see the flash? I'm pretty sure you don't hear the bang. I used to time that; when I heard the bang the guy's brains were usually on the way out the back of his head. One or two of them flinched though, looked away just as I was pulling the trigger. Fucking brains everywhere then, even on me; top of the head comes right off with a heavy-calibre gun.'

  'You're going to make a hell of a mess of your kitchen,' the detective growled.

  'Ahh, a hard boy,' said Scotland, knowingly. 'We'll see that too, when the time comes, just how hard you really are. Anyway, I'm not going to shoot you here… not unless somebody rings the bell, that is.' Martin began to th
ink, frantically. Who expected him that night, or might call on him, find him missing? Rhian? No, no more. Karen? No, baby-sitting for Neil. Alex? Unlikely. Pye? No. Mario? Christ, I hope not. Change the subject, change the subject.

  'Earlier on, Lawrence,' he kept his tone even; no panic, no fear, 'you said that Alec Smith only thought he'd retired you. Are you saying you've been active since then?'

  'No. I'm saying that the likes of big Smith couldn't retire me. I withdrew, because it was too dangerous for the people I worked with for me to be around them. I could never be completely sure that I had evaded surveillance.'

  Scotland looked at his prisoner and let out a sort of snort. 'Hhghh. You realise you haven't even asked me how Smith thought he had retired me? That means you know. Probably always bloody known. I imagine that big bastard was really proud of himself, talking it all over Special Branch. Not so fucking cocky now, though.'

  'I know what he did,' Martin acknowledged, 'but I only found out this week. I took over Alec Smith's job, but I never knew about it then. Alec never told anybody anything they didn't need to know, not even his family. He was the world's most secretive man and all of his secrets may have died with him.

  'We only found out what he did to you because Tommy Gavigan was leaned on after his death. He told us all about it. He's out now, by the way; retired early, sent on down the road.'

  'You mean he's got a fucking pension for that?' Another flash of anger.

  'Which he'll never enjoy spending for looking over his shoulder. Unless… maybe we'll get him your job at Guardian.'

  Scotland smiled, a cruel grin of power. 'You forget,

  Detective Chief Superintendent… you won't be getting anything for anyone after tomorrow.'

  'As you say, we'll see about that.' Move on, quickly. 'How did you know who Smith was? What he was?'

  'Come on, Mr Martin. Our intelligence wasn't that bad: I don't mean my Irish friends, I mean Tony Manson's intelligence. He always knew who all the coppers were, including the Special Branch people. Tony got me involved in Ireland, you know. Some contacts of his needed an outside worker to take on a special job; somebody very big in Sinn Fein, someone they couldn't get near. He could have sent big Lenny Plenderleith, only he didn't want to risk losing him; so, since I had done a few things for him by that time, he volunteered me. The job got done, and I got asked back for the tricky ones. I got paid, of course; I was strictly a mercenary.'