‘Guess what?’ he said when he was done. ‘That van along there belongs to Freddy Welsh’s company.’
I was beginning to wonder whether Mr Welsh had been in it when that fucking awful tune sounded again, and I learned that wasn’t the case.
‘DC Montell,’ I heard him say. ‘Tell me why you won’t let me eat my lunch?’
I watched him again as he listened, saw his face change again, the black eyebrows come together until they were almost, but not quite touching. ‘That’s reason enough,’ he murmured. ‘Thanks, Griff.’
He laid the phone on the table and turned to me again. ‘Jock Varley’s been weighed in, just like Cousin Freddy promised. That was him in the van, and, we can assume, his wife. Just as well we didn’t wait for them at their house.’
Bob Skinner
The Home Secretary? Who the hell does she think she is?
That’s what I thought when Clyde told me about her ‘orders’. I’m a police officer and I’d been given information about a crime, or a potential crime, so I had a duty to investigate it, and to advise my colleagues in Strathclyde of what might be about to go down on their patch. In theory, if push came to shove, I could have the Home bloody Secretary arrested, on the basis of what I knew, for obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.
But that’s not the way the real world works, is it?
‘Catch them,’ she’d said; those were her instructions to the security service, and my protégé’s career . . . I’d started to think of him as that already . . . was riding on the outcome. Indeed it was at serious risk, for her ‘catch them’ was easier said than done, but I could see a line of enquiry, a long shot but one that might pay off.
On the other hand, it might not. If it didn’t, although a sniper shot on Fabrizzi somewhere between his hotel and the venue was the likeliest option, we didn’t know enough to rule out anything. That meant that a hit within the Royal Concert Hall was a possibility, even if it was the most difficult to pull off, given that there was bound to be a police presence of sorts.
However, among all the doubt there was one certainty; I wasn’t having any excitement going down in that hall, not with my wife . . . however I felt about her . . . and Paula Viareggio sitting in front-row seats. That wasn’t going to happen, regardless of what any bloody woman in Westminster had to say about it.
‘Wait here till I get tidied up,’ I told Clyde. ‘We’re going for a drive.’
I left him in my office while I took a quick shower, shaved and changed into my normal summer weekend gear: slacks, a short-sleeved shirt and a light cotton jacket. That took me fifteen minutes; the call I made to Maggie Steele took five more; three for her to believe I was serious, and another two for her to write down my detailed instructions.
Once I was done I went back downstairs. ‘We’ll take your car, I think,’ I said.
‘Where are we going?’ young Houseman asked.
‘Edinburgh,’ I told him. ‘We’re going to see a man I was planning to talk to anyway. Your visit’s made it a little more urgent, that’s all.’
‘Does he know we’re coming?’
‘No, not yet. I want to keep it a nice surprise for him. But don’t worry, Clyde, he’ll be there.’
I gave the directions, back to the A1. All the time I was thinking. ‘A man like Cohen,’ I began as we were cruising towards Prestonpans, ‘on an operation like this one, how would he arm his people?’
‘He could bring the weapons in,’ Houseman replied. ‘But that would be an added risk. If he could source them locally, that’s what he’d do. Mind you, sir, they would have to be specialist. These are not the sort of men who blaze away with sawn-offs.’
That’s the conclusion I’d come to myself.
‘Follow the signs for Glasgow,’ I said, when we got to the slip road that leads to the city bypass.
He frowned. ‘I thought we were heading for Edinburgh.’
‘We are, but it’s quicker this way.’
‘Come on, sir. Where are we going?’
I laughed. ‘We’re going to the place where you’d have wound up if I hadn’t given you that card.’
Just under half an hour later we pulled into the car park of Her Majesty’s Prison, Saughton. ‘You may have to pass through a metal detector when we go in there,’ I warned my driver. ‘Do you understand me?’
He nodded, reached inside his blazer, took an automatic pistol from its holster and locked it in the glove compartment.
I led the way up to the pedestrian entrance. I was ready to show the duty officers my warrant card, but they knew me by sight. I told them that Clyde was with me; that got him in without a pass.
‘What can we do for you, Mr Skinner?’ the senior man asked.
‘My colleague and I need to see the remand prisoner Bass, now.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, sir, but won’t we have to get him a lawyer?’
‘Not this time. Bass has been charged already and he’s had the benefit of legal advice. This will be a private conversation, just the three of us. Understood?’
The officer was a veteran; he nodded. His smile suggested that he was a fan of the old-fashioned way of doing things.
He made a phone call, then escorted us to the remand section of the prison. By the time we got there, our host was waiting for us, in a small musty room with opaque glass in its only window. He was cuffed, seated, and a guard stood by the door, watching him.
‘You can go,’ I told the minder.
The prison officer stood his ground. ‘That’s against . . .’ he began.
I looked him in the eye. ‘Now. No worries, on you go. Wait at the end of the corridor.’
As the door closed behind him, Kenny Bass glowered up at us. There was only one chair on the other side of the table; I took it, leaving Clyde to lean against the wall. Neither of us spoke. We hadn’t discussed our approach but I could tell that he had the nous to follow my lead. I waited, he waited, until Bass’s glare faded and was replaced by a look of nervousness.
Inevitably, he broke the silence. ‘Who are you guys?’ he asked.
‘I’m the chief constable,’ I replied. ‘This gentleman is an associate.’
‘What d’you want?’
‘We want you to tell us about Freddy Welsh.’
Bass sighed, and leaned back in his chair. ‘No, again. Like I said to all the other tossers, I don’t know any Freddy Welsh.’
I reached out, grabbed his handcuffs and pulled him towards me, hard. I jerked him right off the chair and his chest slammed into the edge of the table. I leaned forward until our faces were no more than a foot apart.
‘In case you didn’t hear me,’ I murmured, ‘let me repeat; I am the chief constable. Ask yourself this: how many other petty cigarette smugglers merit a personal visit from the top cop? The time has come to stop pissing us about, Kenny. You were a trivial little plonker, but now you’ve acquired significance.’ I twisted the cuffs, contorting his arms and drawing him even closer to me. ‘You will answer this question, or it’s going to get tough for you. Who set up your trip to Spain to pick up those fags? You, or Freddy Welsh?’
I held him, with my eyes unblinking, keeping the pressure on his wrists. He resisted for a few seconds, but no longer. ‘Freddy did!’ he squealed.
‘That’s a good start,’ I told him, loosening my grip a little. ‘What was the deal?’
‘He came to me and he told me he had this cargo that needed bringin’ over from Spain. He gave me a truck and told me to take it to a place in Valencia; he said there would be serious money in it for me. I did what he said; there were guys waiting for me. They told me to leave the truck wi’ them and come back in a couple of hours. I did. They told me I was ready for the road and they gave me papers. They said they were import permissions for what was in the van and that if I was asked, I should show them to the customs guys. That was it; they said I should go, so I did.’
‘Were you curious? Did you look in the back?’
‘Of course. It was full of fags in
cartons; the papers said they were goin’ tae a bonded warehouse in Birmingham.’
‘Were you stopped at the port?’
A small sneer touched his lips. ‘Nah. This country’s an open door, mister.’
Sad but true, I thought. ‘So,’ I continued, ‘you got home free and clear. What happened then?’
‘I met Freddy,’ he replied. His tongue was well loosened by that time; he couldn’t tell us enough. ‘He said well done. He said that I could keep the fags, sell them myself, ken, for whatever I could get for them and that there would be a wee bit of cash in it for me as well. That’s why I was in Lafayette’s; I was to meet him there and he was going to pay me.’
‘So what else was in the truck? He wasn’t paying you for nothing. What were you really bringing in for Welsh?’
‘A box. That’s all I know, honest. A big wooden packing case, about four feet by two, and maybe two deep; I’ve no idea what was in it. There was a secret compartment in the truck, under the floor. Freddy opened it, we took it out and I helped him carry it into his store. It was heavy.’
I tightened the cuffs a little. ‘Where did you take it?’ I asked.
‘I can’t remember. It was dark.’
Another twist, then one more until pain registered in his eyes. ‘Kenny,’ I murmured, ‘people have been trying to lie to me for thirty years and not succeeding. I’m a world expert in spotting bullshit. I tell you again, this is important. If you think I would not break both your wrists, then you’re wrong.’ As a demonstration I twisted even harder.
He screamed. ‘It was a house! It’s in Livingston, in a street called the Pines. There’s a big extension in the back garden and Freddy’s store’s under that.’ I eased the pressure once more. ‘What the fuck are you guys up to?’ Bass squealed.
‘What do you mean? Why should we be up to anything?’
‘I went back there,’ he said. ‘I was curious. There was too much I didn’t know. I wanted to see who owned the place. I knew it wasnae Freddy’s. So I parked there and I waited, till the guy who lives there came home. I recognised him. Your guys asked me about him yesterday. He’s a polis; his name’s Varley. I know him because when I had my massage parlour, he used to come in there. I’d give him freebies with one of the girls; pay-off like, for having a friend on the force. I wasn’t the only mug either; that bastard never paid for a thing on his patch.’
I let him go. ‘You’re an idiot, Bass. You could have told us all this the day you were lifted.’
‘Aye sure,’ he snorted, clenching and unclenching his fists to set the blood flowing through them again. ‘Then one of Varley’s pals visits me in my cell and I commit suicide.’
‘Varley doesn’t have any pals,’ I told him.
‘Hmm. And I’ll believe that. You guys are all the fucking same.’ Clyde pushed himself off the wall and leaned over him. ‘If we were, mate,’ he said, ‘you’d be having a fatal seizure round about now.’
I opened the door and called to Bass’s escort; he was at the end of the corridor outside with the man who had brought us across. ‘What do I get for this?’ the prisoner asked.
‘Keep your mouth shut about Varley when you give evidence about Welsh,’ I replied, ‘and you’ll get a suspended sentence for possession of contraband.’ I winked at him. ‘Opening it might be suicidal.’
We said nothing as we were led back to the prison reception area, nor until we were back in Houseman’s car. ‘What do we have?’ he asked.
‘Nothing for sure, only a possibility; no, several possibilities. One of them is that Smit and Botha might not have brought Cohen’s body through to Edinburgh. He might have died here, before or after they paid a visit. To test that out, we need to interview Freddy Welsh.’
‘But who is he?’
I looked at him as he reholstered his weapon, and pointed to it. ‘You know the phrase, “Gun for hire”. It applies to guys like Cohen, Smit and Botha. Freddy’s guns aren’t for hire, though, they’re for sale. He’s a very discreet, very low-profile arms dealer. I’m told that he’s operated under our radar for years, and it seems, under yours.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Some things, Clyde, I’m keeping secret, even from you, but my information is that if Beram Cohen wanted weapons for his operation, there’s every chance he’d have gone to Freddy Welsh.’
He frowned. ‘Are you certain?’
‘No,’ I admitted, ‘not one hundred per cent. In theory my source could be spinning me a yarn, but everything fits. The timing, Cohen’s corpse showing up in Edinburgh, the pay-off to Kenny that was aborted by Varley’s phone call, it all fits. I know what was in that box that the sap Bass brought back in his truck, and Welsh stashed in Jock Varley’s house. With a wee bit of luck,’ I said, ‘it’s still there. But I wouldn’t bet on it.’
‘Where do we find him, this Welsh?’
‘In a holding cell in my headquarters, I hope. He was due to be arrested this afternoon. Inspector Varley was on his payroll; we can prove that now, and that gave me enough to have him lifted. We talk to him, and the whole thing’s wrapped up.’
‘Not quite,’ Houseman protested. ‘We’ve still got the threat to Theo Fabrizzi.’
I checked my watch; it showed five forty-five. ‘He’s okay,’ I told him. ‘If anything had happened so far your people would have alerted you. He’ll be at the concert hall very soon, assuming he makes it, and if he does, that’s where they’ll be trying to hit him. Only he won’t be there; not on stage at any rate. I’ve taken care of that.’
‘How, for Christ’s sake?’
‘Never you mind. Come on, let’s get ourselves to Fettes. Take a left when we get out of here then first right; it’s not far.’
I was smiling. I really did think it was going to be that easy. My over-confident grin was still on my face when my phone sounded, and I saw that Mario McGuire was calling; I pressed the ‘accept’ button; Clyde’s Bluetooth system paired automatically and picked it up.
‘What’s up?’ I asked, cheerily.
‘Are you at home, chief?’ His tone was enough to remind me that complacency is a police officer’s worst enemy.
‘No. I’m on the road. Are you going to ruin my day?’
‘That depends on the mood you’re in, and on how you really feel about Jock Varley. We’ve found him and his wife, shot dead. The bodies were burned beyond recognition, but the pathologist, whom you know, has just ID-ed him.’
‘The wife too?’ I repeated.
‘Afraid so. The van they were found in . . .’
I had a moment of prescience. ‘Belonged to Freddy Welsh?’
Mario laughed. ‘Have you got a crystal ball in your car, boss? How did you know that?’
‘Pure fucking guesswork, honest. Do we have Welsh?’
‘No, and that’s the bugger of it. He’s vanished; he didn’t go home last night and his wife’s wetting herself about him.’
‘Was he in the van too?’
‘No, chief, there were only the two bodies.’
‘What have you done so far about finding him?’ I asked.
‘I’m doing it right now,’ he replied. ‘I’ve already put a nationwide call out for him, and Lowell Payne’s tracing all vehicles registered in his name as I’m speaking. Next, I’m going to send Stallings back out to his house, just in case he does show up there. While she does that, I’m going to check out Varley’s place. I’m kicking myself, I should have gone in there this morning when we got no answer to the door. Boss,’ he exclaimed, ‘what the fuck is up here? Have you any idea?’
‘You know me, mate. I never have a clue.’ Okay, I was lying about that, but one thing was true: I knew exactly what Mario would do if I told him what I suspected. He’d go straight through to Glasgow like a Chieftain tank and cause all sorts of chaos. The way things were, the last thing I needed to do was to panic him. Besides, I told myself, Fabrizzi was taken care of; the concert hall will be safe because there will be no target, so no danger there.
>
‘Where’s Paula?’ I asked, idly.
‘On her way to Glasgow; the government car’s just collected her. Why?’
‘Nothing,’ I said briskly. ‘Mario, change things a bit; you go to Welsh’s house, babysit his wife, in case he does come home, but make sure also that she isn’t in touch with him. Get armed officers out there as well, just in case. I’m not far from Livingston just now. I’ll check the Varley place myself. I know the street name, but what’s the number?’
‘Seven.’
‘I’m on my way there. Keep me informed.’
By that time we were in Stevenson Drive: I told Clyde to do a three sixty at the roundabout then to turn right into Calder Road, heading back to the bypass. There are two ways to get to Livingston from where we were at, the long way and the short way. Unless there are tailbacks on the motorway, and I knew that there wouldn’t be on a Saturday, the long way is always quicker, so that’s the one I told him to take. As we approached the town I fiddled with the navigation system and worked out how to programme the address into it.
As bad luck might have had it, Varley’s house was located beyond the Almondvale shopping centre. It’s huge by Scottish standards; I know that because Sarah likes it, and when we were married she dragged me along there on many an occasion, to marshal the kids. The traffic can be intense around it, but fortunately in the early evening it all goes in the other direction, so we had a clear run in. The name of the street was stuck in my head, for there’s one in Gullane of the same name and I know the people who live at its number seven. It’s a cul-de-sac and so, by coincidence, is the Livingston version.
Clyde turned into it and paused, counting down the numbers. I didn’t have to. My body hasn’t quite caught up with my age yet, and my long vision is still very good. At the end of the street a single house faced us. There was a car in its driveway, a Mercedes E class, metallic blue. I couldn’t make out the numbers, not quite, but the letters of its personalised number were FJW.
Funeral Note Page 33
