Cheshire read the document which Medine had handed over: once, twice, a third time. Then he passed it across to Alex. She picked it up and stared at it, peering closely. The letter had been typed, not on a word-processor, for printing, but directly on a manual typewriter. It was on a plain sheet of cream A4 paper.
' "This is an instruction .. .",' she began to read aloud. It was exactly as the manager had said. Her father's name, his birthplace, his date of birth. 'But anyone could have gone to the General Register Office and looked that up,' she protested, her self-control beginning to slip for the first time that day.
Cheshire raised a hand to silence her, glancing across. For the first time, his eyes were sympathetic, rather than unkind. 'Shh,' he said, 'I know that.'
He looked back at the banker. 'What else, Mr Medine? How was the depositor to know that the courier hadn't just legged it with the cash?'
'He asked for, and I gave him, a signed, numbered receipt from this bank. It bore the number of the account. It's part of our security requirement that account holders must quote the number of their receipt as wel as the title of the account when requesting withdrawals.' He took a copy of the slip from the file, and handed it over.
'Of course I have no idea what the courier did with the receipt, 175
but he did ask me also to telephone a UK telephone number and leave a message on its answering machine, saying simply, "Consignment received" and giving the date. This I did.'
'Do you recall the number?'
Medine nodded. 'I wrote it down. Here it is.' He took a slip of paper from the folder and passed it to the policeman. Before he slid it across to Alex, she had seen the first numbers, 0162. Even so, when she saw her father's unlisted Gullane number, a shaft of cold fear swept through her. She wondered if she had gone pale, and if Cheshire had noticed, until she realised that if the investigators had checked his financial details they would also know al of his telephone numbers.
'And final y,' asked Cheshire. 'The signature. How was that to be verified?'
'Easily,' the banker answered. 'This was in the parcel.'
He took the last document from the folder and handed it to the investigator. Cheshire looked at it, his face set once more, and passed it to Alex. It was another sheet of plain A4 paper, cream-coloured.
She read, aloud once more. ' "This is a sample of Mr Skinner's signature. He will also identify himself by producing his police warrant card, issued by his office in Fettes Avenue, Edinburgh".'
Below the typescript, there it was, in a clear hand which she knew so well. 'Robert M. Skinner.'
'It's all right, Alex,' said Cheshire, speaking suddenly almost like a kindly uncle. 'I'm not going to ask you.' She found his sympathy so much harder to take than his aggression.
'Are there any questions you'd like to ask?' he offered.
She pul ed herself together and nodded.
'The money in the package, Mr Medine. You said that it was in Bank of England notes?'
'That's right.'
'A mix of denominations and ages?'
'Yes, nearly all twenties and fifties. I remember, because I had to authenticate every one of them. Most were in sequence, but not continuous. Not new, but most, if not all, unused. It was as if the whole sum had been gathered together piece by piece, over a period of time.'
'And al of them were Bank of England notes?'
The banker looked at her, puzzled. 'What else? As I said, the deposit was in sterling.'
'Mmm, okay. Can we go back to the courier now?' Alex asked.
'Can you describe him?'
'Let me think.' Medine knitted his brow in concentration. 'He was tall,' he said at last, hesitantly, 'and slim-built, wearing a grey suit.
He had fairish hair, as I recall. I would say that he was in his thirties.'
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'How about his accent?'
'I'm bad on UK accents. I can barely tell a Jock from a Geordie.
This chap just sounded bland; that's al I can say about him. He didn't give me any regional impression.'
On Alex's left, Chief Superintendent Ericson opened his briefcase, reached into it and, after fumbling with his papers, took out a single sheet which he handed, face-down, to the bank manager. 'Did he look anything like this?' he asked.
As Medine turned the paper over, Alex started in surprise. It was the photofit of Mark McGrath's kidnapper. The Channel Islander nodded at once. 'Yes. This could have been him. I'm not saying that it was, mind you, but in terms of general appearance, yes, that's in the bal park.
'Apart from the glasses, of course.' He looked up. 'Oh. Didn't I say? The man wore glasses.'
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'So you do have open minds after all?'
Alex smiled at Ericson as the car moved off. 'Course we do,' said Cheshire. 'It's unthinkable to me that another deputy chief would take a bung from anyone, but in this task, you have to entertain the unthinkable.
'You have, as your dad would be the first to tell you, to look at all the possibilities. Having studied everything about DCC Skinner, we just happened to have that photofit with us. When Medine gave us that description, Ronnie sparked on it right away. Incidental y, I was going to ask him to describe the courier, before we left.
'Pity about those bloody glasses, though?'
He smiled at Alex, suddenly. 'Al right young lady. We've given you something, now pay us back. Why were you going on about that money?'
She hesitated, but final y grinned. 'Okay, guv,' she said, 'I'll cough.
Those Bank of England notes. If this so-called bung originated from Scotland ... and where else would it? ... and it was put together over a period, like Medine said, not in a single wodge of cash, it's very unlikely, to say the least, that there wouldn't be any Scottish banknotes in it. Most of the notes in circulation in Scotland are issued by our own clearing banks, the Bank of Scotland, the Royal Bank, and the Clydesdale. Medine obviously doesn't know that.' She looked from Cheshire to Ericson. 'Neither, equally obviously, do you.'
"louche, sir,' said the Chief Superintendent to his boss. 'Nice one, Alex.'
The Deputy Chief nodded. 'Yes, it is. But I won't lie to you, lass.
Things stil look dodgy for your dad. First and foremost, there's his signature. We'll have to check that, but I could tell when you looked at it that you thought it was genuine.'
'It took me by surprise,' she protested, 'but it could still be a good forgery. It must be.'
'Time, and the calligraphy experts will tell. Of course, if it is a phoney, then the whole al egation is a fit-up. But if not.. .' He gave her a meaningful look.
'Anyway, on top of that there's the confirmatory telephone call, to his unlisted number in Gul ane. And that receipt: I've got a feeling 178
in my water that it has to be kicking around somewhere.
'You going to let us look for it, or do I get a warrant?'
She nodded. 'I'l ask Pops, but he'l say yes. As for the telephone number, the McGrath kidnapper has that.'
Cheshire looked at her in genuine surprise. 'My fiance lets me in on some secrets, you know,' she said. 'The first contact from the man was in a telephone call to my dad's unlisted number in Gullane.
Andy's people are still tearing British Telecom apart looking for the person who sold it to him.'
The Deputy Chief frowned. 'If I was in my nasty bastard mode,'
he muttered, 'I'd say that maybe your dad gave it him. That maybe the link between them's stronger than we think. That maybe this man's after a king-size ransom, and that your dad's got reasons for making sure he gets it. Maybe the hundred grand was a down-payment from him.'
He saw a look of horror cross her face. 'Of course, that's just my nasty bastard imagination running away with me,' he said, 'but he is facing a divorce petition from your stepmother, and since his assets are mostly in property or long-term investments, maybe another nasty bastard, in the Crown Office, say, might think that he did need some cash in a hurry . . . maybe a bit more than
a hundred grand.'
He stopped. 'That's what I real y hate about this job,' he said, gloomily. 'It's not just about looking under stones. It's about real y rummaging around under 'em, for the most horrible things you could ever imagine.'
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'How are we doing, Andy?' asked Skinner from the door of Martin's office. He had just returned from Edinburgh Airport, where he had put Pam on the 11 a.m. flight to London, bound for M15 with the original of Mark McGrath's horrific taped message.
'Just about there. Strathclyde cal ed back a couple of minutes ago.
I'm only waiting for Fife.'
'The buggers over there are probably al on the golf course,' the DCC growled. But he had barely spoken before the telephone rang.
'None?' he heard Martin say. 'You sure? Yes, okay, that's fine.
Thanks.'
He hung up and looked across at Skinner. 'They only have five MPs. One's a bachelor, another's newly married, a third's getting on a bit, and so on; end result zero. So no additions to my list.'
He picked up a sheet of paper from the desk. 'Seventy-two Scottish MPs, and only nine of them with children under twelve.
Twenty-five others have teenagers, but let's discount them, for now at least.'
He handed the list to Skinner, who barely glanced at it. 'How do we go about this?' he mused. 'It's pure speculation on our part. If we act on it, and give them all protection, it'll cost a fortune, and probably start a parliamentary panic.'
'I agree,' said Martin, 'but given the threat on that tape, it's speculation we can't ignore. Look, why don't we ask Special Branch offices to make quiet contact with all the names on our list, to advise them to keep their kids under constant observation, and to offer them protection if they want it?'
'Good idea. Let's play it that way. You brief Mario McGuire and have him make the calls.' He turned to the list once more. 'Let's see who's here, then.'
He had only just begun to read, and Martin was reaching for his telephone, when it rang. Frowning with momentary annoyance, the Chief Superintendent picked it up.
'Mario,' he said, surprised. 'I was just going to call you.' He fell silent as a look of pure horror crossed his face. 'Oh no,' Skinner heard him gasp. 'Get down there, now,' he snapped. 'The boss and I will meet you there.'
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He slammed the phone back into its cradle. 'Let's have it then,'
said the DCC quietly
'See that speculation of ours?' the younger man replied, hunching his shoulders and clasping his hands together. 'I think it's suddenly turned into fact. There's just been a shooting in Abercromby Place.
The victim is a Mrs Anderson.
'Mario thinks that it's the Secretary of State's wife.'
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Abercromby Place is little more than a connecting road, linking Dublin Street and Dundas Street. With few private residences, and much of its town-house office space vacant and available for let, its main value to the city is as a place for shoppers to park.
When Martin and Skinner swung out of Dundas Street, they found the road partially blocked by a police car slewed sideways. The two constables on duty recognised the detectives at once, and waved them through, although one sneaked a second, surprised glance at the suspended DCC.
They drove on but had gone barely any distance before, at a point where the road curved, they came upon two more police cars, an ambulance, and a knot of half a dozen uniformed officers, with men in plain clothes mingled among them.
As they jumped from the car, Mario McGuire saw them and waved them through the crowd.
'Are all these bystanders necessary?' Skinner barked.
'I'm waiting for someone senior from Division to take command, sir,' said McGuire.
'Will we do, d'you think?' said Martin, curtly. 'Senior officer forward,' he cal ed. A uniformed inspector stepped up. 'Get this lot organised and searching. I want spent cartridge cases, and anything else that's lying around.'
He turned back to McGuire. 'Any witnesses?'
'One. She's in the ambulance, being looked after. She was just coming out of her flat in Albany Street when she heard a bang. She didn't react at first, but final y she looked along here and saw something on the ground. She ran along, and realised what it was.
By that time the manager of the pub on the corner had appeared too.
He called us.'
'How did you get involved?' Skinner asked.
'By luck, Inspector Good was in the first car to respond. He looked in the woman's handbag, found this, and cal ed me straight away.'
McGuire handed Skinner a laminated photo-pass, showing a blonde woman in her thirties. It bore a House of Commons crest, and a name: Mrs Catherine Anderson.
'Oh shit,' whispered the DCC. 'It's Bruce's wife al right.
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'Let's have a look at her, then,' he said, resignedly McGuire led them across the street, towards a car parked nose-in, in the only occupied bay in a group of six. The body lay on the ground beside the driver's door, covered in a grey blanket, emblazoned with the crest of the Scottish Ambulance Service.
Skinner knelt down and lifted it up by a corner, carefully. Two eyes stared out at him, vacantly, looking not in the slightest surprised, just very dead. There was a big ragged hole in the woman's forehead, just at the hairline, from which blood and grey brain matter stil oozed. He dropped the blanket quickly, fighting for control of his stomach.
'Shot in the back of the head?' he asked McGuire.
'Yes sir. You can see the exit wound. It looks like he just stepped up behind her and . . . Bang! Poor woman never knew what hit her.'
He paused. 'Eh, who's going to tell Mr Anderson?'
'I wil ,' Skinner answered, 'suspended or not. But we'll need to find him first.' He reached into a pocket of his jacket, to produce a small book. 'I've got his private secretary's home number here.' He began to search again, for his mobile this time, but was interrupted.
'Excuse me, sirs,' said a nervous woman constable, appearing on the edge of the group, 'but there's someone here who says he might know the victim.'
The three detectives looked across, to see a middle-aged man, dressed in a grey shirt, grey trousers and with greying hair and beard, standing with another officer. Martin and Skinner walked across towards him.
'Yes, sir?' the Chief Superintendent began. 'First, can you tell us who you are?'
The man, who was also grey-faced, nodded quickly. 'I'm Charlie Kettles, I have the hair studio on the corner. Look, when I saw the car and heard what had happened . . . It's not Mrs Anderson, is it?'
'D'you know her?' Skinner asked.
Kettles nodded, anxiously. 'She's a customer. She has been ever since her husband became Secretary of State and they took over Bute House. She comes at nine thirty every Saturday morning, for a tidy up usual y. She left my place not long ago.'
'I see.' The DCC nodded. 'I'm afraid it is Mrs Anderson.'
'God, that's terrible,' said the hairdresser, his eyes glistening suddenly. 'What about Tanya?'
'What d'you mean?' Martin asked, yet knew the answer. A sinking feeling gathered in his stomach.
'Her daughter. Tanya. She's eight. Every second Saturday, she comes with her mother. She was here today. She's not... as well, is she?'
'No,' Skinner replied. 'There's no sign of Tanya. Thanks, Mr 183
Kettles. Someone wil take a statement from you in due course. If you'l excuse us, though, for now.'
'Of course.' The man nodded, turned and headed back to his studio, head bowed, as the DCC took out his mobile phone once more.
He punched in a number. After a few seconds, the Secretary of State's private secretary answered. '247-348 . . .'
'David. It's Bob Skinner here. Where's your boss?'
'Bute House. Why?' Hewlett sounded alarmed.
'Never mind why. Just listen. How long wil he be there?'
'Quite a while. He's expecting the Permanent Under Secretary of State and
me for a working lunch.'
'Okay. You contact the Permanent Secretary and cancel him. Then get along there yourself. Andy Martin and I will be there before you.
This is a real emergency, so no questions for now, Dave. Just do it.'
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'We spoke to the nearest thing we have to a witness before we came along here. When we pressed her, she said she thought she saw a silver or a grey car heading away from the scene, towards Dundas Street.'
'What does that mean?' asked the Secretary of State for Scotland, ashen-faced.
'We believe that the man who kil ed Leona McGrath, and took Mark, drives a grey car,' said Andy Martin.
'I see.' Dr Bruce Anderson nodded. He was standing by the tal fireplace at one end of the long, formal drawing room of Bute House, his official residence in Charlotte Square. He started to walk to the window, but Bob Skinner reached out and caught his arm.
'Don't do that. You wouldn't want to be photographed just now.'
'No,' agreed Anderson. 'You're right. Wouldn't do, would it?' His cheeks were still wet with tears as he looked up at Skinner. 'I was surprised to see you here Bob, but now, I'm glad of your presence; yours and Mr Martin's. Look, let's go upstairs and have a seat somewhere less grand, so we can talk about this.'
'You don't have to do that yet, sir,' said the DCC. 'I mean to say, you've just lost your wife.'
'Yes, and my child has just been kidnapped. I can't do anything for the one, but if I can help you find the other . . . Come on.' He turned to Hewlett who was standing close by. 'David, you'd better find a phone and sort something out with the Information Office.'
'The Director's on his way, sir.'
'Good. You wait here for him, then. I suppose you should get together with the police Press Officer, so that everyone knows everything that's being said.'
He led the way out of the public room and up a narrow staircase, to the floor which had been fitted out as private family quarters in the fine old Georgian House.
'Why did you stay here every Saturday, when your main home and your constituency are in the West?' Martin asked, as the three men entered another sitting room, much smal er than the first, but still finely furnished.
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