I'm told they're available.' iBallantyne retreated across the room to the citadel of the, ministerial desk. 'Yes, I'll do that for you. Bob, I'm sure it'll be all right.' His tone had changed; now it was almost placatory.
Skinner too had cooled down. 'I hope it is, Alan. It's your shout. If you're wrong, it'll be as if our disagreement never happened. I won't ever cast it up to you, but you'll have some job forgiving yourself.'
Ballantyne said nothing. He stood behind his desk, head bowed.
Skinner looked at him coolly for a few seconds, then changed the subject. 'What time are the Chief Constables coming in?'
'Twelve noon. I thought we'd see them in the third-floor conference room. I'll welcome them, and you can give them the low-down. I spoke to McGuinness personally, as you requested, and explained that you were working directly to me or. this thing. I told him that if you need to ask for his co-operation in anything, he's to give it without question. I'll tell the Chiefs that too.'
Skinner looked at his watch. It was five minutes before ten.
'OK. Thanks. Look, I'm going back down to Fettes. I've got one or two things to do there. I'll be back for ten to twelve.'
'Fine. See you then.'
As he left the room. Skinner knew that something had gone for ever from his relationship with the Secretary of State. He had previously thought more highly of Ballantyne's judgement, yet there was more to it than that. He was deeply disappointed in the man. Skinner's creed was built on unswerving loyalty: to family, to friends, to colleagues, to country. The Secretary of State's implacable refusal even to consider his view had left him feeling personally betrayed, and he knew in his heart that he would never be able to look at Ballantyne in quite the same way again.
He closed the door quietly behind him. If Shields and the other man had heard the raised voices, neither gave the slightest sign.
Skinner smiled at the Private Secretary. 'I'll be back for that other meeting in a couple of hours, Arnold.'
Shields simply nodded in acknowledgement.
Skinner beckoned the other man to follow him into the corridor. When they were alone, he turned on him. 'Detective Constable Howells, just what the hell do you think you're here for? You are an armed Special Branch officer assigned to close protection of the Secretary of State. I walk into that room and you're in there reading the fucking funny papers. If I had been a bad guy, you'd have been dead in one second, then Mr Shields, then the Secretary of State. Your job is out here, not in there. You have to assume that everyone who comes on to this floor unannounced is a bad guy, and be ready to act until you find out different. Do you know what happens to detective officers if they screw up badly enough around me? Night-shift in uniform on the beat in fucking Eyemouth, that's what. You've just walked perilously close to having a permanent smell of fish in your wide nostrils. So don't do it again. Clear?'
The detective, who was two inches taller than Skinner, nodded vigorously. 'Clear, sir. Sorry, sir.'
'OK, incident closed. But be on guard in the corridor from now on.'
He started towards the lift, then looked over his shoulder.
'I'll be back. You'd better be the first person I see on this floor.'
18
The courier was a woman. She was seated in a corner of the main Special Branch office, sipping coffee and reading a magazine.
When Skinner entered the room, she stood up at once, recognising him from the photograph which she had been shown early that morning in London.
Forestalling Brian Mackie's attempt to introduce her, she came towards him, hand outstretched. 'Good morning, sir. My name's Mary. I'm from Five. I have some papers for you from London, which I believe you're expecting.'
Skinner shook the woman's hand. 'Yes, that's right. Thank you for coming all this way.'
Mary was carrying a brown leather satchel. She fished a key from the pocket of her blue woollen jacket and unfastened the heavy brass lock, releasing the catch with a flick of her thumb. She withdrew a long white envelope and handed it over.
'Mission accomplished, sir. Now may I call for a cab back to the airport?'
Skinner held the envelope unopened in his hand. 'Thank you, Mary. No need for a taxi. Even on a Sunday I think we can find you a driver.' He looked across to Mackie. 'See to it please, Brian.'
'Sir!'
'DCI in?' •Yes. boss.'
He thanked the messenger once more, and excused himself.
Martin was speaking softly into the telephone. He was seated in his swivel chair with his back to the door. When Skinner entered the room he swung round, making a wind-up motion with his left hand. 'Got to go now. I'll pick you up at around one o'clock.' He paused for a second, as he listened to the voice on the line.
'If you're sure your aunt will be all right at home, we'll go to my place. I need to shave, badly. See you then.' He was still smiling as he replaced the receiver in its cradle.
Skinner shook his head and laughed. 'I don't believe what I'm seeing here. A thirty-something schoolboy. Everyone's cracking up today. First Ballantyne turns into General fucking Patton, now you turn into fucking Romeo.'
Martin looked at him curiously. 'What's up with Ballantyne?'
Skinner's good humour disappeared as he described his altercation with the Secretary of State. 'I hate these boys when they decide to get brave, Andy. It's always some other bastard that winds up bleeding.'
'Let's hope not this time.'
'Yeah. Anyway, forget that for the moment and let's look at what's in here. It's my report from Five.'
He drew up a chair and sat down, facing Martin across the desk.
Slitting open the white envelope, he drew out its contents, three sheets of A4 folded top to bottom. He scanned the first sheet, and glanced across at Martin.
'This says they've been through all of the most sensitive running files on politicians, and found only one that fits the bill.'
He put the covering letter to one side and studied the two-page report.
'We know about this guy all right. Grant Forrest Macdainnid.
Labour MP for Glasgow Marymount. He used to be a right wee hoodlum when he was a youngster. Ran a gang and did time in Barlinnie Young Offenders, till he got into politics and started doing people over legally. He's on the ultra-nationalist wing of the People's Party. Advocates direct action to secure Home Rule. But there's a twist to him: he's a monarchist. Wants to set up a Scottish Parliament with a head of state on Scandinavian lines you know, what they call a minimalist monarch. A king with a day job. He's even got a candidate picked out: a descendant of the Stuarts. Our potential king is an Italian who barely speaks English, but that's nae bother to our Mr Macdainnid. The general view of him is that he's just a nutter, but worth watching nonetheless. He's got the sort of humourless zeal in his eye that alarms the likes of you and me.'
'Mm. I know what you mean,' said Martin. 'I've seen him on telly. Have we been paying him any special attention?'
'Up here? The Glasgow Special Branch keeps a tap on his phone. It's never picked up anything more sinister than an order for a carry-out Chinese. That probably means that he expects to be tapped. He makes a load of noise in public, but in private 94 well the transcripts read like he's a real A-l bore. That's what he's like up here.' Skinner tapped the report on the desk. 'According to this, though, he comes out of the closet when he's in London. Five were giving him a sort of general look-over a few weeks back.
They tailed him to an Irish club in Camden Town. It seems they walked into a sort of terrorist jamboree. All shapes and sizes:
Irish, Basques, neo-Nazis, Libyans, all jabbering away, pissing it up, and our man Macdainnid right in the midst of it all.'
'So what did the Five guys do?'
'Hung around long enough to commit as many faces to memory as they could, then beat a retreat. Apparently, so says this report, they had a problem; one of the Five guys was a gal. This was a real hairy-arsed place and they felt too obvious, so they split. When they got back to the
shop, they dug out the picture gallery, spotted four or five faces, and realised what they had been into. They sent the heavies round right away, but the party had broken up.
They've been tailing Macdainnid ever since. No more contacts, but three weeks ago, as soon as Parliament broke up, he went on holiday.'
Where to?'
'Ready for this? Tripoli. One of the world's prime sources of Semtex and other choice ordnance. He got back to Glasgow last Thursday.'
'Fucking hell!'
'Couldn't have put it more eloquently myself. They searched his luggage at the airport. He had a big hold-all thing as hand baggage, and when he caught the shuttle, they X-rayed it, but they couldn't search it without making him suspicious. He could have had anything in there.'
Skinner folded the report, replaced it in the envelope, and handed it to Martin. 'Here, lock this in your safe. So Mr Grant Forrest Macdainnid MP has been installed as bookies' favourite.
We need a round-the-clock job on him.'
'Want me on it?'
'No. Your wee friend Julia and I both need you here. Anyway, it's a Glasgow job: one for Super-Haggerty. Dig out his home phone number for me. You've got it here, haven't you?'
Martin nodded. He flicked through his Filofax until he found the Glasgow number, dialled it and handed the receiver to Skinner.
Two rings later a gruff voice answered. 'Hullo.'
'Willie? It's Bob Skinner.'
'Momin', sir. Sunday mornin', too. What's up? Ye got a crisis in Edinburgh? Is it rainin' or something?'
It's about to rain on your weekend, fella. I need you through here. I'm seeing your Chief and others in about ninety minutes in St Andrew's House. I want you there to hear what I've got to tell them. It'll save me having to repeat myself. Are you fit to drive? I know what your weekends can be like.'
'Aw, come on, sir. You ken very well I'm teetotal.'
Skinner laughed ironically, and replaced the receiver.
'Scotland can sleep easy in her bed, Andy. Haggerty's on the job. Speaking of which, take a few hours off and see your new girlfriend. There isn't a lot you can do here till the troops finish their reports from last night. Me, I'm going along to kill some paperwork till it's time for my briefing.'
Martin smiled his new contented smile. 'Yeah, okay, boss. I think I'll do that. Before I go, though, one thing occurs to me about Macdairmid. If he's such a nutter, why doesn't the Labour Party get shot of him as one of their MPs?'
'They can't,' said Skinner. 'You see he's really a Nat.
Apparently an extreme nationalist splinter group, like that old Seed of the Gael thing from ten years back, infiltrated the, Marymount constituency Labour Party, took control, deselected the last MP, and installed the boy Macdairmid. He's untouchable by Head Office. They'd love to find a good excuse to bump him, but they haven't come up with one yet. Labour are desperate to keep the whole thing hushed up. None of the other parties know, not even the official Nationalists. If they found out, they'd crucify them, and so would the voters. Funny game politics, eh.'
Martin grunted. 'Not when you start playing it with Semtex, it isn't.'
19
'Macdairmid? That bampot? Surely he's all wind and piss, sir.'
'That was my impression too, Willie, till Five told me different.'
The last of the Chief Constables had driven or been driven away from St Andrew's House, and the Secretary of State had departed for Charlotte Square. Skinner and Detective Superintendent Willie Haggerty, the new head of Special Branch in Glasgow, were sitting alone in the big conference room, which still reeked of the smoke from Sir John Govan's pipe. The Glasgow Chief, two months from retirement, had smiled cheerfully through the coughs and splutters of his colleagues.
The big table was still littered with the debris of the buffet lunch which the Secretary of State had provided. Haggerty munched on the last of the sandwiches as he considered Skinner's story.
'Christ, that's amazin'. We listen in taste the guy's phone and he never as much as breaks wind. Down in the Smoke and he's off taste a Murder Incorporated smoker! And taste Libya fur his holidays!
Looks like he could be our man, right enough.'
'Not our man, Willie. One of them, perhaps, but not the only one. He was home in Glasgow when the bomb went off, and when the first letter was delivered, and when that biker took a shot at me.'
'How d'you know that?'
'Because I've read the transcripts. The tap picked up three calls during that time. One at 11:20 to his wife – they're separated.
One at 11:30, to his girlfriend. One right on the stroke of midday, to the Chief Reporter of the Sunday Mail. It's the third one that interests me. Twelve noon on the dot, the same moment that the bomb goes off, and he phones a mate on a newspaper.'
'What did they talk about?'
'That's the strange thing. He calls the bloke up to ask what time the Rangers game kicks off. Says he thought it could have been one o'clock rather than three, but that his Daily Record hasn't been delivered that morning, so he can't check. Says he realises the
newspaper guy isn't a football fan, but could he find out and call him back on his home number. What does that say to you?'
That he could have been trying taste fix himself up with an alibi for twelve noon?'
'Most juries I've known would call that a reasonable conclusion. Especially if you tell them that Rangers weren't playing at all yesterday. Their game's today.'
Haggerty washed down the last of his sandwich with lukewarm coffee. 'So what d'you want me taste do, Mr S?'
'I want you to be like sticking plaster to him, Willie.
Everywhere he goes, everything he does, everyone he talks to, I want to know. I'll detail a couple of guys to work with you. If he goes for a shit, I want to know how many sheets of paper he uses.
If he goes to Confession, I want to know how many Hail Marys he gets as his penance.'
Haggerty's eyebrows rose. 'If he's a Rangers supporter, he's hardly going taste Confession!
Skinner laughed. 'That's the other funny thing about the phone call. Grant Macdairmid's a Catholic. Not too many Tims at the Rangers end!'
'No' for long, at any rate!' said Haggerty with a snort. 'Right, sir. Leave it taste Haggerty's heroes. Every contact he makes will be reported back to you daily. What about other checks? Can you get us the authority to look into his bank accounts?'
'You've got it. Anybody gives you problems, call me. Use this number.'
He picked up a paper napkin and a rollerball pen, and wrote down the number of his mobile. As he did so, as if on cue, the phone itself, which was lying on the table, sang into life. He picked it up and pressed the 'receive' button.
'Hello.'
'Boss, it's Andy.' At once. Skinner sensed the tension in Martin's voice. 'I need to see you at the Sheraton – now. Suite 207.'
'What's the problem?'
'Ballantyne's bravery. Someone's bled for it – to the death.'
20
In fact there was very little blood. Yet Skinner recognised the odours of death as soon as he opened the bedroom door in the Sheraton suite.
The woman lay curled on her left side on the floor, in the centre of the room. Her right arm was thrown out in front of her, the hand palm downward. Her short, greying hair was wet, and plastered to her head. The left side of her face was pressed to the carpet. Her right eye seemed to stare at Skinner's feet as he stood in the doorway. Her expression, even in death, was one of pure aggression, accentuated by the fact that her top lip was curled back in a snarl from her prominent teeth. Her pale pink towelling robe had fallen open. Beneath her heavy left breast a single puncture wound was visible, dark red and vivid against the postmortem pallor of her skin. From it, a thin trail of blood ran down to form a small scarlet blot on the robe, which was marked also by a second stain, yellow-hued, beneath her hips.
Martin stood over the body. Sarah was by his side.
'Who is she?' Skinner asked.
Martin opened
his mouth to answer, but it was Sarah who replied, in a strange soft voice.
'Hilary Guillaum. From Buffalo, New York. The world's greatest mezzo-soprano. I first heard her sing there, in a summer concert, when I was twelve years old. She'd come back to Buffalo to do a charity recital in an open-air theatre. My dad took me, and I thought she was wonderful. The second time was thirteen years later, at the Met. She sang Norma, and she was just glorious. She was due to sing at the Usher Hall tonight. I tried to get tickets for us, but they were sold out.'
She shook her head and looked at the floor, biting her lip as she fought to regain her professional detachment.
Skinner stared at the body. He too had heard Hilary Guillaum sing, on the records and CDs of her repertoire which made up a large part of Sarah's collection. He pictured in his mind the photographs – on the record sleeves and boxes – of a beautiful, confident statuesque woman with hair piled high and an extravagant cleavage, as he now looked more closely at the fleshy lump lying on the floor. He saw not the slightest similarity between the two. •Death doesn't compromise with dignity, does it.' Skinner spoke his thought aloud into the quiet room.
'Tell me what happened. Doc.'
Sarah banished all memories of the Metropolitian Opera House from her mind, and went to work. 'You see it there. Skinner.
Single knife wound, lower chest area, left of centre. Made by a very sharp, double-edged weapon with a long blade, thrust in and upwards into the heart. Death ensued certainly within ten seconds.
It would have been caused by shock, not haemorrhage. That's why there's very little external bleeding.'
'So show me how it was done,' he said. 'Andy, you be the victim. She couldn't have been far short of your height.'
'That's right,' said Sarah, with an appraising glance at Martin.
'And there's no sign of any struggle.
'OK, let's see. Andy, over here, please.' She led him towards the door to the ensuite bathroom. 'This is where it begins. She's just had a shower, OK. She's been across at the Usher Hall doing sound checks. She dries off and plasters her hair back, then goes into the bedroom.'
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