Lethal Intent bs-15

by Quintin Jardine

  'Spence!' the detective roared, anger overcoming him. 'Stop messing about, kid, or there'll be no rugby for six months. And that's if your dad lets you off lightly.'

  As he gazed around, he felt a tug at his sleeve. 'Uncle Mario,' Lauren exclaimed, pointing. 'Look, those are his skis.' He followed her finger and saw that she was right: they were lying side by side; through the snow that was gathering on them he could see the maker's name. He traversed across towards them, and then his anger left him, to be replaced by fear. Beside them lay another pair, larger, adult size. And then he remembered the man, the would-be Franz Klammer in the designer gear, who had gone up on the lift before the children, but who had not come down.

  He looked more closely at the ground and saw tracks, not clear footprints, but clear signs of someone climbing sideways over the hill, and perhaps of someone else being dragged. Trying not to let the panic show on his face, he ripped off a mitt, and searched inside his suit until he found his cell-phone. He found a stored number and set it up to be called, then handed the Nokia to Lauren. 'Take this,' he said, 'and call that number: it's the control room at police headquarters. Tell them that you're Chief Inspector McIlhenney's daughter, tell them where you are and that you're with me, and tell them that I want police here right away, equipped to climb the hill. Then you ski down and wait for them. Understood?'

  Neil had told him in the past that her mother's death had made part of the girl into a woman overnight, but until he looked into her eyes, Mario had not understood fully what he meant. She looked back at him with calm, steady eyes that could have been Olive's, and nodded. 'Yes,' she said. 'Now you go and get him!'

  He kicked himself free from his skis and headed off across the slope. At once he realised that he might have an advantage. He was strong and very fit, yet it was hard going for him… and he was not dragging a struggling boy. He pressed on following the tracks: the snow was heavy towards the top of the hill and it had begun to cover them already.

  He glanced at his watch, and estimated that he had only another hour left of daylight, such as it was. He picked up the pace, until he achieved what for most men would have been impossible and broke into a run up the incline. His lungs burned with the effort, but he drove himself on. His legs felt that he had run a mile and more, and yet he knew that he had come only a couple of hundred yards. He paused to yell once more across the hillside. 'Spence! Spence!'

  And on the wind, he thought he heard a faint reply: 'Uncle Mario!' a cry choked off.

  He broke into his painful trot once more. His eyes were swimming, but he could still see the tracks, following them as they headed into the cleft at the top of the hill. He ran on, until ahead he saw a high outcrop of snow-covered rock.

  Spencer was there, in a heap, trying to get to his feet. Mario started towards him… and then the snow seemed to move alongside him. He saw a white flash through the blizzard, he heard his godson cry out a warning, then lights exploded inside his head, and he knew no more.

  Fifty-nine

  Bob Skinner was happy. He had spent his morning watching cartoons with Seonaid, and playing video games with Mark… without winning once. After a hamburger lunch round the kitchen table he had spent two hours watching James Andrew hit orange-coloured golf balls in the snow on the children's course outside the Mallard Hotel. When they were finished, he had taken him into its warm, stone-floored conservatory, sat him down, and bought two pints, one lager, the other orange squash, and two packets of salt and vinegar crisps.

  He looked at the bright face of the youngster, as he clutched his glass in both hands, and felt as if he was in another world, one without death, danger, sorrow, one full of optimism and bright dreams. It was a place he enjoyed. 'Sorry about the football, son,' he said, not for the first time that day, 'but it's not safe for the players in the snow.'

  'I'd play in the snow,' Jazz replied.

  'Sure you would, and I'd play with you if you wanted, but it couldn't be a real game, because nobody would see the lines, so they wouldn't know whether the ball was in play or not'

  'We just played golf in the snow.'

  'Not quite: we hit some shots, but we didn't putt; you can't putt through it.'

  'I don't like putting. I only like hitting shots.'

  Bob laughed. 'You and me both, kid, but if you want to play well, you'll have to practise chipping and putting for just as long as you practise hitting.'

  'Will you practise with me, Dad?'

  'Whenever I can, son, I promise.'

  'It's a pity Mark doesn't like golf: he could practise with us too.'

  'One day he will. Once I can persuade him that there are mathematics about golf, he will. Right now, he's only interested in playing it on a computer screen.'

  'And Seonaid too.'

  'No reason why not: she's in the process of mastering walking right now, but once she's done that, we'll try her out.'

  'And Mum?'

  Bob paused, and smiled. 'You sneaked that one up on me, you little so-and-so,' he thought. 'If she wants,' he replied. 'Mum hasn't played golf for a while; I think she might be going off it.'

  'Will she be home soon, Dad?'

  'Yes, she will. She called me the other day and promised that she would. She has some business to do back in America and then she'll be home.' He glanced out of the conservatory windows, up towards the Smiddy and across the main street, where three new homes had replaced the old filling station and garage. Gullane was changing, but slowly, at its own pace.

  The street-lamps were starting to shine bright: the short afternoon had become evening already. 'Come on, son,' he said. 'Time we went home.'

  'Can we watch The Lion King DVD?'

  'Again?'

  'Please.'

  He grinned. 'We'll put it to the vote.'

  'That's all right, then: Seonaid'll do what I tell her, so I'll win.'

  Bob was still smiling as he took their empty glasses and the crisp wrappers back through to the bar, and as he walked with his son up East Links Road and across the Goose Green playground. He was still smiling as he reached home, going in by the utility-room door where they discarded their snowy footwear and jackets. 'Go on, then,' he told James Andrew, 'you see what's on telly, while I check on the other two.'

  The youngster ran off, and he stepped into the kitchen. Trish was there, preparing the children's supper. Seonaid was on the floor, happily making a mess with some flour and a mixing bowl. 'Teach them young,' the cheerful nanny said.

  'You'll be teaching her to knit next.' He chuckled.

  'No, sir. I'll be teaching her to shop!' She looked at him. 'Two messages for you; just as well you left your mobile at home. One was from Mr Pringle, and the other was from Sergeant McGurk.' In her Bajan accent, she pronounced 'McGurk' without the r. 'The numbers are there, on that notepad.' She nodded towards the telephone. 'Oh, and Alex called too: she said the buses are running so she'll be out for dinner.'

  'Thanks, Trish,' he said. 'I'll call them back from my bedroom; there'll be a row if I tell the boy to turn down the telly.'

  He took a Budweiser from the fridge, uncapped it, and made his way upstairs, looking in on Mark; his older son was playing chess on his computer. He frowned, and made a mental note to show him the relationship between mathematics and golf, as soon as he had worked out what it was.

  He sat on the bed and dialled Dan Pringle's mobile number, the one that he had left. He did not expect good news, and when his veteran colleague answered his call, he could tell in an instant that there was none. 'She's gone, Bob,' he said. 'Peacefully, this afternoon. Her mother and I were with her when they. . when it happened.'

  'I can't tell you how sad that makes me, old friend. My condolences to both of you. I'll call on you soon, once you've had some time to grieve together.' He replaced the phone in its cradle. He was back in the real harsh world, ripped away from the happy island that his day with the kids had been. 'Maybe Sarah's right after all,' he whispered to himself. 'Maybe I should turn all this in.'

/>   He pushed the notion away and dialled McGurk. 'Hi, Jack, it's the DCC. Have you heard from Dan?' he asked at once.

  'Yes, sir,' the sergeant replied, quietly.

  'It's just too bad, isn't it? And her just a kid too. Was that what you called to tell me?'

  'Not that alone, sir; there's something else. About twenty minutes ago, the control room at Fettes had a call from a kid. She told them that her name was Lauren McIlhenney, and that she was calling from the top of the ski slope at Hillend. She said that she was with Detective Superintendent McGuire and that someone had abducted her brother. Mr McGuire had set off in pursuit and wanted snow-equipped officers there, pronto.'

  Skinner could barely take in what he was being told. 'Jesus!' he whispered. 'What did they do?'

  'They took her at her word. They had caller ID; it was the superintendent's phone she was using. The duty inspector in the control room ordered all available units to the scene.'

  'Good. And Neil? Have you, has anyone, called Neil?'

  'I vetoed that, sir, until I'd spoken to you. I hope my judgement was right, but I didn't want him charging up that hill like a one-man army.'

  'Your judgement was spot on, Jack. Having Mario there is enough; my main worry is that if he catches the abductor, they'll have to scrape him off the hillside. Leave Neil to me. I'll call him, and while I'm doing that I want you to get a car to pick me up from Gullane and take me to the scene. I'd drive myself, but I've had a couple of beers.'

  'Very good, sir. Er, you'll let me know how it turns out, will you? With the boy?'

  'Sure.' He hung up once more, and took a deep breath; when he was ready he dialled McIlhenney's cell-phone number.

  'Yes?' Skinner could tell by the background noise that his friend was on the road.

  'Neil, it's me. Where are you?'

  'We're on the M8, just short of Livingston, heading for Glasgow. Bandit's taking me to his favourite curry shop before we go to the pub.'

  'Forget it for tonight: your stake-out has been cancelled.'

  'By whom?'

  'By me, for fuck's sake! Isn't that enough?'

  'Sure. Sorry, boss. What's up? Is the situation resolved?'

  'No, and it won't be tonight either. Who's driving?'

  'I am.'

  'Well, come off at the first exit, head back to Edinburgh, check in your firearms, drop off Mackenzie and go home. Understood?'

  'Yes, but…'

  'But nothing; that's a direct operational order, so obey it, please… to the letter.'

  Sixty

  George and Jen Regan were the last people Stevie Steele had expected to find on his doorstep when he answered the ringing of the bell.

  He and Maggie had made no announcement in the office of the fact that they were living together, although their relationship was known to Mary Chambers. She had her own reasons for discretion but, grapevines being grapevines, they had assumed that sooner or later it would become common knowledge. Still, there was a moment's awkward silence when he saw them, ended the instant he realised that they might misunderstand the reason behind it. 'Hey,' he exclaimed, 'this is a surprise. Come on in.' He led them up the stairs to the hall.

  'I hope we're not interrupting anything,' said George.

  'Not at all. We're in the play-room, where we keep the music and the telly.'

  'We?' Jen quizzed him. 'Have you got a new girlfriend, Stevie?'

  'House-mate, actually.' He stood to one side. 'Go on in and say hello.'

  For the second time inside two minutes there was a period of stunned silence, until Maggie broke it. 'You mean you didn't know, George?' she asked, with a smile.

  'Well… no, I didn't. I knew you two were friendly, but…'

  'Not this friendly? We've been living together for a few weeks now. The bosses all know about it, so that's okay; we just haven't put it on the Torphichen Place notice-board, that's all.'

  George looked from one to the other as he struggled for words. Eventually Stevie let him off the hook. 'Mags, get some glasses. I'll get a bottle of something from the rack.' He disappeared into kitchen, returning with a bottle of Bornos, a Spanish sauvignon blanc that they had found on a website. He filled the glasses and handed them round. 'Grab a seat,' he told their visitors. 'Saturday tends to be a chill-out day with us. We do all the domestic stuff on a Sunday morning.'

  'I'm amazed,' said George, finally, 'about you two. I won't say I hadn't wondered, but I never suspected that you were…'

  'Shacked up?' Stevie suggested.

  'If you want to put it that way, yes. You've covered your tracks well.'

  'The remarkable thing is that we haven't covered our tracks at all,' Maggie told him; she dug Stevie in the ribs. 'It makes me wonder about the efficiency of our divisional CID.' She paused. 'But enough about us: how are you two getting along?'

  The question seemed to bring a cold draught into the room. 'As well as we can, Maggie,' Jen replied. The two women knew each other, having met at several social events. 'We've tried to keep busy; it's only since we've run out of things to do that we've really hit the wall. Neither of us can get our heads round it yet: it's all a bad dream, only we know we're not going to waken up.'

  'Have you been sleeping?'

  'The doctor had to knock me out eventually. The Valium, they keep it at bay… until they wear off, that is.' She looked at her husband, in a chair opposite hers. 'As for him, he's had his own form of therapy.'

  'I know,' said Stevie, looking at his colleague. 'He told me about it.'

  'And that's what brings us here,' George announced. 'Out of the blue, I had a call this afternoon, from a woman I spoke to when I went to the car park. She remembered something, and phoned to let me know about it' He repeated Betty Bee's story in every detail, laying particular emphasis on the time of her encounter with the running man. 'What do you think?' he asked. 'I need an objective view on this. Does that witness statement alone offer sufficient grounds for keeping the investigation open? If it was Mr and Mrs Joe Public's son, not ours?'

  Stevie looked at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the line of the fine plaster cornice. 'Do you mean will I take it to Mary Chambers?'

  'I suppose so.'

  'Yes, I will.'

  The room seemed to brighten as a wave of hope swept across George Regan's face. 'Thanks, Stevie,' he sighed, with pure relief in his voice. 'I was afraid you'd say I was grabbing at moonbeams.'

  'No way. Sarge, you've forgotten something: you're a bloody good detective. For as long as we've worked together, I've always trusted your instincts.'

  'Well, that's good, because I'm going to fly another kite at you. Our son dies in a freak accident. A few days later, another policeman's child is as good as killed by a dodgy gas fire. Coincidence?'

  'Bob Skinner once told me,' said Maggie, quietly, 'that he flat out does not believe in coincidences.'

  'Let's try it on him, then,' Stevie declared. 'I'll talk to Mary Chambers first, as I must, since she's our boss; if she clears it, I'll take Miss Bee's story to the big man himself, and see if he lets me run with it.'

  Sixty-one

  'Uncle Mario! Uncle Mario!'

  The voice was that of an angel. Everything around him was white; he was floating on a cloud. 'I am dead,' he thought. 'And there is another side, even if it is bloody cold.'

  'Uncle Mario!' The angel's call sounded again, but closer this time. But then he felt a slap across his face and a blinding pain shoot through his head, advising him forcefully, that alive or dead, he was not in heaven. Since the alternative was not to his liking, he pulled himself to a sitting position and rejoined the real world.

  Lauren had been four years old when last he had seen her in tears. She was on her knees beside him, her right mitten clutched in her left hand, the other red from hitting him.

  'Hey,' he muttered, his voice weak, his breath forming a cloud in the snow. 'I'm all right, kid.' He tried to wink at her and the flash of agony returned, drilling a hole in his head behind his right ear, to mak
e it clear to him that he was not.

  'What are you doing here?' he asked. 'I thought I told you to ski down.'

  'There was too much fresh snow,' the girl replied. 'It looked too dangerous, so I followed you instead. What happened to you?'

  The memory came flooding back, and with it the fear, renewed. 'I was ambushed,' he told her. 'Whacked on the head.' Shakily, he pushed himself up, finding a precarious footing on the hillside. 'Did you make the call?'

  'Yes. They said they would do what you said.'

  'Good. This time I really do want you to wait here.' He looked around, trying hard to focus. There were more tracks on the ground, heading into the gloom. The snow had eased to little or nothing, but it was almost dark. In the distance he could see the glow from the floodlit slope and, beyond, the orange halo that covered the night city, offering the false illusion of safety, 'I'm going after them again. You should hear policemen soon. When you do, yell for all you're worth. You're good at that.'

  He turned and headed after the tracks once again, but much more slowly this time. His legs were trembling under him, and the pain in his head would not abate. He drove himself on, though, ready in his heart to kill his attacker with his bare hands when he found him again. But if he did not find him again…

  He did his best to banish his worst fear and pressed on. Gradually the light changed before him, and the landscape changed with it. He realised that he had come to the edge of a plantation of trees, and that the tracks led inside. He closed his eyes and prayed.

  When he opened them again, a cloud had cleared away and the scene was moonlit. He looked into the forest. It would be impossible to follow the tracks; from that point on it would be guesswork. 'Please, Spence,' he murmured, 'please be alive.'

  He stepped into the wood, knowing that there was no finer place for another ambush. At once it grew pitch dark; a branch slapped across his face, and round the right side of his head, setting a new fire burning within it. He stopped: a few yards in and he was totally lost. He was effectively blind: there was no way forward.