Pray for the Dying

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘So the only possible line of investigation we’ve got are the uniforms they wore.’

  ‘Right enough; and the fact that they were ours, not fakes,’ she confirmed. ‘But that’s not going to be general knowledge either, Danny. If Smit and Botha did indeed have an inside contact, we know one thing, he’ll be on his guard. We have to be careful.’

  ‘Agreed, but can Ah ask, how certain are we they’re frae inside?’

  ‘Every single item that we found was what an officer would wear or carry, yet they came from a range of suppliers. If they got them anywhere else they’d have had to know who every one of those is, and some of that stuff isn’t public knowledge, not even under Freedom of Information rules. But it’s the CS spray that’s the clincher; that stuff’s military, and each canister has a serial number. We know that the two we found came from our store, because the numbers are in sequence and they were missing from the stock.’

  ‘Right. How do we handle it?’

  ‘Quietly,’ Mann declared. ‘All police equipment’s held in a secure store in Paisley. Operationally, ACC Thomas has oversight of all supplies. He checked on the numbers for me personally . . . he let me know it was a big favour, mind . . . and he’s agreed that we can interview the civilian manager, as long as we’re discreet. We’re off to Paisley, first up tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Just the two of us?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ the DI replied. ‘Discreet is the word.’

  Provan nodded. ‘Fair enough. Now, there’s one other thing that Ah’ve been wondering, a question I haven’t heard anyone raise since last night.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘How did these two fellas get there, and how were they plannin’ tae get away? This was a well-planned operation, so I doubt they were going down tae the Central Station to catch the London train.’

  Lottie Mann’s eyes widened. ‘You know, Dan, life’s really not fair. You should be the DI, not me. Smit and Botha had nothing on them, nothing at all. No ID of any sort, no wallets, no car keys, nothing.’

  ‘In that case, Lottie,’ the DS chuckled, ‘maybe Ah should be chief constable, for if the new guy really is runnin’ this investigation like you say, then he’s missed it as well.’

  Fifteen

  Clyde Houseman’s face grew even more pink, but with embarrassment.

  ‘Come on,’ Skinner snapped. ‘Out with it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the man replied, ‘but it’s like this. I’m a Security Service officer, and what we were involved in yesterday . . . well, I felt at the time it was one of our operations, and not police, and when I was sent to see you yesterday, by my boss, it was on the basis of bringing you inside, not deferring to you.’

  ‘And you kept thinking that way even though three of our people had been shot?’ the chief constable countered.

  ‘Even though. I’d just taken someone down myself, and in those circumstances it was my duty to protect the interests of my service: standard practice. So I did what I did. I meant to report to my deputy director straight away, but I was caught up in the situation and couldn’t. I tried to call her this morning, but so far I haven’t been able to raise her, and I don’t want to go anywhere else. She’s my immediate boss.’

  ‘Even Amanda Dennis has to turn her phone off some time,’ Skinner said. ‘Clyde,’ he continued, ‘I understand what you’re saying, but I’m not buying it. Like it or not, this was a very public crime and the investigation has to be seen to be thorough. I can’t have you withholding evidence. So come on, man, and remember this: I’ve already protected the interests of your service. Only one police officer has seen that tape of you and me taking care of the South Africans, and that’s how it’s going to stay. She’s assuming that I’ve given it to the procurator fiscal, the prosecutor’s office, because I let her believe that, but in fact it’s still in my desk. The deputy fiscal in charge of the investigation knows about it, because I’ve told him; he understands the sensitivity and he’s prepared to forget that it ever existed.’

  ‘Where is it now?’

  ‘Locked in my desk, for now, till somebody comes up with the combination of the bloody safe that Toni Field left behind.’

  ‘Thank you for that,’ Houseman murmured. ‘But do you trust your people? Leaks can happen, and the last thing that either of us wants is for that video to wind up on YouTube.’

  ‘At the moment, I trust them more than I trust you,’ Skinner pointed out, ‘and I will until you cough up what you took from Smit’s body. Look, I don’t want to, but I will bypass Amanda and go to your director if I have to, even though he is a buffoon.’

  ‘Sir Hubert would probably back me up.’

  ‘No he wouldn’t,’ the chief chuckled. ‘Do you have any idea of what would happen if I even hinted to the media that MI5 was getting in the way of my investigation? You’re forgetting who’s been killed here. Toni Field was a big name in the Met, plus the Mayor of London was said to be her biggest fan. All of their weight would come down on Thames House if I dropped the word. Plus,’ he added, ‘I’ve got the tape. You’re worried about YouTube, son? If I chose I could edit it, destroy the footage of me shooting Botha, and leak the rest myself. If I chose,’ he repeated. ‘Not that I would, but I won’t have to, because you’re going to . . .’ he smiled, ‘. . . share with me again. Aren’t you?’

  Houseman sighed, then reached inside his leather jerkin. For an instant Skinner tensed, but what he produced was nothing more menacing than an envelope.

  ‘I had a hunch our meeting might go this way,’ he said, ‘so I brought the things along.’

  He handed it across to the chief, who took it, ripped it open and shook its contents out on to the desk: a car key, with a Drivall rental tag bearing a vehicle registration number, and a parking ticket.

  Skinner picked up the rectangle of card and peered at it with the intense concentration of a man who had reached the age of fifty and yet was still in denial of his need for reading spectacles.

  ‘Have you done anything with this yet?’

  His visitor shook his head. ‘I decided to wait for instructions.’

  ‘On whether to hand it over to me or not?’

  ‘Yes, more or less.’

  ‘Now you’ve done it, story’s over as far as I’m concerned. If Amanda gives you a hard time, although I don’t believe she will, you can tell her I coerced you into it. So,’ he held up the ticket, between two fingers, ‘you know where this is for?’

  ‘It doesn’t say on it.’

  ‘Maybe not, but given the exit they chose, the likeliest is the multi-storey on the other side of Killermont Street, beside the bus station. One way to find out.’ Skinner pushed himself to his feet. ‘Gimme a minute.’

  He picked up his uniform jacket from the back of his chair, and stepped into the private room behind it. When he emerged, three minutes later, he had changed into the same slacks and cotton jacket that Houseman had seen the day before.

  ‘We’re going ourselves?’ the younger man asked.

  ‘Of course. I seize every chance that comes up to get out of my office; there may not be too many more, now I’m here.’

  He led the way out of his room, but instead of heading straight for the exit, he turned left, stopping at the second door. He opened it and called to the occupant. ‘Lowell, I have an outside visit; I could use your help.’

  Payne had been working on the chief constable’s forward engagement diary. He closed it and crossed swiftly to the door. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked, then reacted with surprise as he saw Houseman for the first time.

  Skinner did the introductions on his way to the lift. ‘Clyde’s come in with some new information,’ he added. ‘He’s found the vehicle Smit and Botha were using yesterday. Well, that’s to say, we know where it might be.’

  ‘Should we call Lottie?’ the DCI asked.

  ‘Yes, we should, but we won’t until we’ve got something to tell her.’

  They rode the lift down to the sub-level that a
ccessed the police headquarters park, then took Payne’s car, which he had left in the space allocated to the deputy chief. The journey along Sauchiehall Street and Renfrew Street to the Buchanan Street bus station took only two minutes, five less than it might have on a weekday. Skinner smiled as they passed the McLellan Galleries, his mind going back thirty years to a visit to an art exhibition, in a foursome with Louise Bankier and a couple of their fellow students, when he had spotted, on the other side of the big room, Myra, his fiancée, with a spotty guy he had never seen before. They were heading for the exit, hand in hand, with eyes only for each other. He never had found out who the bloke was, but it had never occurred to him to ask. He had been too wrapped up in his own guilt over Louise; indeed the close encounter had been the beginning of the end of that relationship.

  He was still dwelling on the past as they approached their destination. In case his daydream had been noticed, he took out the Drivall car key and made a show of peering at the number written on the fob, until he gave up and handed it to Houseman, and his younger eyes.

  ‘We’re looking for a Peugeot,’ he announced, after the briefest study, ‘registration LX12 PMP. Doesn’t say what colour it is.’

  Payne ignored the official entry point and drove to the office instead. The way was blocked by a barrier. A staff member, in a Day-Glo jacket, came out to meet them. The DCI showed his warrant card, and the parking ticket that Skinner had handed to him. ‘That one of yours?’ he asked.

  The attendant studied it. ‘Aye,’ he confirmed. ‘It’s dated yesterday afternoon. Left overnight, eh, and no’ picked up yet. Stolen car? There’s nae TV in here so we get them.’

  ‘Not necessarily, but we need to find it. Is the park busy?’

  ‘Jam packed, but go on in.’ He pushed a button at the side of the barrier, and it rose.

  ‘Okay. Two ways of doing this,’ the chief declared. ‘We either drive through very slowly, and hope we get lucky, or we do the sensible thing and split it. Lowell, drop me on level two, Clyde on four and you go to the top and park. We work our way down till we find it. You’ve both got my work mobile number, and I’ve got yours; either of you find the car, you call me and I’ll alert the other.’

  Payne did as he was instructed. As each of them reached his starting point, he realised that the multi-storey was spilt into sub-levels, making it bigger than it had looked from the outside. They searched their separate areas as quickly as they could but nonetheless almost fifteen minutes had passed before Skinner’s mobile rang. By that time he was at ground level.

  His screen told him that it was Houseman who had made the discovery. ‘I’m on level five,’ the spook said. ‘At the side, overlooking the street.’

  ‘Good spot. Be with you in a minute; I’ll tell Lowell.’

  ‘There’s no need. The way this place is built he can see me from where he is.’

  Skinner took the stairs, two at a time. As he stepped out on to level five he saw Payne, on his left, coming towards him down a ramp.

  The Peugeot was a big saloon model, in a dark blue colour. Skinner took the key from his pocket and worked out by trial and error which button unlocked it. Houseman was in the act of reaching for the driver’s door handle when Payne called out to him.

  ‘No, not without gloves.’ He smiled. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s a CID reflex.’

  ‘Understood,’ the MI5 man conceded. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to open the door.

  Skinner stepped up behind him and looked inside, then slotted the key in to light up the dashboard. ‘Satnav,’ he said.

  ‘So?’ Houseman murmured.

  ‘With a bit of luck they’ll have used it. With even more, they won’t have deleted previous entries. When did they collect the uniforms and equipment? Where? That may give us a clue.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘And if they did pick up the gear from an inside source, he may have left us a print, or a DNA trace.’

  ‘That’s if he’s on the database,’ Payne pointed out. ‘If he is inside, how likely is that?’

  ‘Come on, Lowell,’ Skinner chided. ‘Think positive.’ He glanced into the back of the car, saw it was empty, then withdrew the key and closed the driver’s door, leaning on it with an elbow. Moving round to the back of the vehicle, which had been left perilously close to the wall of the building, he pushed a third button on the remote. There was a muffled sound and the boot lid sprang open.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ the DCI yelled, jumping backwards in alarm and astonishment.

  His companions stood their ground, gazing into the luggage compartment.

  ‘Surprisingly capacious, these things,’ the chief constable murmured, ‘aren’t they, Clyde? You’d get at least two sets of golf clubs in there, no problem. Maybe two trolleys as well.’

  ‘Beyond a doubt.’

  Two medium-sized blue suitcases lay on their sides, at the front of the boot, but there had still been more than enough room for the rest of the load to be jammed in behind them: the body of a man, knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them. The eyes were open, staring, and there was a cluster of three holes in the centre of his chest.

  ‘So, chum,’ Skinner wondered. ‘Who the hell were you, and why did you wind up here?’

  Sixteen

  ‘That’s Bazza Brown,’ DS Dan Provan announced.

  Lottie Mann frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Trust me. Real name Basil, but nobody ever called him that, unless they wanted a sore face. The first time Ah lifted him he was sixteen, sellin’ what he claimed were LSD tabs on squares from a school jotter. They wis just melted sugar, but nobody ever complained; he wis a hard kid even then, and he had a gang.’

  ‘When was that?’ Skinner asked. He had never met the wizened little detective before but he found himself taking an instant liking to him, and to his irreverence.

  ‘Goin’ on twenty-five years ago, sir. He moved on frae there, though. The next time I picked him up he’d just turned twenty-one and he was sellin’ hash. He got three years for that, in the University of Barlinnie, and that, you might say, completed his formal education. He’s never done a day’s time since, even though he’s reckoned . . . sorry, he was reckoned . . . to be one of the big three in drugs in Glasgow.’

  ‘So how come he wound up in a car boot sale?’

  ‘Ah can’t tell you that, sir. But Ah know you’re going to want us to find out.’

  The chief grinned. ‘That is indeed the name of the game, Sergeant.’

  He and Payne had called in Mann and her squad at once. They had left the car untouched. Indeed the only change in the scenery since they had made their discovery lay in the absence of Clyde Houseman. Skinner had decided that it would be best if he made himself scarce.

  He had expected Lottie Mann to be blunt when she arrived, and had been ready for her challenge.

  ‘Can I ask what the fuck you’re doing here, sir? I’ve got people out showing pictures of Smit and Botha to every car park attendant in Glasgow, and what do I find? You and DCI Payne, with their bloody car key!’

  ‘Inspector!’ Lowell Payne had intervened, but his new chief had calmed his protest with a wave of his hand.

  ‘It’s okay. DI Mann is well entitled to sound off. I was given some information, Lottie, and I decided to evaluate it myself, and to bring you in if I reckoned it was worth it. Get used to me: it’s the way I am.’

  ‘Oh, I know that already, sir,’ she retorted. ‘Just like I know there’s no point me asking who your source was.’

  ‘That’s right, but now the result is all yours.’

  She had given one of her hard-earned smiles, then gone into action.

  The photographer and video cameraman were finishing their work as Provan announced the identity of the victim and he and Skinner had their exchange. They had been hampered slightly by a silver Toyota parked in the bay on the right, but the two to the left were clear.

  As they packed their equipment, the elevator door opened, beside
the stairway exit, and a woman stepped out, pushing a child in a collapsible pram with John Lewis bags hung on the back. She frowned as she moved towards them. ‘What’s going . . .’ she began.

  Payne moved quickly across to intercept her, holding up his warrant card. ‘Police, ma’am. Is that your Toyota?’

  ‘Yes, but what . . . It’s not damaged, is it? I can move it, can’t I?’

  ‘It’s fine, but please don’t come any closer. If you give me your car key I’ll bring it out for you.’

  ‘It’s not a bomb, is it?’ The young mother was terrified; Payne smiled to reassure her.

  ‘No, no, not at all. If it was I wouldn’t be within a mile of it myself. It’s just a suspicious vehicle, that’s all. We’re checking out the contents. You just give me your keys and don’t you worry.’

  He reversed the Toyota out of its bay and drove it a little way down the exit ramp, then helped her load her bags and her child, who had slept through the exchange.

  ‘Did she see anything?’ Mann asked the DCI as he returned.

  ‘No, or you’d have heard the screams. But we need to get a screen round this, now we’ve got the room.’

  ‘It’s on the way, with the forensic people. We’d better not touch anything till they get here. That peppery wee bastard Dorward’s on weekend duty and he’ll never let me forget it if I compromise “his” crime scene.’

  ‘It’s well compromised already, Lottie,’ Skinner pointed out. ‘Anyone got a pair of gloves?’ he asked. ‘I want a look at these suitcases. I’ll handle Arthur’s flak. I’ve been doing it for long enough.’

  Provan handed him a pair of latex gloves. He slipped them on and lifted one of the blue cases from the boot, laid it on the ground and tried the catches, hoping they were unlocked and smiling when they clicked open.

  ‘Clothing,’ he announced as he studied the contents, and sifted through them. ‘It looks like two changes: trousers, shirt, underwear, just the one jacket, though, and one pair of shoes. Everything’s brand new, Marks and Spencer labels still on them. Summer wear. Mmm,’ he mused. ‘What’s the weather like in South Africa in July?’