‘I didn’t, sir. The inspector was promoted out of the IAB well before I was posted there. Inspector Donegan and he were close, though.’
‘Is he there?’
‘He’s in the next room.’
‘Get him.’
‘Sir, you won’t discuss Salvona with him, will you?’
‘That’s irrelevant. Get him.’
He waited, fretting, until Nolan Donegan came on line. ‘Inspector,’ he said, with no preamble, although he had never met the second American, ‘did you know Colin Mawhinney socially, as well as professionally?’
‘Yes, sir; for years.’
‘Okay. Don’t ask questions, just answer them. What can you tell me about his wife?’
He heard Donegan take in a breath. ‘Margery? She was the best thing that ever happened to him. I was there when they met.’
‘When was that?’
‘Colin and I were in a bar on Wall Street one night, out of uniform, when she came in, with a guy. They came up and sat on the stools next to us; she asked Colin for a light and they got talking. It was just simple conversation. I remember he asked what she did, and she told him that she’d just joined Garamond and Stretch, and that her name was Margery Walls; I remember she made a joke of it. “Like two streets,” she said. Colin said hello to the guy and asked if was a colleague, and he leaned over and said, “No, now why don’t you fuck off?” The friendly sort.’
‘Can you remember his accent?’
‘Definitely not American or British, and not Hispanic-American either.’
‘Did she call him by name at any point?’
‘Yeah, she did. I remember that. When he said what he did, she turned to him and said, “Franco, that’s not necessary.” Then he grabbed her, roughly, by the arm and tried to turn her towards him. She tried to push him off, but he held on to her until Colin showed him his badge, and told him quietly but firmly . . . that was his style . . . that it would be best if he took his own advice. The guy looked at Margery and said, “Ah, fuck you, then,” and turned and left.’
‘Did you ever see him again?’
‘Never.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Dark hair, glasses, heavy set, little moustache, maybe late thirties; that’s it.’
‘So what happened with Colin and Margery after that?’
‘She stayed, he saw her home, and that was that. Three months later they flew to Vegas and got married, and a little over six months after that, she was killed.’
‘She wasn’t,’ said Skinner, quietly.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Margery Walls walked out of the WTC before the second plane hit. She went to Dubai, with a Zimbabwean passport that identified her as Polly Price. From there, she moved to Edinburgh using the name Aurelia Middlemass, which she’d acquired from a South African woman who was killed when her American diplomat boyfriend’s jeep was blown up.’
‘This cannot be true.’
‘Get over here, Inspector. Have Huggins bring you to my office and ask for Neil McIlhenney. He and his colleague DI Steele will ask you to look at a couple of photographs. Then you’ll see whether it’s true or not.’
He hung up and redialled the consular residence. This time Special Agent Gower answered. ‘Merle, I have a name for you. Franco. That’s all, just Franco; but if he isn’t one and the same guy as Hasid Bourgiba, and Anwar Baradi, and Jose-Maria Alsina, then it’s time for me to make my wife a happy woman by taking early retirement.’
82
As he sat in the Archbishop’s residence, Deputy Chief Constable Robert Morgan Skinner felt that his life had become the stuff of fantasy. It was as if he existed on three planes, in three contrasting worlds.
There was the one in which he had become embroiled in Fettes, one of mystery, death, and danger. He had stepped out of it for a while, but he knew that he would have to go back, to try to solve the many unanswered questions that still seemed to be pointing him in a certain inevitable direction. There was his crumbling home life. He had called Sarah from the car that had taken him, and the chief constable, to their supper engagement, to explain that he would not be home at all that night. She had been cold and distant; their brief flickering of understanding a few days earlier had disappeared. He found himself in a huge dilemma, aching for his children, yet knowing that a reunion with them would bring a confrontation with his wife. And third, but not least, there was the world into which he had stepped that night.
He had expected others to have been invited for supper: di Matteo, Rossi and Angelo Collins, certainly, and possibly the Lord Provost and his wife. Yet when they had arrived there had been only four places set: theirs, the Archbishop’s and the last, at the head of the table, for the Pope himself.
The conversation had been largely as promised. Pope John the Twenty-fifth was a hopeless football addict, and had been since boyhood, he revealed. He had played the game in his teens at a decent level; he had played in the Boys Guild, like Gainer, he had turned out as an amateur for Albion Rovers and, like Skinner, he had played for Glasgow University.
The DCC looked at him, as they sat in the Archbishop’s drawing room, supper over and with brandy goblets in their hands. Cardinal Gilbert White had been a familiar figure in Edinburgh, a hugely popular man who had bridged the religious and political chasms that existed across central Scotland. He had been a giant of the city, and it was difficult to conceive that he could have evolved into something even greater.
And yet he had. He wore simple garments, more of a tunic than a suit, and he sat comfortably back in his chair, yet his presence seemed to fill the spacious room. In his career Skinner had stood close to monarchs and princes, prime ministers and presidents, yet until that evening he had never experienced the feeling of being in the presence of true greatness. With it there came a peacefulness that settled on him as a blanket, making him realise how weary he was.
‘So, Jimmy,’ said the Pope to the chief, ‘you’ve been sitting quiet all night listening to Robert and me and the other James here, kicking the ball around. Tell me, how much longer will it take for them to prise you out of that uniform and introduce you to the delights of tending your garden?’
Skinner looked at Proud; it was a question he had never asked himself. He assumed, as did his colleagues, that he would carry on to the last day allowed by law. ‘Not long now,’ he replied. ‘I’d go tomorrow if I thought that this man here would step into my shoes, but he’s showing a marked reluctance to commit himself to that.’
‘What’s this, Bob? Are you denying Lady Proud the pleasure of having her husband around all day?’
The DCC sipped his Amaretto, then scratched his nose, until to his surprise he found himself voicing his thoughts in a way he never had before. ‘You make me aware of my own selfishness, Your Holiness. I confess that I welcome Jimmy’s continuing presence in that office of his, because every day he spends there delays the moment when I have to make what will probably be my last career decision. I’m not so arrogant that I assume his job is mine for the asking, but I know of his ambitions for me, and it would make me feel bad if I had to deny them.’
‘Are you saying you might not apply for the chief’s job when it becomes vacant?’
‘Possibly. Would you have me apply for it if it went against my instincts and my conscience?’
‘I would never have anyone deny his conscience, but that’s just a word you’re throwing around. You’re using it to mask your resistance to change. I know this because I’ve been there myself. I didn’t seek the office I now hold . . . you don’t apply for this job, son. When it was put to me, I thought at first, I can’t do this. I’m a pastor, a priest among priests, not above them. But then it came to me that the College of Cardinals hasn’t made too many mistakes in recent centuries, and that my brethren calling to me with such unanimity were in a way the collective voice of God. I’m not bestowing divinity on Jimmy, here, but he’s a wise man and if he feels you’re his natural successor, don’t you ow
e it to him and to yourself and to your city to listen to him?’
‘But, Your Holiness, we’re completely different sorts of policeman. I could never do his job the way he’s done it over the years.’
‘Then do it your way,’ said the Pope, quietly. ‘He’s had you as his deputy. So what’s to stop you finding a deputy like him?’
Skinner laughed. ‘He’s a one-off.’
‘So are you. Bob, I’m not simply arguing my friend Jimmy’s case here, I’m arguing my own,’ he nodded to his left, ‘and that of Archbishop Gainer. We love this city and we want to see it in the safest possible hands.’
‘Your Holiness . . .’
‘Think about it, that’s all I ask . . . Well, that and one other thing. I won’t say that I don’t feel more holy in my exalted state, for it would be impossible not to, looking down on all those thousands in St Peter’s Square, but that title is an awful mouthful for evenings like this. Since my first days as a priest, my closest friends have called me Father Gibb. Please join them.’
‘Thank you, Father, for that honour,’ said the DCC. ‘In fact I heard that name for the first time a few days ago.’
‘Yes, and from my old friend Auguste, I believe.’
‘That’s right.’
Father Gibb frowned. ‘Angelo told me of the tragedies that befell his colleagues. Do they relate to me, do you think?’
‘They make me uncomfortable, but they don’t, not that I can see. To be truthful I don’t know what’s behind them.’
‘But there is a threat to me. Tell me, Bob, I can sense it anyway.’
It was impossible to dissemble before the man, to hold anything back. ‘Yes, there is,’ Skinner replied. ‘Two people. We believe they were planted here by al Qaeda, or by the greater network of which it’s a part, to await your visit. We know who they are, although not where they are or what they’re planning. Whatever it is, they’re long odds against now we can put faces to them. If I may say so, you don’t seem surprised.’
‘I have felt the presence of a threat since my coronation,’ said the pontiff. ‘And I have felt also that it would be at its greatest when I was among those closest to me.’ He gave a twinkling smile. ‘Without giving myself any more airs and graces, there’s a precedent for that, you know.’ He reached across and touched Skinner on the arm. ‘Try to do them no harm, please.’
‘Our first duty is to protect, Father Gibb, but we’ll try to shed no blood, I promise.’ He looked across at the chief, who nodded in support.
‘Going back to Malou,’ said Skinner, ‘we’re protecting him now also, and his bandsmen. Is there anything you can tell me that might help us identify the killers of Hanno and Lebeau?’
For the first time that night, John the Twenty-fifth looked his age; he frowned and closed his eyes, as if he was in prayer. Eventually he turned back to the DCC. ‘I can’t tell you all I know about Auguste Malou, because much of it came to me in the confessional.
‘He was a soldier when we met, a young officer. It was over forty years ago, but he was carrying a burden even then. Although he was absolved of his guilt, the letters we have exchanged over the years tell me that he bears it to this day.’
‘Have you seen him since your time in Belgium?’
‘No.’ He shot a bright glance across at Skinner. ‘But what makes you think I met him there?’
‘If not, where?’
‘During my time as a curate at Saint-Gudule, I joined a mercy mission to the civil war in Africa, in which the Belgian army was embroiled. Malou was a young lieutenant then. We met in the Congo.’
83
Neil McIlhenney was waiting in his office when the car dropped Skinner back at Fettes at ten minutes before one. ‘The New Yorkers?’ he asked.
‘Been and gone. When I showed Donegan the photograph of Aurelia Middlemass, the poor guy broke down in tears.’
‘How about the other one?’
‘Progress. I showed him the Kabul picture and the photofit treatments that we’d produced from it. He sparked on one, so I pulled in an operator and we worked up one that he reckoned was pretty much spot on for the version he met in New York. I sent that to Merle Gower on her e-mail; she was going to pass it straight on to her people at Quantico. She said that when she told them about the Franco link, they got quite excited. She called me back about half an hour ago, wondering where she could contact you. She’s expecting a preliminary briefing from them through the secure fax at the consulate and she wants you to see it ASAP. I told her that when it comes through she should bring it here.’
‘Nothing for me to do but wait, then. You should go home now, though.’
‘I’ll stick it out.’
The DCC shook his head. ‘No, you will not; I’m grateful to you as it is. That wife of yours is a very precious lady, even more so now. You go home and keep her warm, my friend.’
McIlhenney grinned and picked up his jacket. ‘That’s an order I can’t refuse. Once Gower’s been with this report, you should do the same.’
‘I can’t, Neil. I’m too wrapped up in this. Plus I’ve had a good slug of Jim Gainer’s Amaretto.’
‘What more can you do? It’s going to be all right, man. We’ve had a huge stroke of luck. The Pope’s going into a virtual fortress, we’ve identified the people who posed the threat to him and we’ve got the manpower to guard against anything they can throw at him. That’s if they come back at all; if they’ve got any sense they’re thousands of miles away by now.’
Skinner shook his head firmly. ‘I’m telling you, they’re coming back. That’s why they killed Mawhinney: to eliminate the risk of him spotting his dead wife in the stadium. And, incidentally, his huge stroke of luck wasn’t so good, was it?’ He pointed a finger at McIlhenney. ‘Has Dorward reported back yet?’
‘Give him a chance. Arthur will get results if they’re to be had, but he has to do it at his own pace.’
‘I suppose so,’ said the DCC, morosely. ‘I just feel so fucking helpless, Neil. I know all the answers, save one; we know where, we know when, and we know who. But I don’t know what they’re planning to do . . . and until I know that, then I am dead certain the life of a very brave and very great man will be at risk.’
‘I know something else. The more exhausted you get, the less likely it is to come to you.’ Lights in the drive made him glance out of the window. ‘That’s Merle Gower now. Once we’ve heard what she’s got to say, you’re for my spare room again . . . and no arguments.’
The big man’s sigh sounded desperately weary. ‘If you say so,’ he exclaimed. ‘There’s no point arguing, I suppose, since you’re one of the few guys in this force I can’t shout down.’
The internal phone rang. McIlhenney picked it up and spoke to Night Security. A minute later there was a knock on the door and Merle Gower was shown in. She looked at the inspector doubtfully. ‘He stays,’ said Skinner. ‘He’s cleared.’
‘I know, but this is . . .’
‘He stays.’
‘Okay,’ she conceded. She took a document from her bag. ‘I let you see this and then it goes in the shredder. Is it okay in here?’
‘You mean is it bugged? Do me a bloody favour, woman. I say things in here that I don’t even want to hear myself.’ She grinned weakly. ‘Do you feel out of your depth, Merle?’ Skinner asked her.
‘I’m a strong swimmer,’ she replied. ‘I’ve just never been in this deep before.’
‘It makes no difference; you just keep going. What have you got?’
‘Just this. The name you gave me, Franco. It squares with a reported casualty, Franco Gattuso, who worked in the first tower . . . on one of the floors that took the impact of the first plane.’
‘Fuck. But it isn’t just that, though, is it?’
She shook her head. ‘No. And this is what must be shredded, because our knowledge of it has never been revealed. The aircraft strikes didn’t just rely on the skill of the pilots alone. The planes actually homed in on beacons that had been plante
d in each tower. When the agencies examined the air-traffic recordings, they picked up two signals. They were puzzled for a while, but eventually they determined that they were from homing devices. We believe that the mission of Gattuso and Margery Mawhinney was to conceal them somewhere on their floors, and activate them. The assumption was that the people who planted the beacons had perished also, but now it seems that was wrong.’
‘They lived to kill another day,’ Skinner whispered. ‘And now they’re here.’
‘There is one last thing,’ said Gower. ‘The timing of the attacks has always concerned the investigating agencies. The gap between the two strikes was enough to allow a full Fire Department response to the first to have been made when the second hit. It’s always been suspected that this was based on inside information; thanks to your discovery, we believe we know how it might have been obtained.’
‘That’s going to stay secret, I hope,’ McIlhenney growled.
‘That will only be possible if there is a certain outcome to all this.’
‘What the hell do you mean by that?’
‘She means, Neil,’ said Skinner, ‘that when we catch them, we’ll charge them with the murder of Colin Mawhinney. Everything we now know about them will become public in the course of a trial here. That’s if there is a trial here. As soon as we lock them up, the First Minister and the Lord Advocate will come under huge political pressure from the American government to hand them over. If they have the bottle to refuse . . . which I doubt . . . we could have an internal constitutional crisis, with Whitehall trying to stare down Holyrood. But if they’re sent to the US, they’ll be at the centre of the biggest show trial the world has seen since Nuremberg, one that will expose the failures of the FBI and the personal indiscretion of a New York policeman.’ He stopped. ‘What Merle is saying is that it’ll be best if we don’t capture them; not breathing at any rate. Isn’t that right?’
‘You get the picture I’ve been told to paint. I’ve even been instructed to offer you expert assistance if you wish.’
14 - Stay of Execution Page 37
