The massed bands were in their ranks outside, inflating their pipes, almost ready to march. Skinner raced up to the lead pipe-major. ‘Two more minutes,’ he said. ‘Then go. It’s important. Wait two minutes.’
Leaving them behind, the two policemen ran from the gateway to the ground, round the curve where north stand became west. ‘This way,’ said Skinner, still breathing easily as he led the way up a flight of stairs to the first level. He looked along towards the centre of the stand and saw Maggie Rose in her uniform, standing by an entrance door, looking out into the ground. Somewhere in the background he heard the skirl of pipes, and the buzz of forty thousand children turn once more to cheers. He ran towards her. ‘Press? Where?’ he called out, his breath coming harder now.
She pointed to her right. ‘Next stairway and down.’ Skinner and McIlhenney sprinted on, the DCC wishing that he had asked for an extra minute.
He saw her as soon as he turned into the entrance, her back to him, silver hair, spiked up, seated to the left of the aisle, in the second row from the front, behind a burly man. He paused, gathering himself, and allowing McIlhenney a few seconds to recover. ‘I’ll take him,’ he gasped, ‘you take her. Get the recorder, I’ll get his camera; pound to a pinch of pig-shit that’s where they’ve hidden the transmitters to detonate the bombs. I don’t want those triggers going off in any soldier’s hands, and when they see their boys are missing . . .’
‘Christ, no,’ the inspector muttered. ‘But I’ll take him. He’s bigger and I’ve got the gun.’
‘Deal.’
They slipped quietly down the stairway as the last of the long parade of pipers made their way into the stadium. They reached their targets just as the first flash of blue appeared in the gateway, as the colonel, diminutive in the distance, but marching straight-backed, led the Bastogne Drummers into the stadium.
Skinner was close enough to hear her exclamation as she realised that the front rank was two men short. He slipped down beside her and snatched the small device from her hand. The man in front turned, in time to look into the barrel of the Glock, as McIlhenney grabbed his camera with his free left hand.
‘Show’s over,’ Skinner exclaimed, above the noise. He yanked the woman quickly out of her seat and pulled her towards the stairway, as McIlhenney motioned her companion to follow. He was glancing behind when she slammed a stiletto heel into the instep of his right foot. The pain was momentary but intense, loosening his grip for long enough for her to twist free and run up the stairs.
Maggie Rose seemed to step out of the shadows, to catch her in the doorway, spin her round and slam her, face first, into the wall, as hard as she could. The DCC whistled. ‘Who the hell’s been annoying you this morning?’ he asked, as he limped up the stairs.
The incident was barely noticed, so intent was the crowd on the scene outside. McIlhenney held Bailey’s arm twisted up behind his back, as Rose restrained the woman who had been Cookson for the day; together they forced them out on to the concourse. As they did so, Chief Superintendent Mackie appeared, with Alan Royston by his side.
‘The last two for the lock-up,’ said Skinner, ‘but keep them separate from the rest. They’re very special.’
‘There’s another holding cell,’ Mackie told him. ‘Beside the command centre. I’ll put them in there.’
‘You do that. Strip-search them, put them in restraints, then lock them up. Put a police officer on the door, armed but with weapon concealed.’ He looked at Royston. ‘Alan, if anyone asks you about this, tell them, for now, that we thought she looked odd, and that we were concerned that they’d slipped in among the press contingent, so we had them out of there as a precaution. When they’ve been questioned and charged, we’ll release a full statement.’ He turned away. ‘Okay, get on with it; I’ll see you after.’
‘After what?’ asked Rose.
‘After the rally, of course. This is a uniform-section show; officially, I’m not on duty here. I’m going to watch.’
And watch Bob Skinner did, as the pipers piped, the dancers danced, the singers sang, as the Bastogne Drummers played and marched their finest, as the musketeers fired their ear-splitting gunpowder salute and as Auguste Malou came face to face with his old friend Father Gibb, for the first time in forty years.
He listened too, as Pope John the Twenty-fifth preached reconciliation and peace to a gathering of forty thousand, of many faiths and of none, to a generation with the youth and optimism, Skinner found himself hoping, to hear what he was saying and to put his teaching into practice.
And then it was over. The white-robed figure said his goodbyes to the Prime Minister and his wife, to the First Minister and Mrs Murtagh, and to the Lord and Lady Provost, then climbed back inside his bullet-proof, armour-plated bubble for the journey back to Rome. The DCC caught Gio Rossi’s eye as he climbed into the car behind; he gave him a large thumbs-up sign, both hands clenched together in the gesture. Jack Russell saw it too, as he shepherded the prime ministerial couple into their Jaguar, and returned it with a smile and a quick wave.
As the convoy pulled out, Skinner made his way down to the ground, intercepting Aileen de Marco as she and her brother walked from the field.
‘Is all well, then,’ she asked, once she had introduced the two men, ‘here at least?’
He smiled. ‘Here at least.’
‘You look really pleased with yourself,’ she exclaimed. ‘Is there something the Justice Minister should know?’
Why not? he thought, and ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Do you want to come for a walk?’
‘Sounds intriguing. How can I refuse?’ She turned to her brother. ‘Peter, you follow Tommy and his wife, the LP, the chief constable and everybody into the reception; we’ll be along in a minute. Where to?’ she asked Skinner.
‘Up to the top level. I’ll show you the command centre, and let you look through a peephole at a couple of special guests of ours. I think they’re going to become very famous in the months to come . . . if they can ever figure out what to call them.’
‘My God, you’ve made arrests?’
‘Let’s not talk here. Come on.’ He led her inside and up the first of several flights of stairs. The last of the young people and their escorts were leaving the stadium; they passed them and kept on climbing until they reached the highest point of the west stand, the command centre from which everything could be seen, either through binoculars or on a series of monitors, each showing feed from a different security camera.
He opened the door and ushered her inside: Willie Haggerty, Brian Mackie, Maggie Rose and Neil McIlhenney all turned as they entered. She greeted the three men, whom she had met before, and smiled at Rose as the DCC introduced them. As she shook her hand she noticed that her knuckles were grazed.
‘Where’s Royston?’ Skinner asked McIlhenney, as Haggerty began to explain the working of the centre to the minister.
‘Down in the press room. There have been no questions that I know of, and I asked him to let me know if any came up. I guess all the hacks must have been watching the parade when we lifted them.’
‘Sounds like it.’ The DCC grinned. ‘Were they not the slickest four arrests you’ve ever made?’
‘I have to say that you cut it a bit fine, boss, but apart from that, yes, they were pretty smooth. If only we could tell people.’
‘Right enough.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’d better go. I have to take Aileen down to the SRU reception, and I promised her a look at the rogues’ gallery.’
‘Mmm,’ McIlhenney murmured. ‘Aileen, is it?’
‘Knock it off,’ said Skinner. There was a hint of sharpness in his voice that took his friend by surprise. ‘Where’s the holding cell?’
‘Round the corner to your left.’
‘Thanks.’ He paused. ‘Indeed, thanks for everything, mate.’ He called to the minister, prising her away from ACC Haggerty, who was being more solicitous than he had ever seen him, and leading her outside and to the left, as McIlhenney had directe
d.
They turned the corner, and saw a man, a few yards away. He was in plain clothes, with a small golden eagle lapel badge, and he was smoking. Behind him, a door lay ajar. His mouth dropped open as he recognised Skinner, and he came to attention when he saw the look on his face, crushing his cigarette underfoot.
‘What the hell’s going on here, Sergeant?’ the DCC barked. ‘And where the hell are the prisoners?’
‘Major Arrow took them, sir,’ the man stammered, ‘about five minutes ago. He said you wanted them all together, ready for the van to take them to Saughton Prison.’
Skinner took in a quick breath. ‘Did he indeed? Then you go and find DI McIlhenney. He’s in the command centre. Don’t speak to anyone else, just him, but tell him I want both of you outside the cell downstairs in three minutes, tops. And tell him this . . .’ He leaned over and whispered in the man’s ear.
As he headed for the stairs, he was aware that the minister was on his heels. ‘Aileen, please go back in there and ask Maggie to show you where the reception is.’
‘Not a chance. I want to know what’s happening here.’
He was about to order her back to the command centre, when he paused. ‘Maybe you should, at that,’ he exclaimed. ‘Come on.’
He led her down the stairs as fast as she could go in her high heels. Half-way down she stopped, ripped off her shoes, then ran after him carrying them.
The corridor leading to the tunnel was deserted as they turned into it, save for one man, standing impassively in front of a solid door, with a small peep-hole but no handle. He seemed to broaden out as Skinner and the minister stopped in front of him, as if he was trying to fill as much of the doorway as he could. He wore twill slacks and a roomy sports jacket; it was unbuttoned.
‘You can’t go in there, sir,’ he said, in clipped tones that spoke of an authority other than the police.
The DCC held up his warrant card. ‘I’m going in there, soldier, I promise you.’
‘No, sir.’ He flicked his shoulder so that his jacket opened a little, showing the pistol holstered beneath it.
Skinner moved faster than Aileen could have imagined, so fast that it was over before her involuntary gasp escaped her. The fingers of his left hand stabbed stiff and straight into the man’s stomach, and then, in the same movement, his left forearm came up and under his throat, slamming him back against the door. When his right hand came into view it was holding the gun, and its barrel was jammed against the soldier’s temple.
‘Adam!’ he called out. ‘Open this fucking door or I’ll use this guy’s skull to batter it down. And don’t do anything in there.’
He waited. ‘No kidding, Adam,’ he called out again, banging the soldier’s head lightly against the black-painted steel to emphasise the point.
Finally, the door opened. As it did, Skinner hurled his prisoner inside, sending him tumbling into a corner, where he lay, still winded by the earlier blow, then he and the minister followed him into the cell. He kicked the door closed behind them.
The DCC breathed a loud sigh of relief. Five figures, four men and a woman, were on the floor, with their backs to him. They were in their underwear and they were handcuffed, but they were all on their knees and they were all still alive. He looked at Arrow, and saw the silenced pistol in his hand. Then he glanced down at the gun he held, and dropped it on the floor.
‘No,’ he said quietly.
‘Bob,’ said the major, ‘I’ve got orders. I have to.’
‘You have to execute five people?’
‘Do you know what’ll happen if they make it to court?’
‘Yes, and it’s my job to get them there.’
‘And my orders are to see that they don’t . . . at any cost.’
Skinner smiled. ‘Man, how long have we been friends?’
‘Ages.’
‘So are you saying you’d shoot me too, and this lady here, who happens to be the Scottish Justice Minister, just to make these disappear? If you do, then as soon as you open that door you’ll go down yourself. McIlhenney’ll be outside by now and he has his orders too. If you walk out before me, it’ll be the last step you take.’
‘Then they’ll say I was an al Qaeda plant myself,’ Arrow replied, ‘and that my job was to make sure nobody talked. Bob, please get out of here.’
Skinner shook his head. ‘I can’t do it.’
‘But why not? Fuck me, you’ve dropped people yourself; we both know that.’
‘I made a promise, Adam, that nobody would be harmed today.’
‘Who did you promise?’
‘Father Gibb.’
‘Who the hell’s Father Gibb?’
‘A billion or so people know him as Pope John the Twenty-f ifth.’
As Arrow stared up at him, Skinner felt Aileen take his hand and squeeze it. He felt her body tremble as she moved close behind him.
And then the little soldier smiled. He unscrewed the silencer from his pistol, slipped it into his pocket and reholstered the weapon.
‘I guess his orders outrank mine,’ he whispered, and blessed himself with the sign of the cross.
86
‘When you took me in there you did know that he wouldn’t have shot me, didn’t you?’ Aileen asked him.
‘No,’ Bob replied cheerfully. ‘But I was ninety per cent certain that he wouldn’t have shot me.’
‘Thanks very much.’ She snorted.
She sat beside him on his office settee. He grinned as he reached out and touched her hand. ‘I’m kidding, love, honest. Adam’s done some terrible black things in his army life, and he would have carried out his orders if we hadn’t stopped him, but he’d have seen himself as a one-man execution squad.’ He shook his head. ‘He couldn’t shoot a friend, though; not ever.’
‘But if we hadn’t stopped him, what would have happened to the bodies? It couldn’t have been covered up, surely.’
‘Now it’s you that’s kidding yourself,’ he told her grimly. ‘Black van at midnight, hole in the ground somewhere or up the chimney at Mortonhall Crematorium in the middle of the night. Welcome to the dark side, Minister.’
‘These things can’t happen. I won’t believe it.’
‘You won’t believe your own eyes? If we’d been a couple of minutes later, you’d have seen the aftermath, the blood and the grey sticky stuff.’
Once more, he felt her tremble against him. ‘You know what came to me afterwards?’ she murmured. ‘All that time, none of the people on the floor said or did anything.’
‘They were expecting it. The drummers didn’t expect to live through the afternoon, remember. They thought they’d be blown to bits the moment Father Gibb and the PM got close to them at the inspection of the bands. As for the others, well, for two of them at least, it would have been a mercy killing. Bailey and Cookson, to use the names they took today, they will be sent to America . . . that’s unless Tommy Murtagh vetoes it, only the PM won’t let him. They’ll be tried here for Mawhinney’s murder, I’ll make sure of that, but then, in a few months, they’ll be extradited to the US. There’ll be a huge legal process, but ultimately, after a couple of years of thinking about it, they’ll both be strapped to tables and filled full of lethal injection. The Americans might even televise it. The former mayor of New York said he wants to push the button himself. For me, all that’s a sight more horrible than letting Adam put one behind their ears.’
‘Yet you stopped him?’
‘You know why. It’s up to Father Gibb to stop the rest of it, but I don’t think even he’ll be able to do that.’
Aileen sipped her wine; the table before them was strewn with the remains of the pizza they had bought from the takeaway in Comely Bank.
‘What about the rest of it? Will the old colonel be tried?’
‘No. He’s made a full statement, and he’ll be a witness in the trials of the bus driver and the drummers, and maybe the other two as well . . . that’s unless they all plead guilty, which they might. They’re all proud of
themselves, you know.’
‘What did Malou do, exactly?’ she asked him.
‘He sent Hanno, a non-smoker, across to fetch his cigarettes from the bus. You know, he made a point of telling me a few days ago that he smoked old-fashioned Gauloises, the brand Hanno had on him when he died. They were holding his daughter and her kids, and threatening them with death, so that was as close as the old man dared get to crying for help. As for Lebeau, he nominated him; that was all. Roger, the bus driver, told him that he had to get rid of two drummers. He didn’t tell him why, only that if he didn’t there would be three boxes waiting for him in Belgium, each with a head in it. Poor old guy. He says he didn’t know what the replacement drummers were going to do, and he didn’t know about the extra gunpowder on the bus.’
‘Who spiked the toothpaste? Who drove the hit-and-run car?’
‘Bailey . . . when he was Alsina, that is. He was a chemist, so he knew how to handle cyanide. As for the other, they’ll match Hanno’s injuries to the bull-bars on his Pajero, you can bet on that. And that, my dear, is just about the whole story.’
‘Not quite. Why did Malou choose Hanno and Lebeau to die?’
‘Because neither had any family, and also because they were his old army buddies. He tried to make himself look on it as sending men over the top in a war, to face the enemy fire.’
He did not tell her Malou’s last secret. He did not tell her that Hanno and Lebeau, and a third man long dead, had made up the firing squad that had executed Patrice Lumumba, or that young Lieutenant Malou had given the order to fire, or that Malou had confessed his guilt to a young priest, who, fearing for their lives in Africa, had used his bishop’s influence to have them returned to Belgium to safe secure postings in which to see out their army careers. Winters had been prepared to sacrifice the Pope to hide that national disgrace: let him live with it, the Scot told himself.
‘So what did you think of the Holy Father?’ he asked her. ‘Are you still an atheist?’
‘Yes,’ Aileen confessed, ‘I am. But I believe in him.’
14 - Stay of Execution Page 40
