Skinner's Ordeal (24 page)

The woman opened her mouth to reply, but Doherty overrode her. 'Is there a possibility that Robin is our man?'

Ìt's too early to say with certainty,' said Arrow, recovering his composure, 'but I'm told that's unlikely, unless he's part of a team. Even then, it's doubtful.'

`The main thing is, Adam,' said Andy Martin, 'that you have Robin in hand.' Unusually, he was wearing spectacles. Without the extra green tint of his contact lenses, his eyes looked bloodshot and lustreless.

Àye, that's right.'

`So of our fancied outside candidates,' said Doherty, 'that just leaves General Yahic. What should we do about him, do we think, colleagues? What's the CIA view, Merle?'

Her eyes burned in her dusky face. 'As I understand it, sir, the prevailing view in the Agency is that we should take him out.'

'Bloody clever that would be,' said Arrow, his voice heavy with irony. 'We'd learn a lot if we did that.'

‘Yeah,' said Doherty. 'That is not the NSC's preferred option, merle. No, people, we have a great deal of devolved authority in this room. I propose that we should each take time to consider what practical steps we can take to determine whether or not Yahic was involved in the bombing.'

'In my experience,' said Arrow, 'the best way would be to invite him for a chat and to ask

'im!'

Fifty

‘All rise.'

The Court Officer's stentorian voice boomed out, as the red robed Judge pushed himself out of his chair. As one, accused, counsel, clerks and the few spectators in the public gallery obeyed his command. Among the last group was Neil Mcllhenney, seated in the back row and out of sight of the defence benches to all but a very tall barrister on tiptoe.

He and Donaldson had shared the duty during the day, one in the gallery, one in the unmarked car which they had borrowed from the Ministry of Defence pool. Periodically, they had called Edinburgh to check on Skinner's condition.

Mcllhenney had sat through the opening stages of Ariadne Tucker's final speech to the jury . . . the one which she had been preparing on her husband's last night alive . . . and had been professionally impressed. Without, admittedly, having had the benefit of any of the evidence, he would have been prepared to acquit her client, an Anglo-Greek businessman accused of twenty-seven different swindles involving commercial and residential property and high value motor cars.

She had still been going strong at three-thirty, at which point the thoughtful Judge, who had begun the day with kind words to the recently bereaved senior for the defence, had decided, again in deference to the strain under which he imagined her to be suffering, that he would call a halt and send everyone home early; everyone, that was, save the accused.

Thank Christ for that!' Mcllhenney had muttered under his breath. As a young white-gloved Constable flanking a prisoner in the dock in the High Court in Edinburgh, he had once fallen asleep halfway through a prosecution summing-up. The incident had come close to ending his career and the memory of it would live with him for ever.

As the jury filed out, the heavily built Sergeant glanced idly around the public gallery.

There were four people in the front row, three middle-aged women and a younger man, all peering down into the well of the court. As the policeman looked on, one of the women, fat, swarthy and fifty-something with hair dyed black, waved down at the accused and blew him a kiss.

In the row behind, a Japanese couple stood to attention, holding on to Harrods carriers; sightseeing in the
Old Bairrey
, McIlhenney guessed. Suddenly, to his astonishment, the man plunged into his bag, took out a small video camcorder and began to film the court, unobserved by any of the attendants.

He looked around the rest of the gallery as he turned to leave. Three people were filing out

— court groupies, he assumed — but in the back row a tall man stood in a brown Army uniform, gazing down into the court as if making eye contact with someone. Mcllhenney thought back. He was fairly certain that the man had not been in court when he and Donaldson had last changed shift, and equally sure that he had not seen him enter. A good copper to the last, he took, as routine, a mental snapshot of the man's face and filed it away. He had barely done so when the officer turned on his heel, stepped into the aisle, and sprinted up the stairway and out of the court.

Their Cavalier was parked in the street outside. It was a touch conspicuous, even for a Vauxhall, Mcllhenney thought, but as their quarry peeled off the road to the bridge and veered round, to head westwards along the Victoria Embankment.

Donaldson kept position close behind the taxi; normally he ‘d have preferred to keep more space between them, but amid the heavy flow of vehicles, he had little option. They carried on in formation along the length of the Embankment, until as they closed on Westminster Bridge the cabby, giving more warning this time, signalled a right turn, towards Parliament Square. The policemen were almost trapped by a red light, but made it through safely, then picked up pace to match the taxi as it accelerated to catch the next set on green. 'This is magic,' said Mcllhenney, as they swung round the green with St Margaret's on their left.

`She can't be going home,' said Donaldson. If she had been she'd have headed along Millbank.'

`Chances are she's going to the bloody hairdresser,' laughed the Sergeant, as Donaldson allowed the cab to pull ahead in the lighter traffic of Victoria Street.

Almost at once, his supposition was proved wide of the mark. Indicator and brake lights came on in the same second as the cab drew to a sudden halt. 'Take a left, quick,' said Mcllhenney. Donaldson had already seen the turning and swung the Cavalier into the side street. As they took the corner, the Sergeant stared back along the pavement. He caught a glimpse of Ariadne stepping from the taxi, and as she did so, of a man moving forward from a doorway to greet her. There was enough daylight left for him to see that he was wearing a brown Army uniform.

Donaldson braked as soon as the Vauxhall was out of sight, and Mcllhenney jumped out.

He was headed at a half-trot up the slight slope, and turned into Victoria Street, just in time to see the soldier kiss Ariadne, and hug her to him. 'Oh aye,' the Sergeant muttered.

He was about to step back into Abbey Orchard Street, for fear of being spotted, when the pair turned away from him, the soldier's arm around the woman's shoulder and stepped into the doorway from which he had emerged.

Donaldson appeared at his shoulder. 'Where'd they go?'

Ìn there, sir. The guy was in the court. They must have arranged to meet here. Let's see what this place is.' They advanced towards the spot, just as the taxi drew away. Through the glass, the DCI thought he saw the driver wave goodbye.

Ìt's a wine bar, sir. What's it called?' Mcllhenney peered at the sign. 'Methuselah's. Very twee. Do we go in?'

Donaldson shook his head. 'No, no way. She'd spot us. We in luck, though. New Scotland Yard's just across the street. phone Garen Price, and tell him we need a hand.'

`You might ask him to bring us a camera, too. We'll want identify that soldier. I'm not brilliant on Army uniforms, but I got a feeling that his was the same as Major Legge's -

the RAOC.'

`What, you mean . .

Àye, sir, I do: the explosives experts!'

FIFTY-ONE

‘Jesus, Neil, are they ever coming out of there?' It was almost seven-thirty; Ariadne and the soldier had been in Methuselah's for almost three hours. The two Scots policemen sat in their borrowed Cavalier, parked on Victoria Street a hundred yards away from the bar.

'I don't know, but I'll tell you one thing. Whatever they're drinking, they've had more than one bottle. I hope our Welsh pal isn't keeping pace with them.'

Just at that moment, as if Mcllhenney had summoned him, white light spilled out into the street as Methuselah's door opened and Detective Sergeant Garen Price stepped out. He looked around for the car and then ran towards it. 'All these Welsh boys play rugby,' said Donaldson. 'From the way that one moves I'd say he was a hooker.'

`What, like Lily Savage?' said Mcllhenney, but the line was lost on the DCI. He reached back to open the rear nearside door for his Metropolitan colleague.

`They're just about to leave,' Price gasped, as he climbed in. 'He's calling a cab and she's paying the bill.'

What were they doing in there?' Donaldson asked. 'Eating,' said the Welshman, smiling.

'Not eating each other?'

They were affectionate, guy, but they were more interested in the lentil soup and the creamed smoked haddock. Very tasty they were too,' he added, with a smile.

Mcllhenney eyebrows rose in indignation. 'Christ, listen to him! We've been out here freezing our gonads off and he's been at the scran!'

The bullet-headed Welshman grinned even wider. 'Had to keep up appearances, mate. I'd have looked a right dildo sat there for three hours munching the free peanuts and gherkins.'

`How did they seem?' asked Donaldson.

`She looked relaxed enough. The guy seemed a bit tense, though. She was always stroking his hand and the like, as if she was soothing him.'

`Maybe the bugger has reason to feel tense.'

`Hoi, here they come.' Price pointed back down Victoria Street, towards another black cab which was waiting outside the bistro. A few seconds later Ariadne Tucker and her escort appeared.

He opened the taxi door and held it for her. She was slightly taller than him, and had to bend to kiss him. She hugged him, quickly, and stepped inside the taxi. To the watchers'

surprise, the soldier closed the door after her.

‘Dammit!' snapped Donaldson. 'They're splitting up.' `What'll we do?' asked McIlhenney.

`You two bale out and follow the soldier, wherever he goes. I'll tail Ariadne home . . . if that's where she's headed!'

FIFTY-TWO

Andy Martin looked at the bed and saw his father, on the day he died.

Phil Martin had been in his early fifties when the cerebral haemorrhage had struck him down, without warning, in his stand seat at Parkhead, ten minutes from the end of an early season Celtic vs. Aberdeen league match.

He had been rushed to the Southern General Hospital, but not even the skills of Scotland's finest neurosurgeons could save him.

His son had arrived at the hospital late in the evening, having been flagged down on his way back from a day on the beach by a police colleague warned to look out for him.

He had been shown into a small room, not unlike this one. He had seen a still figure lying beneath a single sheet. Then he had been told the prognosis by the consultant neurologist.

Finally, after a heart-rending discussion with his mother, he had given his permission for his father's ventilator to be switched off, and with it, his life.

He had been to neither church nor confession since the day of the funeral, but now, looking at his friend, he remembered his own decision and offered up a prayer that Sarah would not be forced to do the same thing.

`How's he doing?' he whispered, taking the seat beside her. `His pulse is still firm and stable, but it isn't coming down fast enough for my liking.'

`What does the surgeon say?'

Òh,' she sighed, 'he says I shouldn't worry about it. He says the shock was pretty severe, and that it's still only twelve hours or so since he came out of surgery. He's right, of course, but still . . She glanced up at the bank of monitors, her young face pale and drawn.

'I just don't like it, that's all.'

Andy took her hand. 'Sarah, my dear. You need a break from here.'

`No!’ Her mouth drew into a tight line. 'I'm staying with him.'

He nodded. 'Fine, I understand that. All I'm saying is that you should go home for a couple of hours. Have a bath, see the baby, and have something to eat, then come back. Alex has a meal ready for you. I'll sit with him while you're away.'

She looked at him, wavering. There were dark circles under her eyes.

`Go on,' he said. 'There's a traffic car waiting for you downstairs. It'll take you home, and have you back here before midnight.'

She shook her head, still reluctant. 'No. What if something . . . happens?'

`Sarah, I promise you that if his condition changes, either way, that police car will have you back here in ten minutes.' He took her arm, and standing, drew her to her feet with him. Now on you go. There's another fellow back home needs you as well.'

Finally, she nodded. 'Okay, but you will call if anything changes!'

Ì promise. But everything'll be okay, you wait and see.'

Her mind made up, she kissed him on the cheek, and left the Unit — hurrying, almost, lest her resolve should crack.

The door had barely closed behind her when Bob's arm moved on the cover, trembling perceptibly. His fingers twitched as if he was reaching, in a dream, for something familiar which had disappeared.

Instinctively, Andy took his hand, and grasped it tight. The tremor stilled at once.

`There, there, Big Man,' he whispered. 'It's all right, she'll be back. The reserve team's on for a few hours, that's all.' He gazed at his unconscious friend, and saw the slightest flicker of his right eyelid.

`Christ,' he said. 'I wonder what's going on in there? Knowing you, though, it'll be about police work!'

FIFTY-THREE

‘You two took your time. Where the hell have you been?' Dave Donaldson pushed himself out of his armchair as Mcllhenney and Price appeared in the doorway of the Strand Palace bar.

`Bloody Aldershot,' growled McIlhenney. The flicker led us all the way to bloody Aldershot.' He glared at the DCI. 'Rank has its privileges, so get them in. Mine's a pint, and Garen'll have the same.'

Òkay, I'll swing for that. You sound as if you've earned it.' He stepped across to the bar, a few feet away, and ordered the drinks.

`How about you?' asked his Sergeant. 'Did you have any more excitement?'

'Nah. She went straight home from the wine bar. Her mother was still there. She seems to be in residence, so I don't imagine that Ariadne'll have a gentleman caller through the night.' He nodded to Price. 'I left one of your night-shift colleagues there just in case, though.'