Skinner's Rules (25 page)

‘We’ve got one on Rachel!’

Martin pulled open the second drawer of the cabinet. He searched quickly through the ‘H’ and ‘J’ listings and pulled out two files. Then he unlocked the next cabinet, found the ‘T’ series, and quickly located a third. He opened the Rachel folder and read aloud. “‘ Rachel Jameson. Born Edinburgh 1961. Educated St George’s School. Student of Law, Edinburgh University. Known associate of Fazal Mahmoud, Syrian. Known to have attended meetings of the Middle-East Students’ Anti-Zionist League. Not thought to be a member. Nothing else known.”’

He opened another. “‘Andrew Harvey. Born Airdrie, Lanarkshire, 1960. Student of mathematics, Edinburgh University. Member of Middle-East Students Anti-Zionist League.” — I never knew Airdrie was in the Middle-East, boss - “Also member, Student Front for Ulster Independence, Anti-Nazi League, Campaign for the Legalisation of Recreational Substances, Scottish National Party, Independent Labour Party, Edinburgh University Football Club.” This guy’s a bloody groupie. Let’s look at Tarfaz.’ He opened the third folder.

‘“Ali Tarfaz. Iraqi passport holder. Born Baghdad, 1958. Student of politics and economics, Edinburgh University. President of Middle-Eastern Students Anti-Zionist League. Activities include organisation of demonstrations, fly-posting, etcetera. Surveillance reveals possible links with Iraqi intelligence officers in Europe.”’

There was a photograph stapled to the inside of the folder. The man had a broad dark face. It was disfigured by a jagged, curving scar which ran round his left cheek to finish at the corner of his mouth. ‘Handsome geezer, is he not?’ said Martin.

‘There’s a later entry here, dated 1987. “Ali Tarfaz reported liquidated by Saddam after involvement in unsuccessful coup attempt.” Well, it looks like we can stop looking for him in this movie.’

‘Okay,’ said Skinner, ‘let’s concentrate on Mahmoud, and let’s see if we can trace Andrew Harvey, too. I suspect that’ll be a waste of time, but let’s eliminate him at least.’

‘How do we check out Fuzzy? Through my net in London?’

‘Absolutely not. You’d be bound to alert the Foreign Office, and I don’t want that bastard Allingham to have the faintest sniff of this. Leave that to me. I’ve got a couple of sources of my own.’

Back in his office, Skinner pulled open a drawer in his desk and took out a small blue book, divided into sections. He opened it at ‘IJ’.

The listings were initials only, opposite numbers entered in a random code which only he knew. He picked up the secure telephone on his desk and keyed in a seven digit number.

‘Robbie? This is Bob S. I need a favour. Look, I know the House is in recess, but your research people in Walworth Road will be working this week won’t they? Good. I’d like someone to procure for me a list of all officially accredited personnel at the Syrian interest section of the Lebanese Embassy, with their ranks or designations. Don’t ask me why I need this, and I’ll owe you two or three in return ...

‘No. I can’t just ask the Foreign Office, for reasons which I can’t explain...

‘Obviously when you ask for this info it’s for your own use. Good. Thanks a million. Yes, today would be great. Tomorrow will do, though. Call me on my ex-directory number here, or at home tonight. I’ll give you an Edinburgh number.’

He dictated Sarah’s telephone number.

‘You’ve heard too. Christ, there’s nowhere that the Edinburgh grapevine doesn’t reach, is there. Thank you very much, I’ll pass that on. Yes I do know how lucky I am. So long, Robbie.’

Like the House of Commons, Edinburgh University was on vacation, but its administration was working as usual. Henry Wills, the Registrar of the University, had never met Andrew Martin, but he had enjoyed a cordial relationship with Alec Smith, his predecessor. There had been occasions on which Smith had advised on political organisations within the student body. Equally, Smith’s job had often been made easier by Wills’ accommodating stance.

Wills was effusive in his greeting. ‘Good morning, Chief Inspector Martin. I had heard of your appointment from Mr Smith, and I was expecting a visit eventually.

‘Forgive me for saying this, but you look very young for the job. I have known your three immediate predecessors, and not one was under forty when he was appointed. Bob Skinner and Jimmy Proud must have a high regard for your judgement.’

Martin smiled. ‘I don’t know whether I’m lucky or lumbered. I always fancied this job, but I never realised how much there is to it.’

‘Yes, indeed. I imagine that our occasional worries are among the least of yours.’

‘From what Alec told me, the University won’t be a worry at all. One thing you might watch out for, though. We have information that the Trotskyite Front are planning something against student loans. They’ve been a bit of a back number lately, and they’re trying to make a come-back. We’ve had a tip that they’re lining up student support for an extended occupation of the offices here, at Heriot Watt, and at Napier. It’s due to start in the first week of the new term. Let me know if you need help to back up your own security. I’d rather they didn’t succeed, because we’d have to crack heads to get them out, and we don’t want it to get to that stage.’

‘Thank you indeed, Chief Inspector. I had heard no whisper of this. We have contingency arrangements to supplement our own security as necessary, with people from outside firms. Of course if they hit all three institutions at once, even that resource might be stretched. I may have to take you up on your offer. And of course, if there is anything I can do in return ... ’

Martin smiled. ‘Well as a matter of fact ...’ Both men laughed. ‘I’m trying to trace a former student, from ten or twelve years back. He’s a mathematician, by the name of Andrew Harvey, birthplace Airdrie, Lanarkshire. I know your Graduates’ Association is pretty tenacious when it comes to keeping track of people, and I wondered if you could point me in the right direction.’

Wills nodded. ‘Leave it with me. When did he graduate, do you think?’

‘Some time after 1981, I believe. It would be in character for him to have joined the Graduates’ Association. The bugger seems to have joined everything else while he was here!’

Martin rose to leave. ‘I know the type,’ said Wills, following him towards the door.

‘One thing more, before you go, and this is important. There’s to be a major debate in the Union next term, on a Middle Eastern political motion. I’ve just heard that our pro-Palestinian lot have invited the new President of Syria to speak, as a representative of his bit of the PLO. Mind you, I don’t suppose he’ll be encouraged to come.’

Martin was taken by surprise. ‘I hope not. But since the Gulf War, the Government has been keen to keep the Syrians on-side, so you never know.

‘Thanks for the tip. I’ll pass it on down South. There’s a bloke in the Foreign Office whose day I’d just love to ruin!’

‘Be my guest!’

Skinner was still in his office when his secure line rang at 6.35 p.m. He picked up the receiver and quoted the number, listening cautiously for the voice at the other end of the line.

‘Bob? Aye, it’s me. I’ve got that info you’re after. The only thing is that the Lebanese don’t publish a separate list of the people in the Syrian interest section. That’s because they’re all Syrians with Lebanese passports and they don’t want to single them out for special attention from the security services, or from the Israelis. So what I’ve got for you are the names of all the Embassy staff. If your man’s on it, you’ll spot him ... assuming that he’s using his real name, that is.’

The voice on the other end of the line read out a list of names slowly and deliberately, although he knew that Skinner would be waiting for one name rather than noting them all down.

‘Fazal Mahmoud, cultural attaché,’ came towards the end. Skinner made no sound of recognition, allowing the caller to complete the list. ‘That’s it. Whoever this lad is, he must be a bit dodgy to be taking up the time of an Assistant Chief Constable, not to mention using up his favour bank!’

Skinner spoke for the first time since picking up the telephone. ‘Don’t worry, Robbie, I’ll make it up. That’s been helpful.’

‘In that case,’ said the voice on the line, ‘I’ve got a bonus for you. Some of the Walworth Road researchers have contacts that are better informed than your secret police down there. The guy who gave me that list told me that the Embassy’s a bit tense these days, because one of their blokes has disappeared. Diplomats vanish off the face of the earth from time to time, but usually it’s because they’ve upset someone at home. Not this time apparently. One of the alleged Lebanese is missing without trace, and without his diplomatic passport, and no one in the Embassy has a clue where he is.’

‘Which one?’ Skinner’s heart pounded as he waited for the answer.

‘Fazal Mahmoud, the cultural attaché.’

Skinner did not respond in any way. When he spoke again it was to change the subject.

‘Robbie, one more thing. Would you throw the name Ali Tarfaz at your Middle-East watchers, particularly any of them whose student days cover the late seventies and into the eighties, in Edinburgh. Nationality Iraqi. There’s one other thing I can tell you about him, although just for fun, I’d like you to keep it to yourself.’

‘What’s that?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘Come along here, Andy, please.’ Martin too was working late. He was in Skinner’s office two minutes after his call.

‘Hello, boss, you been making progress? I won’t get word on Harvey till tomorrow, but I’ve got some other news that might make your hair stand on end.’

‘In a minute. It seems that the Lebanese have lost a diplomat from their London Embassy. They can’t find hide nor hair of him. Bloke called Mahmoud. Deals in used Bank of England notes.’

A broad grin crossed Martin’s face. ‘Fuzzy’s done a runner, d’you think?’

‘Could be, and if he’s our killer, why should he do that? If he is, then he set up Yobatu. And no one but us and Shi-Bachi knows that the Yobatu frame-up has been rumbled.

‘No, the fact that Fuzzy’s vanished says to me that he didn’t do it. He’s either running for his life, literally, or he’s anchored to the floor of the Thames by some very heavy weights!’

Martin’s smile vanished. ‘Great. If Fuzzy’s been taken out as well, we’re at a dead stop. I’ve got a bad feeling about our three searches. I checked the two flats this afternoon. There’s nothing so far. And Aileen Stimson called in to see me half an hour ago. The only thing that’s happened up there is that she likes the atmosphere so much that she’s thinking of chucking in the force and taking her law degree off to the Bar!’

Skinner laughed, ironically. ‘Wouldn’t you, if you had the chance? The hours aren’t any longer, and the pay’s a lot better, especially when it’s given to you in suitcases by Syrians!’

He paused for a moment. ‘Listen, it’s no wonder the girl’s being distracted. We’ve sent her up there to do what we’ve done twice already. Let’s try something different. Ask her to get from the Librarian, very quietly, through Pete Cowan, a list of all the books withdrawn for study by Mortimer and Rachel, since the first meeting with the boy Fuzzy. Maybe their reading list will give us a hint. I know that the Advocates’ Library owns some of the rarest books in the world. I wonder if it has anything on its shelves that can get you killed!’

‘Right, boss. I’ll call her in ten minutes. She should be home by then. Meantime, the other thing I was going to tell you. Apparently there’s a chance that we’re going to have the Syrian President in town in a couple of weeks.’

Skinner looked up in surprise. ‘Until now Syria has only been a place on the TV news. Now it’s come up twice in this office in different contexts in a single day. As a copper, that’s the kind of coincidence that makes m
^y
skin crawl.’

‘Same here, except that the invite is in connection with a university debate, and it comes from the students. Maybe he won’t accept, or, maybe the Government won’t want him stirring up Middle Eastern politics here. Except ...’ He allowed the sentence to tail off.

‘Yes,’ said Skinner. ‘Except that as far as the Middle East is concerned, we can’t be sure of anything.’

‘Let’s keep our fingers crossed anyway. The one good thing about it is that I get to break the news to friend Allingham.’

‘Then do it quick before the Chief finds out, or he’ll grab the pleasure for himself. Use my phone.’

Martin dialled the Foreign Office number, without expecting to find Geoffrey Allingham in the building so late in the day. The extension rang unanswered, and so he left the Fettes Avenue switchboard number, and his own, with Foreign Office security, asking that Allingham be contacted and told to call him. Three minutes later, the telephone rang. The Whitehall policeman was stuck in a traffic jam in Cheyne Walk, and was calling from his car.

‘Good evening, Martin. What’s the picture this time? You haven’t nicked another diplomat have you?’ There was an unmistakable sneer in the voice.

Skinner broke in. ‘Allingham, I have to advise you that you are speaking on a conference telephone and that this call is being recorded. Any more indiscreet and offensive remarks like that and I will personally arrange for the tape to be played to your Commissioner. Now cut the crap. Chief Inspector Martin has some information which may be of interest to you.’

Quickly, Martin related Henry Wills’ story.

‘I see,’ said Allingham. ‘My apologies for my indiscretion, gentlemen, and thank you for this news. I shall inform my Permanent Secretary. He will wish to advise ministers.’

Skinner came in again. ‘We could have the invitation withdrawn, if we persuaded the University to disband the sponsoring club. Shall we do that?’

Allingham thought for a few seconds. ‘Eh, no. Hold on that one, please. Ministers may regard this as a useful icebreaker with the Syrian President. He’s a very new boy. Let’s wait and see for a few days. Thank you again.’