Skinner's Rules (29 page)

‘Hi, love, busy day?’ He leaned over and kissed her neck, above the scarf.

Sarah nodded. ‘A real bugger, as you Scots say so eloquently. Began with a heroin overdose in Leith, and ended with a ten-year-old kid in Muirhouse coming home from school to find his mother with her head in the gas oven. Life as it is really lived, or died, as the case may be. How about you?’

Bob shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Oh, just humdrum stuff. Threatened one minute by a man I thought was a friend. Soft-soaped the next by someone I had down as an enemy. Just a typical day in the life of a hard-working polis!

‘Let me open a medicinal bottle of something and tell you the details.

They sat on the sofa, Sarah in the curve of Bob’s arm, Haydn’s Miracle Symphony on the CD player, and sipped smooth white wine. Yet, instead of unwinding as the music and the grape did their work, Bob grew more tense.

 

‘Hey, big boy, steady down! Is this Syrian job more tricky than you’re saying?’

‘No, don’t worry about that. Allingham’s had his card marked. If everyone does their bit it’ll be a dawdle. No, it’s the other thing.’

With mounting outrage, he told Sarah of his visit to Fulton.

‘He told me just to go along with the Yobatu story. Can you imagine that? I know that our man’s still out there; it’s bloody obvious, and yet he told me to lay off. I tell you, Sarah, it stinks.’

‘And what are you going to do?’

‘What do you think?’ He almost shouted at her for the first time in his life. ‘Sorry, love, I must learn to leave these things outside.’

‘No, I’m sorry, that was a silly question. But what will Fulton do? What can he do?’

He kissed her on the forehead, and some of the tension seemed to leave him. ‘He’ll huff and he’ll puff, but he can’t go public. He might try to lean on Proud Jimmy, to get him to order me to pack it in. He’d have to lean pretty hard, but it’s possible. He could use the Crown Office to try to stop me.

‘In theory he can’t do anything. Hughie Fulton is a non-person, the sort of guy that Le Carré and Len Deighton write about.’

Sarah looked at him, and he saw a hint of fright in her eyes. But quickly she turned it into a joke. ‘What, licensed to kill, do you mean?’

Bob looked at her, unsmiling. ‘Listen, Doctor, I’m licensed to kill if it comes to it. Far more so than Fulton. I carry a police warrant card and I’m a high-rated marksman, trained to take people down, like everyone on my Syrian team.

‘Fulton isn’t like that. I think he smells something that might embarrass his masters, and he’s trying to cover it up. Remember, the ex-Lord Advocate, the Foreign Office, and probably our own Secretary of State had Yobatu hustled out of the country on a stretcher; now he turns out to have been innocent, there may be no more to it than Hughie trying to save his bosses’ blushes. What makes me mad is that the man was one of the best policemen in Scotland. A real Blue Knight. Now he’s just an arse-licker!’

Sarah put a hand on his chest. ‘All right. Now forget him. Tell the Chief about your meeting and put it out of your mind. Just do it your way .. but don’t get obsessive.

‘Now, let’s discuss weddings!’

Mackie and McIlhenney sat in a plain Ford Transit van, watching a big red-brick villa on the edge of Cumbernauld’s Westerwood golf course.

Mackie had watched the couple leave the Harvand factory half-an-hour earlier, in a black Toyota Supra Turbo, and had followed them home. The curtains had been drawn at once, masking the light. Mackie had a feeling that they were in for a long night, until Maggie Rose and McGuire arrived at 6.00 a.m.

An hour later, their talk of football, and Scotland’s sad exit from the US World Cup Finals exhausted, Mcllhenney voiced a thought which had been in Mackie’s mind. ‘Why hasn’t the boss got us a phone-tap, sir? We might not get anything from it, but at least it’d give us something else to do.’

Mackie smiled. ‘Nice one, Neil, but I don’t think he’ll wear it. I’ll ask him, but I’m sure the answer will be that if we called in an engineer from Telecom, that’d be someone else who’ll know about the operation. Anyway, this is just a line of enquiry. If guys like you were given your head we’d be living in a police state in no time at all!’

In the dark, Mcllhenney smiled. ‘Aye, great, eh!’

Just after 11.00 p.m. the ground floor light went out. A few seconds later there was a sudden blaze of light from an upstairs room. Joy Harvey appeared, framed in the window as she drew the curtains.

‘Fine piece of woman that,’ said McIlhenney. ‘I wonder how that wee chap manages all on his own?’

‘From what I’ve heard, he’s had a bit of help over the years!’

The first full working week of the New Year drew to a close in unseasonally mild weather. Saturday morning came in a flood of sunshine, with a hint of warmth rather than the frost which normally accompanies cloudless January skies in Scotland.

For the stake-out team it was business as usual. The only break from routine came when Andrew Harvey left home alone in the Toyota. The Transit van was parked 200 yards away in the drive of an unfinished house at the top of the cul-de-sac in which the Harvey villa was situated.

When Harvey cleared the house, Maggie Rose slipped from the van and gunned her MG Metro, parked out of the line of sight, into life. She had the Toyota in view as it reached the roundabout leading to Wardpark and Castlecary, but there were no surprises in store. Harvey drove straight to the factory, and drew up in its car park, alongside other vehicles. Six-day working, thought Maggie, the software business must be doing well.

Joy Harvey left half-an-hour after her husband, in a red Ford RS 2000 with a new ‘M’ prefix. McGuire followed her at a distance in the Transit. He was led into a covered car park beneath the sprawling Cumbernauld Town Centre.

As he pulled up, he saw Joy, her long legs carrying her at a brisk pace towards the Asda foodstore. He waited for a full minute before strolling absent-mindedly towards the supermarket. He took a trolley, and wheeled it casually along the first aisle, an inconspicuous unaccompanied male, one of several, picking items at random from the shelves. He spotted her easily, as she moved purposefully from section to section. Her trolley was almost filled to capacity with food, toiletries and kitchenware. ‘Those two fairly go through the groceries,’ McGuire muttered to himself. Eventually he saw her head towards the checkout, the trolley overflowing. He left his, and retraced his steps, as if to pick up a forgotten item. Then, slapping his jacket and swearing softly, as if he had forgotten his wallet, he spun on his heel and walked quickly out of the store.

He was back in the Transit, observing the Ford through its wing-mirror, by the time Joy returned. Eight Asda carrier bags were crammed into the trolley. She folded down the back seat and began to pack the car. McGuire noted that one of the carriers appeared to be filled entirely with toilet tissue and kitchen rolls. Two others contained cartons of orange juice, milk and various soft drinks. Another was full of fresh fruit.

Before she had finished loading her car, McGuire started the van and drove off. He was back on station well before she returned home. He called Maggie again.

Her car-phone rang out, then was answered. ‘How’s it going, sarge?’

‘Quietly. Our boy’s at work. How about you?’

‘We’ve been to Asda. Joy did a food-shop. Enough to feed a family of six for about a month. Are we sure that this pair don’t have kids?’

‘Or maybe a house-guest?’

Harvey returned home just after 1.00 p.m. He left the Toyota parked in the driveway. The RS 2000 stood in the open garage, apparently unpacked. Ten minutes after Harvey’s arrival, Maggie drove quietly up the slope and parked her car in its original position. She checked to ensure that no one was watching, before slipping back into the Transit.

McGuire handed her two large rolls, packed with tomato, lettuce and salami.

‘Thanks, Mario.’ She examined the filling. ‘Is this your Italian side coming out?’

‘Course not! The McGuires of Kilkenny were the salami eaters. The Corrieris of Milano were far too keen on their fresh breath to touch stuff like that. Their tastes lay in other areas!’ He flashed her a caricature of a lecherous grin.

‘You should be so lucky, constable!’

‘Yes, Sergeant, but you’ll have to contain yourself. Look. Our birds are flying!’

The double garage door was closing automatically. Harvey stood by the open hatchback of the Toyota, five Asda carrier-bags bulging in his hands. He lifted them with difficulty into the car, reached up on tip-toes and slammed the tailgate shut. Joy locked the front door and walked quickly out. She climbed into the driver’s seat. Her short fat husband clambered in on the passenger side. They saw a puff of exhaust smoke, then the white reversing lights came on and the sleek black car backed out of the driveway.

‘My car, Mario come on!’

‘Okay. Don’t forget the bloody rolls!’

The Toyota was clear of the cul-de-sac before Maggie had reversed out to follow it. She was three hundred yards behind when she saw it swing left, and circle the roundabout at the foot of the hill to join the A80, heading towards Stirling.

She tailed them, still at a safe distance, as the A80 became the M80, then watched half-a-mile later as the Toyota veered left to join the M876. Joy maintained a steady eighty-five miles per hour.

‘Christ,’ said McGuire, ‘if she puts her foot down in that beast, it’s goodbye to us.’

‘Don’t you believe it, cowboy, this wee thing can go too. Anyway, if the worst comes to the worst, we can phone in and have them stopped for speeding.’

Maggie drove skilfully, matching the Toyota’s speed. She kept other vehicles between her and her quarry, but always stayed close enough to observe the options taken at junctions. Eventually the M876 merged with the Edinburgh-bound M9.

‘Where do you think we’re going?’ McGuire asked.

‘God knows. Could be the bloody football. Is it Hearts or Hibs at home today?’

‘Oh, aye, and was that their half-time piece that Harvey loaded into the boot? Anyway, I hardly see the wee man as a rabid Hibs fan? No, it could be they’re heading for the Bridge. Will I call in?’

Maggie nodded and handed him the car-phone. He punched in Martin’s home number. A girl’s voice answered.

‘Hello, miss. Is Chief Inspector Martin in?’

‘He’s shaving. Hold on, I’ll call him. Andy!’ A second later she came back on the line. ‘Sorry, who’s that?’ McGuire introduced himself. ‘It’s DC McGuire,’ she called. ‘Sounds as if he’s travelling.’

A few seconds later Martin came to the telephone. ‘Hi, Mario. What’s up?’ McGuire explained. And as he did so his earlier guess was proved right. The Toyota headed for the Forth Road Bridge. Maggie followed tucked behind a maroon Sierra, from which a green and white football scarf trailed.

‘One other thing, sir. Joy bought a hell of a load of groceries this morning, and they loaded more than half of them into the car before they left.’

‘Okay, Mario, that’s good work. Call when you get where you’re going. I’ll wait here for you.’ His tone changed as he spoke away from the phone. ‘Sorry, Janie. Can’t be helped.’

Then he was back. ‘I’ll call Brian Mackie and tell him that the caravan’s on the move. Tell Maggie not to let them twig her.’

‘Would you like to tell her yourself, sir?’

Martin laughed. ‘No, maybe not. Good luck.’ He hung up and checked Mackie’s home number. The DI took some time to answer the call. When he did so he sounded as if he was rubbing the sleep from his voice. But he snapped awake quickly as Martin explained.

‘Stay by your phone, Brian, until we can establish where they’re going. Call your mate and have him ready in case you have to move fast. And when you do head out, make sure you have a full tank. You’ll be heading north, but at the moment it could be anywhere.’

There was no answer from Stockbridge when he called Skinner. He dialled Gullane, and Sarah answered. Bob, she said, had gone for a short-notice round of golf. Martin told her what had happened.

‘I’ll call the boss when they arrive wherever they’re going. Pending further instructions, I’ll do no more than maintain the surveillance. So long.’

He put the telephone back in its cradle and turned back to Janie. ‘Might as well put on a record. We could be here for a while.’

And then the telephone rang.

‘Oh, fuck!’ Andy swore only in moments of extreme stress.

‘Not until you answer that bloody thing!’ She rolled away, reached out an arm and handed him the telephone.

Maggie Rose spoke. ‘We’ve arrived, sir. We’re in Earlsferry, in the East Neuk of Fife. The Harveys seem to have a weekend cottage here. McGuire called directory enquiries. They’re on the phone here. The house is called Earl’s Cottage. It’s on the beach.

‘It’ll be difficult to keep it under observation, and impossible from the car. But we can get a clear view from the beach. There are hardly any people about. Most of the houses must be holiday places; there’s no sign of life in any of them. No lights, no smoke from the chimneys.’

‘How long have you been there?’

‘Ten minutes, no more. Mario’s down watching the house now.’

‘Can you remember if the Harveys’ house has a chimney?’

‘Yes. It’s a newish place, two storeys. There’s a big picture window upstairs and a big feature chimney up one wall.’

‘Was it smoking when they arrived?’

‘It was, sir, it was! There must be someone else in there!’

‘Steady on, Maggie.’ He swung his feet out of bed and sat on the edge. ‘Don’t get too excited. There could be a local who comes in to light the fire before they arrive. Keep the house under surveillance, and I’ll contact DI Mackie. He and McIlhenney will bring up an overnight bag for you two. They’ll do tonight. You book into a hotel oraBand B or something, and relieve them again in the morning.