33
Andy and Joanne, his lady of the past six months, had just settled into their table in the plush, red- upholstered Asian restaurant in Frederick Street, when Andy bleeped.
‘Pardon me?’ said Joanne.
‘Sorry,’ he said, his blond hair emphasising his sudden blush. ‘It’s this new job. I’ve got to carry one of these pager things with me everywhere.’
‘Everywhere?’
‘Everywhere!’ He reached behind his back. Clipped into his belt was a box smaller than a cigarette packet. ‘Can’t be out of touch, you see, in case the balloon goes up, or whatever. Alec Smith is still in post, officially, but the first thing the sod did in our handover was to give me this gizmo here.’ The little box bleeped again. ‘Okay, I’m coming!’
Martin looked at the small screen. His expression grew serious. ‘You’re back at work,’ said Joanne accusingly.
‘Look, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to make a phone call. Not from here, but from the car. Will you excuse me for five minutes?’
‘Once more, Andy, just once more!’
‘Thanks. Sorry. Back soon.’ He rushed out of the restaurant and across the street to his car.
The message on his pager told him to call a London 071-number. Martin had a photographic memory for such details and he recognised it as one of a series which Alec Smith had given him during the handover, unlisted numbers connecting to people in and around Whitehall who were not listed in any directory. Some were security- related. This was diplomatic. He switched on the car telephone and dialled the number.
Three minutes later he was back in the restaurant. The elegantly dressed waiter was hovering over Joanne, who was making a show of studying the menu.
‘Give us a minute,’ Andy told the man, who nodded and backed away. ‘Listen, Jo, I have to go back. I’ll take you home for now, and pick you up later.’
He made their excuses to the waiter, pressing two crumpled Royal Bank of Scotland pound notes into the man’s hand.
‘Thank you, sir,’ the waiter said with an understanding smile.
He dropped Joanne in Marchmont Road. ‘About later, Andy. Just forget it!’ She slammed the door and stormed into the dimly lit close of the tall grey tenement.
‘Fuck it!’ He snarled through narrowed lips. ‘Never changes, does it.’
Before moving off he dialled the Fettes Avenue number. As he swung the Astra away from the kerb, he pressed the send button.
The ringing tone boomed out of the system’s speaker. After three rings, a clear male voice answered: ‘Police Headquarters.’
‘This is Chief Inspector Martin. Please connect me with Chief Superintendent Skinner, right away.’
34
‘What the hell does Andy want?’ Skinner asked the question aloud, but to no one in particular. He looked up at Mackie from his swivel chair. ‘Okay, tell them to put him through here.’ Mackie disappeared, and a few seconds later, the telephone rang.
Skinner picked it up on the first tone. ‘Hello, Andy, what’s up? Was the Pakora too spicy for you?’
‘I didn’t get that far, boss.’ Skinner could tell from the booming tone that the call was coming from Martin’s car.
‘Look, I can’t explain over the phone, but I’ve had a message from an outside agency. They ask that there should be no further questioning of our guest at this time.’
In the car, Martin felt awkward, and on the spot. He had never heard anyone give Skinner an order before; now he was doing it himself. The message was second-hand and courteously phrased, but it was an order, and they both knew it.
Haggerty and Bell saw Skinner frown. ‘I hear you, Andy. The request, he leaned heavily on the word, ’is academic.’ Now Martin was puzzled. ’However, we will comply. See you when?’
‘Ten minutes, tops.’
‘Okay.’ Skinner replaced the receiver, slamming it into the cradle. Haggerty cast him an enquiring look.
‘What’s up?’
‘Dirty work at the bloody crossroads, perhaps. It seems that our silent pal might have friends in high places watching over him. Whatever it is, it’s too secret for an open telephone line. Andy’ll explain when he gets back. In the meantime, if you need to brief your gaffer, there’s the phone.’
‘Bugger that, sir, have we got time for a pint?’
‘You Glasgow boys get your priorities right, don’t you. Come on. Andy can wait!’
When they returned, the two psychiatrists were waiting in the CID office, drinking bad coffee and completing their assessment of Yobatu.
Kevin O‘Malley looked up as Skinner came into the room. ’Hello, Bob, how are you?’
‘I’m in better shape than Yobatu, I reckon. What d’you think?’
‘Complete withdrawal. The man’s had a massive shock. It could be guilt. It could be the fact of his daughter’s death getting through to him at last. As far as fitness to plead is concerned, let me have him in hospital for a week and I’ll give you a considered view.
‘On the face of it, from the information that your man Mackie gave us, we think he’s probably a psychopathic personality with two extremes of behaviour, huge energy or total depressive introspection. When the top end reaches a critical point, a mental fuse blows and he collapses into the state he’s in now.’
‘Can you fix the fuse?’
‘Maybe we can, maybe we can’t. But we’ll begin by putting him to sleep for a few days, with your agreement.’
‘I might not have a choice. There’s something funny about this one. In fact, Kevin, there’s a lot funny about it. I’m a guy who’s suspicious by nature of things that fall into place too easily.’
35
Martin was waiting in Skinner’s office. He rose as the Chief Superintendent rose as he entered the room. ‘Hi, Andy. You don’t know our Strathclyde colleagues, do you?’ He introduced Haggerty and Bell.
For Andy, the new title still had an awesome ring. ‘Good evening, gentlemen. Pleased to meet you. My message has implications for you too, so it’s as well that you’re here.
‘Just over an hour ago, my office had a “most urgent” call from a bloke called Allingham. He’s a Superintendent in the Met, but on secondment to the Foreign Office. I suppose you’d describe him as part of the Diplomatic Service. His job is to deal, as quietly as possible, with awkward incidents involving foreign embassies and nationals.
‘It must keep him busy, for he was in his office this evening, when he had a call from the Japanese Ambassador. According to him, the Ambassador was well upset. He had just been told by Madame Yobatu of her husband’s arrest, of the things we found, and of the likelihood of murder charges. The Ambassador’s on the spot, boss, and so are we all.
‘What we didn’t know, and what Yobatu and his wife didn’t choose to tell us, is that the guy has vice-consular status.’
He paused only for breath, but that was time enough for Skinner to explode, ‘Jesus Henry Christ! You know what that means don’t you.’
‘Exactly, boss. Yobatu has diplomatic immunity!’
‘Marvellous, just fucking marvellous!’ It was one of the few times that Martin had heard Skinner really raise his voice in anger. He decided, very quickly, to wait for the storm to blow over. Even the case-hardened Haggerty
