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!’
59
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 attache,’ 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 attache.’
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.’
60
‘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 my 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
