‘It’s hectic, Mr McKinstery, but I’m enjoying it. You’ll be busy yourself, with these bloody student occupations. How many targets have you got on your patch?’
‘Six, I reckon. The two universities, Glasgow Poly, Queen’s College, Notre Dame and Paisley Tech. They’ve all made arrangements. Of course if it leaks back to the Trots they may switch their attack to the FE colleges, and there aren’t enough security guys to cover all of them. We’ll just have to see how it goes. What can I do for you anyway, young man? You havena’ just called to compare notes on Bolsheviks.’
‘No, you’re right,’ said Martin. ‘I wonder if you could check your back files, say between 1979 and 1984, and see if you have anything on a girl called Joy Granger, Strathclyde University. Associates, politics, anything odd.’
‘No problem, I’ll get a DC to look her up. That’s G-R-A-N-G-E-R is it?’
‘Yes, there’s probably nothing there. We’re doing a vetting job on her husband and we just want to cross- check her.’
‘I’ll call you back within an hour.’ Martin thanked him, hung up, and called Skinner’s secretary to see if the ACC was free.
‘Yes, Mr Martin. He’s waiting for you, in fact. Come right along.’
Two mugs of coffee stood on coasters on Skinner’s desk.
‘Sit down, Andy. How was the other New Town?’
‘Interesting, sir. For a start the Great Joiner Harvey is a boring wee fart. He knows about maths and computers and bugger all else. Or at least that’s the impression he tries to give. His wife, on the other hand, is a power lady. She runs his company and his life. I’ve asked Strathclyde to check out her background. She was a student at the same time as Harvey, at Strathclyde, though. They say they met after university.’
‘Any possible connection?’
‘Could be. I claimed to have been bonking Marjorie Porteous, Rachel’s pal, at university, and I threw some names of people at him. He denied knowing Marjorie Porteous, but I got a strong reaction when I mentioned an Arab bloke, without putting a name to him. He and his wife both seemed to be on the edge of their seats. But as soon as I mentioned the name Ali Tarfaz they both relaxed.’
‘Did they, by Christ! He’s not a man to relax people.’ Skinner recounted obbie’s legend.
Martin stared at him. ‘So what have we got here?’
‘Two Middle Eastern students of different nationalities, each in Rachel Jameson’s university circle; each one goes on to become an intelligence operative. One of them, it seems, makes payments to our two dead advocates then vanishes, the other one just vanishes.
‘We’ve got to believe that Fuzzy is involved in some way in the murders, or he’s joined the head count himself. The coincidence factor says that Ali Tarfaz could be somewhere involved too.
‘Boss, how long can we keep this thing to ourselves?’
‘I don’t know, Andy. But let’s try, for as long as we can. I want a tail on Harvey, and his wife, since you thought that they were sensitive to the mention of an Arab. Although it’s off our patch, you can handle it from your own resources. I’ll tell Strathclyde what we’re doing, not why. And I’ll go and see someone else.’
‘Who’s that, boss?’
‘A man in New St Andrews House. You’ll have heard of him.’ Martin nodded, his face serious.
‘By the way, Andy, I’ve got some more stirring news for you. Remember our friend the Syrian President? He’s said “yes”, and so has the Foreign Office.’
‘Magic, just bloody magic. When?’
‘January the eighteenth. Apparently it’s a special debate, sponsored by the Palestinian lobby, on international brotherhood! Allingham’s coming up tomorrow with a Lebanese, at least that’s what they say he is. I want the two of you to agree all the security arrangements. The “Lebanese” will report back to Syria.’
There was a knock on the door. ‘Yes.’
Skinner’s secretary appeared. ‘Mr Martin, your office buzzed to say that Superintendent McKinstery called on your private line.’
Skinner pointed to his secure telephone. ‘Call him back.’
Martin punched in the Strathclyde number. ‘Mr McKinstery? Andy Martin.’
‘I’ve found your lassie, Joy Granger. I don’t know what she’s like now, but she was a busy wee girl at the Uni. She was in the Socialist Workers’ Party, that’s how we’ve got her on record. She didna’ half get around. Saw more pricks than Jocky Wilson’s dartboard, according to this file. She was chairperson of a pro-Palestinian, anti-Israeli outfit, and linked up with like-minded idiots in other universities. Some of her listed contacts were in Edinburgh, others in Aberdeen.’
‘Can you read me the Edinburgh names please?’
‘Sure. There’s three of them. Andrew Harvey, Fazal Mahmoud, that’s spelled F-A-Z-A-L. M-A-H-M-O-U-D, and Rachel Jameson. Is one of them your target?’
‘Yes,’ said Martin, ending the call with thanks.
‘So what have they got?’ Skinner asked.
‘They lied to me today. Told me that they didn’t meet till after they left university. According to Davie McKinstery’s files, Joy helped to run an inter-university pro-Palestinian league of some sort. Fuzzy Mahmoud and Rachel are both listed among her contacts.’
‘Then get that tail in place, now, Andy. From the sound of things they didn’t suss you, but don’t take any chances.’
‘Okay, boss, I’m on my way. Will you square it with Strathclyde for me?’ Skinner nodded as Martin left the room.
65
There is a small anonymous room in New St Andrews House, a monstrous office block perched on top of a seventies shopping mall.
Skinner entered the grey concrete building through its inadequate revolving door. His warrant card took him past the security guards. ‘Know where you’re going, sir?’ one enquired. Skinner nodded.
Hugh Fulton’s door bore no number. It was not listed in any office directory, nor was its occupant. Officially, neither existed. The real Hugh Fulton was a tall, broad man in his mid-fifties. Streaks of ginger still mixed strongly with the white of his hair. There was no sign of thinning on top. As he stepped from behind his desk and extended his hand, Skinner recognised the questioning gaze in the big, brown eyes.
He had met Fulton for the first time on a Senior Command Course at the Scottish Police College at Tulliallan, when the big Aberdonian, then an Assistant Chief Constable in the Grampian force, had been one of his toughest inquisitors. A few weeks after that encounter, Fulton’s resignation from the force had been announced. No explanation was offered other than the bald statement that he was ‘taking up another post’.
Only a handful of civil servants, and senior officers, Skinner among them, were allowed to know what Hugh Fulton’s ‘other post’ was. Within his tiny circle his title was ’Security Adviser to the Secretary of State for Scotland.‘ In fact his role was much broader than this, involving all matters that were the subject of ’D’ Notices, and many other situations too sensitive even for that category. Fulton was not seen in public, and reported in Scotland only to the Secretary of State and to the Permanent Under Secretary, the head of the Civil Service in the Scottish Office. Nationally, he reported only to the Prime Minister, the Cabinet Secretary, and to the Director General of the security service, MI5.
‘It’s been a year or two, Bob,’ Fulton’s voice boomed out. ‘I’ve followed your career with a personal interest since that time at Tulliallan.
‘That’s very flattering, and surprising. I thought I blew bits of it.’
‘Everyone did. we set some unsolvable problems to see who came up with the most pragmatic solutions, and kept the damage to a minimum.
‘Now, why do you want to see me? It’s only our college connection that got you through that door you know. You’re the first serving policeman who’s ever been in this room.’
Skinner looked around the small grey office. It was shabbily furnished; its two windows, treated on the outside with a reflective coating, overlooked the conference suite and food hall in the central courtyard of the huge circular block. Skinner sat down in the uncomfortable low-backed tubular chair to which Fulton pointed.
