14 - Stay of Execution

‘You are still wasting your time and mine, sir. These are internal Belgian matters, and I will not discuss them. If you persist . . .’

The DCC’s temper was triggered. ‘If I persist, pal, you’ll wish I hadn’t.’ Sheer instinct made him fire a name at Winters. ‘Patrice Lumumba,’ he barked.

The phone in Brussels was slammed down so fast that it was as if it had become red-hot in the lieutenant colonel’s hand. Skinner smiled in satisfaction. ‘Gotcha,’ he muttered. ‘But,’ he added aloud, ‘what the fuck does it have to do with this situation?’

He called McGurk into his office and poured them both coffee. ‘Brainstorming, boss?’ the sergeant asked.

‘Like you’ve never known it.’ He waved McGurk into the seat on the other side of his desk and checked his watch: it was nineteen minutes before ten. ‘The Pope arrives in Murrayfield in just under two hours,’ he said. ‘We’ve got two al Qaeda terrorists out there trying to crash the party. Willie Haggerty, Brian, Neil, and a small army are there trying to keep them out; their chances of getting through are about one in ten, but these are bright, resourceful and determined people. Let’s assume the worst, that they manage it. What are they going to do?’

‘Shoot the Pope? Or the Prime Minister? Or both?’

Skinner raised an eyebrow. ‘Funny that nobody ever talks about shooting Tommy Murtagh. Our First Minister would probably be very indignant if he realised that. No, Jack, if they were going to shoot anyone they’d have to use arrows. They won’t get a firearm in there, and they won’t get explosives in either.’

‘Could they have planted them at Sunday’s international?’

‘The place has been swept five times since then; if they’d planted a toothpick it would have been found.’

Skinner pulled Pringle’s folder across to him. ‘We’ve got two unsolved mysteries on our hands, Sergeant: that one,’ he slapped it, ‘and this one. There is no sign that they’re connected, but a quarter of a century as a copper tells me that they are. If I’m right, the answer’s in here; we’re so fucking stretched at the moment just doing the protection job, that you and I are the only guys left to try and find it.’ He split the pile of papers into two and handed half across the desk. ‘Let’s get to it.’

‘What are we looking for, boss?’

‘If I knew that I’d point you at it. We’re looking for something that’s wrong. We’re looking for something that’s out of place. We’re looking for something that proves that Hanno wasn’t just killed by a drunk driver, and that Lebeau wasn’t an unlucky victim of a random lunatic who gets it off by spiking toothpaste tubes with poison. We’re looking for a lie.’

He picked up the first paper from his half of the folder’s contents. It was an interview with the bus driver, Maurice Roger, conducted in Haddington, after the police team had become aware of Hanno’s death. He reckoned that he had probably been the only sober man in the club when Hanno was killed. He remembered that the veteran bandsman had been on top of his form, entranced by the range of ales on offer and determined to try every one . . . at least once . . . but he had not seen him leave.

It was the first of ten almost identical statements that he read in succession. A common theme ran through them; until his death, Philippe Hanno had been having the time of his life. He had been seen in conversation with Lebeau, with young Roelants, with Willi Schmidt, and, animatedly, with the barmaid . . . Philippe still travelled in hope, his colleagues agreed, even if his days of expectation were behind him.

He turned to a series of statements sent up from Hull by the investigating officers there. The second was by the barmaid in question, Mrs Doreen Silk, aged fifty-three, of nineteen Clarindel Drive, Kingston upon Hull. ‘He was a nice man,’ she had recalled. ‘He had that look in his eye, too, as if he fancied himself a bit. I’ve seen worse, I have to admit.’ Who knows? thought Skinner. If Philippe had lived . . . The last time she had spoken to him that evening, he had asked her for cigarettes. ‘Gauloises,’ he had specified. ‘You know, the blue packet.’ She had told him that they only sold British fags; he had shrugged his shoulders and turned away. She remembered that he had gone over to the bus driver, spoken to him briefly and headed for the door.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Skinner, aloud.

‘You got something, boss?’ asked McGurk.

‘The bus driver. He said he never saw Hanno leave . . .’

‘That’s right. I interviewed him.’

‘Describe him.’

‘Thirty-something, dark-skinned; could have been North African origin, or Asian.’

‘Did you see the bus?’

‘Eh?’

‘Have you ever seen the Belgians’ bus?’

McGurk frowned for a moment, then his eyes brightened. ‘Yes, I have; I’m sure of it. When we went to Haddington to interview them there was a bus there. A big brown thing with “Autotours Duvalier de Bruxelles” written up the side.’

‘Shit. Who’ve we got available?’ The DCC thought for a moment, then dialled Ruth Pye. ‘You busy?’ he asked.

‘It doesn’t sound like it,’ his secretary replied. ‘What is it?’

‘I want you to trace a company for me.’ He repeated the name on the bus, checking the spelling with the sergeant. ‘How’s your French, Ruthie, if you have to use it?’

‘Parfait.’

‘C’est bon. Call them and tell them you want the details of the driver who’s with the Bastogne Drummers. Spin them a story; tell them that he’s been reported for speeding by a punter and we need to check him out.’

He left her to her task and went back into the interviews. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘He’s out of fags, he can’t get his brand in the bar, so he gets the keys off the driver and goes across to get some. That’s what Malou told Dan Pringle. So why’s the driver coy about it?’

‘He’s out of what?’ exclaimed McGurk. He took a slim folder from his pile and thrust it at Skinner. ‘Read this.’

The DCC took it from him: it was labelled ‘Post-mortem Report; M. Philippe Hanno’, and dated. He looked at the opening paragraphs.

The subject is a male in his early sixties, reportedly struck and killed by a speeding vehicle. The body showed multiple signs of trauma, notably to the legs, the cervical vertebrae and the skull, all of which were fractured.

At the time of his death, the subject was in generally fair physical condition. He was overweight, although not obese, and the liver was slightly enlarged. However, the heart was healthy and normal and the lungs were in exceptionally good condition for a man of this age, with no sign whatsoever of damage. Clearly, as was confirmed by an examination of his fingers, the subject was a non-smoker.

Skinner’s eyes widened. ‘He was a non-smoker? Yet Malou said he went across to the bus for fags! Fuck!’ he shouted. ‘Jack, have you got the Hull police report there?’

McGurk flicked though his documents. ‘Yes, boss.’

‘Is his property listed? Contents of his pockets?’

He scanned his eyes down the single sheet. ‘Forty Gauloises; crushed but recognisable.’

‘Malou smokes bloody Gauloises! I see it now; he sent him for them. He set him up to be killed, and I’ll bet you the driver was in on it. And if he set up Hanno, he did the same to Lebeau. Someone gave him the poisoned toothpaste, and he put it in with his kit. Or . . .’

His eyes fixed on McGurk. ‘Who else was billeted at the farmhouse besides Malou and Lebeau? It was a big place. There were more than two people there, I know.’

Before the sergeant could answer, Skinner’s direct line rang. He seemed to rip it out of its cradle. ‘Yes?’

‘Bob . . .’ His wife’s voice sounded strained.

‘Not now, Sarah; later, but not now!’ As he hung up on her, his internal phone buzzed. He took a deep breath then pressed the hands-free button. ‘Ruth,’ he said calmly.

‘I spoke to them, sir. The driver’s name is Albert Berenger, he’s fifty-one and his wife is really pissed off with