‘Does anyone in this city have any knowledge of what you’re doing here?’
‘Yes. The National Security adviser has; she may have told the President, or she may not. That’s her call. In her shoes, I wouldn’t. Now get me on the road, please.’
Eighty-one
Edinburgh is a city of seasons. It is most famous for its summer festivals, which span the month of August, but when Christmas approaches it takes on a special atmosphere. As night falls it seems to come alive, its centre taking on a funfair atmosphere, with its Ferris wheel, skating rink and attractions, which seem to grow in number every year.
As the CAJ party spilled out of the Dome into the brightly decorated George Street, it was caught up in the Saturday-night melee, and swept towards Princes Street. Pippa had appointed herself entertainments convener, and had determined that they would head for a nightclub in Market Street, on the other side of Waverley Bridge. Alex tagged along, although she had rarely felt less like celebrating: several times during the meal she had found herself staring into space, hearing that creepy voice in her head . . . ‘I hate cats too’ . . . or picturing herself dropping the dead animal over the terrace rail. She had spent much of the evening working out how it had got there, and had decided that it must have been thrown from the walkway on the other side of the river. There could be no other answer.
On reflection, she was glad that she had allowed her father to persuade her to reinstate the telephone tap. What had been a nuisance before had been raised to a new level. She was not afraid, as such, but deeply unsettled, and it was reassuring to know that Stevie Steele and his team were watching over her, even if it was from a distance. She had considered giving the evening out a miss, and staying locked up in the fortress of her flat, the one place she felt truly safe. When she had bought the place she had doubted whether the monitored alarm system that came with it, first year free of charge, was really necessary in an apartment block, but it had proved itself. Nonetheless she had been so freaked out earlier that she had actually phoned Guy Luscomb. With her father on his American assignment, he was the closest thing to a man in her life. She had called his London number, and had actually been pleased when he had answered.
‘Hello, Alexandra, lovey,’ he had gushed. ‘What a surprise, and what a coincidence: I was just thinking of you. To what do I owe this sublime pleasure?’
‘Oh, nothing really: I picked up your call on my answering system, and, well, I just thought I’d return it.’
‘Missing me, eh?’
‘You could say that,’ she had lied. ‘I’m feeling a bit lonely, that’s all. I suppose I needed to hear a familiar voice.’
‘Any time, darling. Catch a flight and you can see its owner, face to face.’
‘I’m not that lonely,’ she had said, and had regretted it immediately. It was unnecessary: it wasn’t Guy’s fault that he was a prat.
It had rolled off him, though. ‘Any time you are, then.’
‘Thanks. Got to go now.’
‘Big night out, what? Who’s the lucky chap?’
‘I don’t know yet. ’Bye.’
At one point during the evening, she had actually considered picking up a guy in the Dome who had given her the eye all through the meal, but that would have been the stuff of which office gossip was made, and so she had put the notion aside.
She was still thinking about him when she felt an arm link through hers, and someone move into step alongside her. ‘Alex, boss,’ said Pippa, ‘all your colleagues, me included, have reached a conclusion. You are working too damned hard. If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s turning you into a really wet blanket. So here’s what we’re going to do about it. When we get to this club, we’re going to get you rat-arsed. Are you up for that?’
She looked down at the pert face. ‘You know, Pipster,’ she said, ‘I rather think I am.’
Eighty-two
The embassy car was a blue Chevrolet Corvette, with a six-litre engine: ‘In case you have to be somewhere else in a hurry,’ as Lee Ferry put it. It was equipped with a DVD-driven navigation system, rendering Skinner’s route map unnecessary. He switched it on, fed in his destination, and let it guide him out of the centre of the city and on to US Highway 50, heading east. He knew that the diplomatic plates made him virtually immune to speed cops, but he set the cruise control at only seventy-five, more or less the average speed on the Interstate road.
He had been travelling for just over forty-five minutes when the mighty Chesapeake Bay Bridge came into sight and with it a toll station. He cut his speed, chose a booth and rolled slowly towards it. He was almost there when a red Plymouth overtook him on the run-in and screeched to a halt. As it cut in front of him, he caught a glimpse of the driver’s face in profile, the most fleeting of glimpses, but it was enough for recognition. He was astonished, but only by the odds against his seeing that one face among so many.
He watched the car as it overshot the toll booth. For a moment Skinner thought that the driver would not stop, but he reversed back and thrust a bill out of the window at the attendant, who took it, checked it carefully, then handed over change. The driver snatched at it, so hastily that a note dropped to the ground, but instead of opening the door to pick it up, he floored the throttle and roared off.
As the Scot approached, the toll collector left his booth and picked up the discarded banknote. ‘Unbelievable,’ he said, as he climbed back on to his perch, ‘absolutely unbelievable. Guy’s in so much of hurry he almost didn’t pay, and then when he did he threw his money away. You can go through, buddy, he’s taken care of it for you.’
‘Thanks,’ said Skinner, ‘but let me tell you something. In this world, absolutely nothing is unbelievable: that’s something of which I’ve just been reminded.’
For a moment he thought of gunning the Corvette and pursuing the much slower Plymouth, but he decided against it. Instead, he blended in with the traffic and drove sedately over the enormous waterway crossing.
There was no rush: he knew where the driver was headed, and he knew more than that. He knew that he was expected as he drove steadily down the Interstate, smiling as it turned into country roads winding across flatlands taking him east, with the afternoon sun shining behind him, thinking, as he closed on his destination, of nothing but his mission, and hoping that his judgement had been sound.
Eighty-three
It was late in the afternoon, but the scene-of-crime team had set up floodlights. Proud, McIlhenney and DI Arthur Dorward stood in the back door of Gary Starr’s villa, watching the technician as he swept the garden with a ground-penetrating radar sensor. Twice, they had produced readings that led officers to dig; the first excavation had unearthed a paint can, the second a two-pound coin. ‘Our difficulty,’ said Dorward, ‘is that there is no sensor that’ll detect bones. We have to look for metal, jewellery, belt buckles and such, or for disturbed earth, which is probably a non-runner after forty years.’
As he spoke the technician stopped and turned towards him. ‘That’s it, sir,’ he called out. ‘That’s as much as I can do; I’ve been over the lot and there’s nothing detectable here.’
Proud stepped out into the garden, with McIlhenney following, and strode across to a greenhouse that stood in the corner of the garden that was most exposed to the sun. ‘You haven’t covered this,’ he said.
‘The sensor can’t penetrate concrete, sir,’ the man replied.
‘And this is a modern structure, Chief,’ McIlhenney added. ‘From the looks of it, it’s only been here for a few years.’
‘Perhaps, Neil, but was that concrete base used for something else before it?’ He looked over his shoulder at Dorward. ‘Arthur, I want this dismantled and the base broken up.’
The three senior officers retreated inside the house, watching through the kitchen window as the greenhouse was emptied of the chilli plants, which had been, apparently, its late owner’s hobby, and as its sections were
