‘No,’ said Spicer. ‘I can tell that you are.’
‘Good. Now pull over so we can talk.’
‘I don’t have to; my colleague and I have just arrived at our destination.’
‘And where is that?’
‘We’re in Northumberland, in a village called Wooler. We’ve discovered a possible location for Ballester. Last year his grandmother died, and left him her house; we’re just outside it. He’s been living here on and off, or somebody has; the telephone is still in his grandmother’s name, E. Maybole, and it’s been used recently.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Don’t ask, please.’
‘Okay, I’ll allow you that much. What’s the address?’
‘Hathaway House, Gallow Law.’
‘And you reported this to Boras?’
‘Yes. Yesterday evening.’
‘What instructions did he give you when he called you today?’
‘He told me to get up here and apprehend the man, if he’s here.’
‘Apprehend?’
‘Yes. He said that he wanted to hand him over to you personally.’
‘He instructed you to kidnap this man?’ Steele exclaimed.
‘To make a citizen’s arrest.’
‘There’s a fine line between the two, but we’ll discuss that later. Where are you right now?
‘We’re overlooking Hathaway House.’
‘What can you see?’
‘Not much. There’s no sign of movement. However, there is smoke coming out of one of the chimneys.’
‘Describe the place, please.’
‘It’s more of a cottage than a house, built in a dip in the land. You can barely see it from the road. There’s a car in the driveway, a blue Suzuki saloon. I’ve used a contact to check the number. It’s registered to Ballester’s grandmother, but I reckon it’s been used recently because it’s splattered with mud. What do you want us to do?’
‘Nothing. Keep the house under observation until police officers arrive. If Ballester leaves before, then do not let him see you, and do not confront him, repeat do not confront him: assume he is armed. If you have an opportunity, do your best to trail him, but from a distance, and call in his position and direction of travel to Northumbria police as soon as you can. Got that?’
‘Yes, I understand.’
Steele handed the phone back to Lemmon, and turned to Stallings. ‘Becky, could your air support unit get me up there?’
‘I’m sure they could, but it’ll take a formal request from further up the line than us.’
Steele took out his own mobile and called Mario McGuire. ‘I need your muscle, sir,’ he told the head of CID, as he answered. Quickly he explained the situation.
‘Okay,’ the chief superintendent responded. ‘I’ll get you airborne. I’ll also alert Northumbria and get an armed-response team on station; you take command on arrival and run the operation. It’s your bus, Stevie, you drive it. While all that’s happening I’ll advise the fiscal that we might be on the edge of something. Who are you with down there?’
‘DI Becky Stallings, Charing Cross station.’
‘I’ll ask air support to liaise with her. I’ll tell them to get you up in the air as quickly as they can.’
‘Thanks.’ He ended the call and nodded to Stallings and Wilding. ‘Mario will make it work. We need to get somewhere that a chopper can land to pick us up.’
All at once, the sergeant’s face fell. ‘Stevie,’ he said slowly, ‘I’ve been in a helicopter before. The noise, the smell of the engine . . . I can’t find the words to tell you how sick I was.’
The inspector looked at him, and took a decision. ‘Okay.’ He chuckled. ‘You can stay here as planned, and come up tomorrow. I’ll have more than enough back-up in Wooler. I’ll call you to let you know how it goes.’
‘Thanks, pal.’ Wilding sighed.
Stallings reached out and punched him lightly on the arm. ‘Hey, Ray,’ she said, ‘if that’s how you react to choppers, how would you feel about the view from the London Eye?’
Fifty-eight
She was still pondering the mystery when the doorbell chimed. She checked her watch. It showed six on the dot; the big man was always punctual.
He was standing on the top step when she opened the door, dressed in a dark suit, immaculately pressed, worn over a pale blue shirt and tie that looked newly unwrapped. He was carrying a black leather document case. ‘Very smart,’ she said. ‘Is this normal for a Saturday evening?’
Bob Skinner grinned. ‘No way: Aileen’s holding a formal dinner for business leaders and wives in the First Minister’s residence this evening, and she’s asked me to chum her.’
‘That’s a nice way of putting it,’ she said, as she ushered him inside. ‘Is that how it’s going to be from now on? Will we be seeing the two of you together at official functions?’
‘Yes, and unofficial. We’ve been keeping the relationship low-key until now, to let the dust settle after my divorce, but we feel that we can move on now. We’re not making any public announcements; we’re simply going to stop being coy about it. For example, the Scottish Executive’s press office will be issuing the guest list for tonight’s event, and my name will be on it.’
Maggie chuckled. ‘Yes, and on tomorrow’s front pages. You can bet on that, sir.’ She paused. ‘Listen to me, Bob,’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s going to take me a long time to get used to being a civilian.’
‘I still can’t believe that you are,’ Skinner confessed. ‘Honestly, Mags, I had your career all mapped out in my head. There’ll be an ACC vacancy in Stirling in a couple of years and you’d have walked in there. Good preparation for an eventual move back to Edinburgh as chief.’
‘You’re kidding me.’ She led the way into the kitchen, where a pot of coffee stood ready.
‘No, I am not,’ he declared, watching as she filled a mug for him, then took a bottle of water from the fridge for herself. ‘That was my master-plan, and it still can come about. You’ve done nothing that can’t be reversed.’
She rubbed the bump under her smock. ‘Oh, no?’
‘Why should motherhood hold you back? It can’t be held against you at interview.’
‘Get real, Bob; maybe it can’t but it would be.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘With the First Minister looking on from a distance, and me from a hell of a lot closer? I don’t think so.’
‘Okay, maybe not, but you’d form a pretty big obstacle to any move back here.’
Skinner shook his head. ‘No, I wouldn’t. If I were to succeed Jimmy . . . and it’s IF in capital letters . . . I would not hang on for the duration. I’d do five years maximum, then I’d be out of there. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking on this sabbatical, Maggie; it’s not just your career I’ve got mapped out.’ He laid his leather case on a work surface as he accepted the mug from her.
‘What would you do?’
‘I’d be open to offers; I had a very big one a few months ago, but I turned it down because the time wasn’t right, and because it would have been difficult for Aileen and me. If I was offered that again, when we were both ready for it, I’d maybe give a different answer. But if not, and if no other opportunities crop up, I’ll write and teach. I’ve started both already.’ He nodded towards the document bag. ‘The paper I told you about yesterday: it’s in there. I’d like you to read it . . .’ he chuckled ‘while you can still think professionally ... and let me have your views, your frank and honest views, on my findings and on the thinking that’s led me there.’
