later that you've kept something from me, I promise you it will change altogether the way I think about you.'
He kept his gaze on Gavigan, reading the fright on the thin face. 'None that I know of, Mr Skinner, honest,' the man exclaimed. 'There was Lawrence Scotland, there was that Iranian, Basra, and there was Morrison and Forrest… that's all.'
'Did you ever give perjured evidence against anyone else?' 'No… sir.'
'Or combine with Smith to force a confession out of anyone?' 'No, sir.'
'Or turn a blind eye to anything that Smith was doing?' 'Sir, I never knew what DCI Smith was doing, unless he told me about it.'
'Scotland and Basra… you sure they were guilty?' 'Dead certain, sir.'
Skinner paused for a few moments. 'Remind me,' he continued, eventually. 'When you and Smith played your game with Scotland, what did he tell you would have happened if Scotland had lost?'
'Mr Smith had a contact in the army, in military intelligence. He'd told him what he was going to do; he didn't care whether he killed Scotland or not. He wanted… and the army guy wanted… a scare thrown into the bloke so bad that word would get to the guys he associated with in Ireland. He told me that if it had gone wrong, his army pal would have buried Scotland up there, and that's what I told Mr McGuire. But thinking back on it, I'm not sure that he didn't palm the real bullets after he showed them to Scotland and load up with blanks, just in case.
'Whatever he did, Lawrence Scotland believed there were real bullets in the gun. His bowels emptied on him the second time he pulled the trigger.'
The DCC frowned. 'Funny. Alec Smith's bowels were emptied when he died.' He made a cutting movement across his lower abdomen. 'Only they were emptied right out.'Tommy Gavigan gasped and shuddered.
'So what about you, mister?' Skinner murmured. 'Let me tell you something. I have a friend in Military Intelligence; not the pal Smith had… if he ever existed. He really does have the power to bury you up on the Pentlands or something like that. Normally you'd be too small for him to bother with, but he owes me a couple of favours, so
…' He paused, watching Gavigan turn even paler.
'For now, though, you can have your early retirement, Tommy. I don't want any scandal. You can have your full pension.' He locked on the stare again. 'But if ever I find out that you've breathed a word, a single word about any of this outside this room, or if ever I find out that you've been holding something back from us…
'You think about me, that's all. Remember me, because I won't forget you. And remember my army friend, and the favours he owes me. You look me in the eye and you know I'm not kidding.'
He put both palms on the table and pushed himself to his feet. 'Now get out of here. You're stinking the place out. Basement exit please; I'm not having you mixing with my people again, not even on the way out.'
Gavigan almost ran to the door; as he was about to open it, Skinner called to him. 'Hey, Tommy. You just remember now; we'll be watching you. You're not an SB officer any more, you're a target.'
33
Martin read the report as carefully as all the others even though it was the last of the pile. It had been submitted by Detective Superintendent John McGrigor, CID Commander in the big, sprawling division which stretched into the hilly Borders country, summarising an investigation into stock thefts from sheep farmers in his area.
McGrigor was a big, bluff, ex-lock forward, who respected the young Head of CID as much for his success on the rugby field as for his achievements as a detective… maybe more, Martin thought on occasion.
The report was solid and workmanlike too, ending with the arrest of a gang of rustlers from South Shields and their initial appearance in the Sheriff Court. 'Sheep-stealers in Selkirk,' Martin chuckled. 'Right up big John's street.'
He had just initialled the report and placed it in his out-tray when his telephone rang. It was Sammy Pye. 'Sir, I've got Spike Thomson, the disc jockey, on for you.'
He frowned, surprised. 'Put him through.'
There was music in the background as the presenter came on line. 'Hello, Andy,' he began in a bright, friendly tone. 'Listen, I'm on air so this can't take long. A thought occurred to me this morning. Remember I invited you to sit in on the show sometime, to see how we do it?'
'Sure.'
'How would you like to come in on Monday as a guest, a bit of on-air chat? I promise I won't ask you anything about current investigations, or stuff you don't want to talk about. Just about police work in general. Good PR for the force.'
Martin's first instinct was to say, 'No, thank you', but he gave the offer a second thought. 'Yes, why not,' he replied. 'I'll have to clear it with Bob, but in principle, okay.'
'I'm seeing Bob tonight,' said Thomson, 'at the football. I'll mention it to him. Cheers, got to go, CD's finishing.'
Martin grinned as he hung up, until his direct line rang, a few seconds later.
'Afternoon, sir,' said Mario McGuire. 'I've had young Alice check with Guardian Security on Lawrence Scotland, like you asked. He works out of their South Gyle depot, but he's been on the sick all week. He called in on Monday with a stomach bug. 'He's at home. He lives in a flat up in Gilmerton, near the Drum: number seven Falcon Street.'
'How do we know he's actually there?'
'His office called him this morning,' McGuire replied. 'Just to see how he was… and to check that he was there. He was in.'
'What do they think of him as an employee?'
'Quiet and reliable, was how they described him. If they only knew, eh? I wonder why Alec Smith let him stay on at Guardian after he arrived there.'
'The Hoover Principle again, I guess.'
'Eh?'
'Have them where you can see them. Right,' Martin glanced at his watch: four-forty. 'I'll pick him up now.'
'Look, sir, I could do that,' the Inspector said. 'My feet are clear of North Berwick now; I could lift Scotland.'
'Nan. I said I would do it and I will. I want a look at this guy, anyway; you don't get to meet too many retired terrorist hit-men in the course of a working day.'
He put down the phone and walked into his outer office and called to DC Pye. 'Sammy, have we still got that Mondeo in the car park?'
'Yes, sir. I've got the keys.'
'Let's have them then.'
The Detective Constable looked surprised. 'D'you not want me to come?'
'I'd rather you got those performance-appraisal forms out to Divisions. I'll see to Scotland on my own. I don't think for a minute that he killed Smith. If he was going to do that he'd have done it before now… and he'd have shot him too, I'll bet.
'I might not even bring him in, I just want to talk to him; to find out what he knew about Alec, as much as anything else.' He picked up the car keys and walked out of the office.
The white Mondeo was in the Fettes park, where Pye had parked it the night before after bringing it back from St Leonard's. He drove out into the late afternoon traffic.
The drive to Gilmerton was tedious at the best of times. He switched on the radio, and selected Forth AM. '… and this is for Margot,' said Spike Thomson. 'I know it's a few days late, but it only came up on our play-list today.' His voice faded and the sound of Stevie Wonder singing, 'Happy Birthday' filled the car. Andy grinned to himself as he thought of his Monday appearance.
Falcon Street was hard to find. It was a cul-de-sac and it only had a few houses, built in two small terraces looking across an open field on the other side. Number seven was one from the end. He parked, stepped out, and
