get innocent people killed. Do you think this outfit are kidding? 'Stern action to force you to accede.' Whatever that means, it's a direct threat.'
'You seem to forget they've threatened more action, come what may – unless we hand them the keys to the kingdom, that is.'
Skinner slapped the walnut-panelled wall in frustration. 'I don't forget that at all, but there's no sense in pushing them into more violence, when we've nothing immediate to gain.'
Although still shaking, Ballantyne had recovered at least some of his composure. 'I'm sorry. Bob. I am adamant. The Government must stand its ground. We take the decisions; your job is to protect. That's what I expect you, and your people, to do.'
Skinner glowered at him, making no effort to hide the flame of I his anger. 'I hope you realise you could be signing some poor sod's death warrant. Not your own, though; you're safe enough. As for our job, we're already doing it. But since you're making it difficult for us, you can come up with some extra resources. I want some SAS people up here. You can quote the Prime Minister's resolve, to get the OK from MOD. A dozen will do me.
I'm told they're available.' iBallantyne retreated across the room to the citadel of the, ministerial desk. 'Yes, I'll do that for you. Bob, I'm sure it'll be all right.' His tone had changed; now it was almost placatory.
Skinner too had cooled down. 'I hope it is, Alan. It's your shout. If you're wrong, it'll be as if our disagreement never happened. I won't ever cast it up to you, but you'll have some job forgiving yourself.'
Ballantyne said nothing. He stood behind his desk, head bowed.
Skinner looked at him coolly for a few seconds, then changed the subject. 'What time are the Chief Constables coming in?'
'Twelve noon. I thought we'd see them in the third-floor conference room. I'll welcome them, and you can give them the low-down. I spoke to McGuinness personally, as you requested, and explained that you were working directly to me or. this thing. I told him that if you need to ask for his co-operation in anything, he's to give it without question. I'll tell the Chiefs that too.'
Skinner looked at his watch. It was five minutes before ten.
'OK. Thanks. Look, I'm going back down to Fettes. I've got one or two things to do there. I'll be back for ten to twelve.'
'Fine. See you then.'
As he left the room. Skinner knew that something had gone for ever from his relationship with the Secretary of State. He had previously thought more highly of Ballantyne's judgement, yet there was more to it than that. He was deeply disappointed in the man. Skinner's creed was built on unswerving loyalty: to family, to friends, to colleagues, to country. The Secretary of State's implacable refusal even to consider his view had left him feeling personally betrayed, and he knew in his heart that he would never be able to look at Ballantyne in quite the same way again.
He closed the door quietly behind him. If Shields and the other man had heard the raised voices, neither gave the slightest sign.
Skinner smiled at the Private Secretary. 'I'll be back for that other meeting in a couple of hours, Arnold.'
Shields simply nodded in acknowledgement.
Skinner beckoned the other man to follow him into the corridor. When they were alone, he turned on him. 'Detective Constable Howells, just what the hell do you think you're here for? You are an armed Special Branch officer assigned to close protection of the Secretary of State. I walk into that room and you're in there reading the fucking funny papers. If I had been a bad guy, you'd have been dead in one second, then Mr Shields, then the Secretary of State. Your job is out here, not in there. You have to assume that everyone who comes on to this floor unannounced is a bad guy, and be ready to act until you find out different. Do you know what happens to detective officers if they screw up badly enough around me? Night-shift in uniform on the beat in fucking Eyemouth, that's what. You've just walked perilously close to having a permanent smell of fish in your wide nostrils. So don't do it again. Clear?'
The detective, who was two inches taller than Skinner, nodded vigorously. 'Clear, sir. Sorry, sir.'
'OK, incident closed. But be on guard in the corridor from now on.'
He started towards the lift, then looked over his shoulder.
'I'll be back. You'd better be the first person I see on this floor.'
18
The courier was a woman. She was seated in a corner of the main Special Branch office, sipping coffee and reading a magazine.
When Skinner entered the room, she stood up at once, recognising him from the photograph which she had been shown early that morning in London.
Forestalling Brian Mackie's attempt to introduce her, she came towards him, hand outstretched. 'Good morning, sir. My name's Mary. I'm from Five. I have some papers for you from London, which I believe you're expecting.'
Skinner shook the woman's hand. 'Yes, that's right. Thank you for coming all this way.'
Mary was carrying a brown leather satchel. She fished a key from the pocket of her blue woollen jacket and unfastened the heavy brass lock, releasing the catch with a flick of her thumb. She withdrew a long white envelope and handed it over.
'Mission accomplished, sir. Now may I call for a cab back to the airport?'
Skinner held the envelope unopened in his hand. 'Thank you, Mary. No need for a taxi. Even on a Sunday I think we can find you a driver.' He looked across to Mackie. 'See to it please, Brian.'
'Sir!'
'DCI in?' •Yes. boss.'
He thanked the messenger once more, and excused himself.
Martin was speaking softly into the telephone. He was seated in his swivel chair with his back to the door. When Skinner entered the room he swung round, making a wind-up motion with his left hand. 'Got to go now. I'll pick you up at around one o'clock.' He paused for a second, as he listened to the voice on the line.
'If you're sure your aunt will be all right at home, we'll go to my place. I need to shave, badly. See you then.' He was still smiling as he replaced the receiver in its cradle.
Skinner shook his head and laughed. 'I don't believe what I'm seeing here. A thirty-something schoolboy. Everyone's cracking up today. First Ballantyne turns into General fucking Patton, now you turn into fucking Romeo.'
Martin looked at him curiously. 'What's up with Ballantyne?'
Skinner's good humour disappeared as he described his altercation with the Secretary of State. 'I hate these boys when they decide to get brave, Andy. It's always some other bastard that winds up bleeding.'
'Let's hope not this time.'
'Yeah. Anyway, forget that for the moment and let's look at what's in here. It's my report from Five.'
He drew up a chair and sat down, facing Martin across the desk.
Slitting open the white envelope, he drew out its contents, three sheets of A4 folded top to bottom. He scanned the first sheet, and glanced across at Martin.
'This says they've been through all of the most sensitive running files on politicians, and found only one that fits the bill.'
He put the covering letter to one side and studied the two-page report.
'We know about this guy all right. Grant Forrest Macdainnid.
Labour MP for Glasgow Marymount. He used to be a right wee hoodlum when he was a youngster. Ran a gang and did time in Barlinnie Young Offenders, till he got into politics and started doing people over legally. He's on the ultra-nationalist wing of the People's Party. Advocates direct action to secure Home Rule. But there's a twist to him: he's a monarchist. Wants to set up a Scottish Parliament with a head of state on Scandinavian lines you know, what they call a minimalist monarch. A king with a day job. He's even got a candidate picked out: a
