fucking mad.' As he said this, it occurred to him suddenly that he might well be right. For a man in his predicament, Macdainnid's arrogance seemed beyond belief.
'Don't count your chickens, Skinner. I want my lawyer here now. I bet that any evidence you have against me won't be admissible in court. Once I'm out, I'll crucify you. The next election isn't that far off, you know. I expect to be a Scottish Office Minister, once it's over. Then you'll see.'
With lazy strength. Skinner picked Macdainnid up and slammed him against the wall, hard. The back of his head cracked against the plaster.
'Listen, boy, to what you are,' he said, in a controlled steady voice. 'You are a fucking horse trader. You're a heroin dealer.
You are less than dog-shit on my shoe. Make no mistake, you are going away for a long, long time. There is someone in this room who's an expert with a hammer and nails, and you're looking at him. But before your public crucifixion in the High Court, you're going to tell me how a Glasgow snot-rag like you comes to be mixed up in a drugs deal with Jesus Giminez, international terrorist numero uno. How do you think old Jesus is going to like having had his messenger, his two hundred grand and his drugs all nicked? Maybe I will let you go, and see just how long you survive. Personally, I wouldn't give you a month.'
As Macdainnid stared at him, fear and amazement replaced the bellicosity. 'What the hell do you mean? Who's this Jesus whatever-you-called-him? I've never heard of him. My only contact was some Colombian. Even then, we only spoke over the phone, and only ever on secure lines.' Macdairmid was convicting himself with every word, but he cared not a bit.
'Not as secure as you thought,' said Skinner. 'We heard you talking to Giminez. He was identified by the best. You wouldn't believe some of the heavyweight things he's done, so why's he messing himself with a wee shite like you? That's what you're going to tell me – and bloody fast, too.' He let go of Macdainnid's shirt front. 'You've got some serious talking to do before the day's out. But not here. I'll see you again through in Edinburgh. Neil, Barry, finish up here, and take Mr Macdairmid, MP, though to Fettes. His lawyer can see him there. He'd better be bloody good, though!'
Macdairmid was handcuffed, and the two detective constables hustled him away.
'Well, sir,' said Haggerty. 'We didnae expect all this, did we?'
'No we bloody did not.
'Fucking ironic, Willie, isn't it. You and I have just made whai for most coppers would be the arrest of a lifetime, yet here we an – well, me at least – absolutely pissed off. We started of thinking that Macdairmid was our best lead to the Fighters foi fucking Freedom. Now we find he's just another drug-dealer.
Look at the time we spent on it. A great result, sure, and I'm glad that stuff isn't going to hit the street. But as far as our main business in concerned, we're right back to square one!'
55
Skinner was passing Shawhead, on the drive back to Edinburgh, when Brian Mackie's call came through.
'Boss, this is incredible. I thought you'd want to know right away. The lab boys ran a quick test on a sample of Macdairmid's heroin. Their report's just arrived. That stuff is lethal. First of all it's so pure that your average addict would off himself with just one fix. And, as if that wasn't enough, there's something else in there too. They haven't isolated it yet, but it seems to act as a catalyst to turn the heroin into pure poison. That's what Macdairmid was going to spread all over Glasgow.'
'Holy Christ, Brian! Look, don't let anyone say anything about it to our man. I want to break that piece of news myself.
'What about his sister? She saying anything since her arrest?'
'She can't stop crying. She says she knows nothing about anything – but how many times have we heard that before? She swears she hadn't a clue about the heroin. She says she thought she was picking up hot cash from Libya to fund some left-wing newspaper, and that the briefcase she brought with her was just a dummy for a swop, weighted down to make it look authentic.'
'What about the messenger?'
'He definitely isn't saying anything. He tried to pull a gun on Captain Arrow. The wee man hit him so hard he smashed his voicebox. He'd have died if Sarah hadn't been with the emergency team outside. She did an emergency tracheotomy. She kept him alive, but she reckons he might never speak again. He's in intensive care.'
'OK, Brian, thanks. Be back soon.'
Next, from the car, he called Six, then Joe Doherty, who for once had been spending a weekend at home. When he broke the news, it was the first time that Skinner had ever heard Doherty rattled.
'Christ, Bob! You really mean that? Giminez is running poisoned smack? I gotta feed that back to the Bureau and the DBA. Suppose he's doing that in the States as well. You any idea how many people you could kill with a case full of poison?'
'As many as there are needles to go round, my friend. Good luck.'
56
The Sentinel broke the Carlie story on Sunday morning.
Bob and Sarah were still asleep when the telephone rang. It was Ballantyne in a panic which verged on hysteria. First, Bob calmed him down, then he dressed and drove down to the newsagent at the nearby road junction to pick up a copy of the newspaper. The Sentinel was a new, independent Scottish Sunday tabloid, launched three months earlier, and already struggling for survival.
The candid back-door shot was there, all right. But, much more serious, there was a second photograph, taken with a long lens through an upper floor window, which showed clearly the Secretary of State and his lady in a fond embrace. Fortunately, Skinner thought as he studied it, they were both fully clothed. •MYSTERY BLONDE IN BALLANTYNE LOVE-NEST' screamed the headline, crediting the 'Fighters for an Independent Scotland' as the source of the photographs, and printing in full their denunciation of Ballantyne. However, in neither the statement nor the Sentinel's subsequent story was Carlie identified.
As Sarah sat down to read the story and study the photographs, Skinner called Ballantyne back on the kitchen phone.
'Alan, I'm sorry for you, but this isn't one that I can help you with. They've broken no law here. Any paparazzi could have done that; and I'm surprised that no one has before now. Best thing you can do is call Mike Licorish and ask him if he'll stretch the rules and issue a personal statement for you.'
'But, Bob, my career.'
'Alan, with respect, you should have thought of that before.
What you do now is up to you and your conscience. You're either a man or you're a weasel. I know what I think you are. It's up to you to prove me right or wrong.'
As he hung the phone up, he noticed that Sarah was looking at him in astonishment. But he shook his head and said no more.
An hour later, as they were clearing away the breakfast dishes, the telephone rang again. This time, it was Michael Licorish.
'Bob, I thought you'd like to hear this before it goes out. You listening?'
Skinner grunted.
'It's a statement by the Secretary of State. It reads: 'Mrs Ballantyne and I deprecate the publication in this morning's press of photographs of our close friend Miss Charlotte Mays, and the libellous story which accompanied them. One of these photographs was particularly intrusive in that it shows Miss Mays comforting me immediately after I had received the sad and unexpected news of the death of another close family friend, Lord Broadgate. Mrs
