'Bacardi and tonic,' he said. He looked at the other glass. A slice of lemon was wedged at its foot in a finger of a clear liquid. He sniffed that, too, but found no trace of alcohol. He looked again at the bottle. Vodka and Coke in the making, probably.
'So what happened to them?' he asked Maggie. 'Sarah's got a drink on the go when Julia arrives, and she comes into the kitchen to mix one for her guest. She gets the ice and lemon from the fridge, drops them in the glass. Takes the Smirnoff and the Coke from the fridge as well. And that's as far as she gets… Then they decide to go to the pictures? Hardly!'
Maggie's face broke into a sudden, relieved smile.
'Neil, she's a doctor, isn't she? Not just with the police, but in a general practice. She's had an emergency call-out. Rather than leave Julia here, she's taken her with her. That's your mystery.'
Mcllhenney looked sceptical. 'Oh aye, and being an ACC's wife she just runs out the back door and leaves it wide open, with all the lights on.'
Maggie grimaced. 'I see what you mean.'
Then she made a decision.
'Look, let's wait here anyway, as ordered. But in the meantime let's try and check her practice. Then we can call in to Brian Mackie, when he gets back to the office.'
94
Glasgow reflected yellow in the night sky ahead. Closer at hand they saw below them the lights of the Harthill Service Area, as the helicopter continued to track the Vauxhall westward along the M8. They matched its speed, keeping a mile behind it.
Occasionally, Skinner fancied he glimpsed tail-lights in the distance. The car was travelling fast, at just over 80 mph, but not so fast as to attract the attention of the motorway patrols.
Skinner checked his watch. The time was 11:23 pm, yet it seemed like an age since the Senator had raced into the Gyle Centre. He hated to be bottled up; it made him feel claustrophobic. Eventually he could stand the tension inside him no longer. He dug his mobile telephone from the top right pocket of his black leather jacket.
'Pilot, if I use this thing, will it work?'
'Shouldn't have a problem this close to the ground. We're right on top of a cell here too. You might find it a bit patchy, but go ahead.'
Skinner peered at the keyboard in the dim cabin light, and keyed in the stored number of Brian Mackie's direct line. He was answered after a few seconds.
'Brian, it's me. You made good time getting back. You'll know by now that we were right about that plane at Edinburgh. We're heading for Glasgow. I want you to call Willie Haggerty, give him the number of the Senator.' He dictated the number which he had memorised. 'Tell Willie I want people at all docks, and I want as many men as he can get under cover at Glasgow Airport.'
The line went faint for a second, then strengthened again. 'You think they'll go for another plane?'
'Has to be. Could be they're just going to drive in and hijack one, using Alex as bargaining power. But the way this thing's been planned, I reckon they've got a back-up ready. Needn't be very big. An 800-mile range will get you to a hell of a lot of places from Glasgow. Especially overnight. Whatever it is, wherever it is, I can't let them take off with Alex on board. Now give Haggerty the message, and tell him to make sure that nobody moves in without me there to give the orders. I don't want any of those Glasgow lads playing cowboys with my daughter's life on the line.'
95
Suddenly the trace vanished from the monitor. Skinner could not actually see the screen, but he sensed its disappearance from the sudden look of panic which flashed across Arrow's face.
'Where's it gone? What's happened?' he snapped.
'S'OK, Bob,' came the calm, steady voice of Andy Martin.
Seated next to Arrow, he had detailed maps on his knees and a torch in his hand. 'They're in the Charing Cross underpass, beneath that ugly office block that goes over the road. We'll have them back in a second. Yes, there it is. Still on course for Glasgow Airport. Just going on to the Kingston Bridge now.'
Skinner turned to the pilot. 'How fast can this thing go?'
'Twice as fast as they can. And dead straight, remember.'
'Good. I must be at the airport before they get there. We'll follow them for a minute of two more, then once we're absolutely certain that's where they're headed, we'll put the foot down and beat them to it. Suppose they see a chopper there at an airport, they won't think anything of it.'
Martin broke it. 'Hold on, boss. They seem to be turning off the motorway.'
'Eh! Which way?'
'Hold on. They're in a sort of a curve. They're still on the sliproad. I'll know in a minute. Yes, they're still heading west. I'd say they're taking the off-motorway route to the airport, out through Govan. That's got to be it. It's one last feint. Tricky sods these.'
'God, Andy, but I hope you're right. Look, we can't track them street by street through this. Let's give them two more minutes, then we commit to Glasgow Airport.'
They hugged the line of the motorway as it headed towards the airport, and, as they did so, the trace from the dye on the Vauxhall Senator stayed to the north on Arrow's screen, moving much more slowly now, as the car wound through the streets of Govan.
Skinner tapped the pilot on the shoulder to attract his attention.
'How long to the airport?'
'For us, three minutes. For him, by that route, fifteen minimum.'
Skinner was about to commit himself finally to Glasgow Airport, leaving the trace behind, when Martin broke in. 'What the hell's this? They're doubling back.'
'What?'
'The trace. It's turned back on itself.'
'Dear Christ!' said Skinner, with a sigh of fear and frustration.
'It's gone again,' said Martin. 'Pilot, hover. Hold your position.'
Arrow and Martin stared at the screen. Skinner leaned back over the seat for a clear sight, and Arrow turned the tracer set half towards him, to allow him to view. The little cathode screen stayed obstinately blank.
'Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!' Skinner roared in his rage.
'Where's the fucker gone?'
Arrow offered a suggestion in hope. 'He could have gone into a garage to fill up.' I 'Bollocks! You think this lot's planning includes running out of petrol in the middle of the night in fucking Govan! They'll have another car somewhere. The bastards have stashed the Senator and switched. We've lost her, boys. We've lost her.'
His despair was even greater than that of the night before, for then there had been that other slim possibility. But now…
'No!' The certainty in Martin's voice banished the darkness gathering in Skinner's heart.
'The Tunnel. The Clyde Tunnel entrance is down there. Pilot, head north.'
The helicopter banked sharply round and headed away from the bright lights of the motorway, towards the network of orange lines which crisscross the west of Glasgow by night, bisected by the dark slash of the River Clyde.
North they went, but the screen was still dead, even when they had almost reached the river.
'Andy, you sure about this?'
