‘He could bring the weapons in,’ Houseman replied. ‘But that would be an added risk. If he could source them locally, that’s what he’d do. Mind you, sir, they would have to be specialist. These are not the sort of men who blaze away with sawn-offs.’
That’s the conclusion I’d come to myself.
‘Follow the signs for Glasgow,’ I said, when we got to the slip road that leads to the city bypass.
He frowned. ‘I thought we were heading for Edinburgh.’
‘We are, but it’s quicker this way.’
‘Come on, sir. Where are we going?’
I laughed. ‘We’re going to the place where you’d have wound up if I hadn’t given you that card.’
Just under half an hour later we pulled into the car park of Her Majesty’s Prison, Saughton. ‘You may have to pass through a metal detector when we go in there,’ I warned my driver. ‘Do you understand me?’
He nodded, reached inside his blazer, took an automatic pistol from its holster and locked it in the glove compartment.
I led the way up to the pedestrian entrance. I was ready to show the duty officers my warrant card, but they knew me by sight. I told them that Clyde was with me; that got him in without a pass.
‘What can we do for you, Mr Skinner?’ the senior man asked.
‘My colleague and I need to see the remand prisoner Bass, now.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, sir, but won’t we have to get him a lawyer?’
‘Not this time. Bass has been charged already and he’s had the benefit of legal advice. This will be a private conversation, just the three of us. Understood?’
The officer was a veteran; he nodded. His smile suggested that he was a fan of the old-fashioned way of doing things.
He made a phone call, then escorted us to the remand section of the prison. By the time we got there, our host was waiting for us, in a small musty room with opaque glass in its only window. He was cuffed, seated, and a guard stood by the door, watching him.
‘You can go,’ I told the minder.
The prison officer stood his ground. ‘That’s against. .’ he began.
I looked him in the eye. ‘Now. No worries, on you go. Wait at the end of the corridor.’
As the door closed behind him, Kenny Bass glowered up at us. There was only one chair on the other side of the table; I took it, leaving Clyde to lean against the wall. Neither of us spoke. We hadn’t discussed our approach but I could tell that he had the nous to follow my lead. I waited, he waited, until Bass’s glare faded and was replaced by a look of nervousness.
Inevitably, he broke the silence. ‘Who are you guys?’ he asked.
‘I’m the chief constable,’ I replied. ‘This gentleman is an associate.’
‘What d’you want?’
‘We want you to tell us about Freddy Welsh.’
Bass sighed, and leaned back in his chair. ‘No, again. Like I said to all the other tossers, I don’t know any Freddy Welsh.’
I reached out, grabbed his handcuffs and pulled him towards me, hard. I jerked him right off the chair and his chest slammed into the edge of the table. I leaned forward until our faces were no more than a foot apart.
‘In case you didn’t hear me,’ I murmured, ‘let me repeat; I am the chief constable. Ask yourself this: how many other petty cigarette smugglers merit a personal visit from the top cop? The time has come to stop pissing us about, Kenny. You were a trivial little plonker, but now you’ve acquired significance.’ I twisted the cuffs, contorting his arms and drawing him even closer to me. ‘You will answer this question, or it’s going to get tough for you. Who set up your trip to Spain to pick up those fags? You, or Freddy Welsh?’
I held him, with my eyes unblinking, keeping the pressure on his wrists. He resisted for a few seconds, but no longer. ‘Freddy did!’ he squealed.
‘That’s a good start,’ I told him, loosening my grip a little. ‘What was the deal?’
‘He came to me and he told me he had this cargo that needed bringin’ over from Spain. He gave me a truck and told me to take it to a place in Valencia; he said there would be serious money in it for me. I did what he said; there were guys waiting for me. They told me to leave the truck wi’ them and come back in a couple of hours. I did. They told me I was ready for the road and they gave me papers. They said they were import permissions for what was in the van and that if I was asked, I should show them to the customs guys. That was it; they said I should go, so I did.’
‘Were you curious? Did you look in the back?’
‘Of course. It was full of fags in cartons; the papers said they were goin’ tae a bonded warehouse in Birmingham.’
‘Were you stopped at the port?’
A small sneer touched his lips. ‘Nah. This country’s an open door, mister.’
‘I met Freddy,’ he replied. His tongue was well loosened by that time; he couldn’t tell us enough. ‘He said well done. He said that I could keep the fags, sell them myself, ken, for whatever I could get for them and that there would be a wee bit of cash in it for me as well. That’s why I was in Lafayette’s; I was to meet him there and he was going to pay me.’
‘So what else was in the truck? He wasn’t paying you for nothing. What were you really bringing in for Welsh?’
‘A box. That’s all I know, honest. A big wooden packing case, about four feet by two, and maybe two deep; I’ve no idea what was in it. There was a secret compartment in the truck, under the floor. Freddy opened it, we took it out and I helped him carry it into his store. It was heavy.’
I tightened the cuffs a little. ‘Where did you take it?’ I asked.
‘I can’t remember. It was dark.’
Another twist, then one more until pain registered in his eyes. ‘Kenny,’ I murmured, ‘people have been trying to lie to me for thirty years and not succeeding. I’m a world expert in spotting bullshit. I tell you again, this is important. If you think I would not break both your wrists, then you’re wrong.’ As a demonstration I twisted even harder.
He screamed. ‘It was a house! It’s in Livingston, in a street called the Pines. There’s a big extension in the back garden and Freddy’s store’s under that.’ I eased the pressure once more. ‘What the fuck are you guys up to?’ Bass squealed.
‘What do you mean? Why should we be up to anything?’
‘I went back there,’ he said. ‘I was curious. There was too much I didn’t know. I wanted to see who owned the place. I knew it wasnae Freddy’s. So I parked there and I waited, till the guy who lives there came home. I recognised him. Your guys asked me about him yesterday. He’s a polis; his name’s Varley. I know him because when I had my massage parlour, he used to come in there. I’d give him freebies with one of the girls; pay-off like, for having a friend on the force. I wasn’t the only mug either; that bastard never paid for a thing on his patch.’
I let him go. ‘You’re an idiot, Bass. You could have told us all this the day you were lifted.’
‘Aye sure,’ he snorted, clenching and unclenching his fists to set the blood flowing through them again. ‘Then one of Varley’s pals visits me in my cell and I commit suicide.’
‘Varley doesn’t have any pals,’ I told him.
‘Hmm. And I’ll believe that. You guys are all the fucking same.’ Clyde pushed himself off the wall and leaned over him. ‘If we were, mate,’ he said, ‘you’d be having a fatal seizure round about now.’
I opened the door and called to Bass’s escort; he was at the end of the corridor outside with the man who had brought us across. ‘What do I get for this?’ the prisoner asked.
‘Keep your mouth shut about Varley when you give evidence about Welsh,’ I replied, ‘and you’ll get a suspended sentence for possession of contraband.’ I winked at him. ‘Opening it might be suicidal.’
We said nothing as we were led back to the prison reception area, nor until we were back in Houseman’s car. ‘What do we have?’ he asked.
‘Nothing for sure, only a possibility; no, several possibilities. One of them is that Smit and Botha might not have brought Cohen’s body through to Edinburgh. He might have died here, before or after they paid a visit. To test
