Skinner's Ordeal (16 page)

The policeman's face twisted with scorn. 'You? You graceless wanker, you could barely get your own tea. Now shift out of here before I charge you with imitating a human being.'

He pushed the man towards the door, and trotted up the stairway. He was still shaking with anger as he sat down behind his desk. When Maggie Rose came into the room the phone was in his hand and he was dialling a London number.

`Reggie,' he barked, when the call was answered. 'Bob Skinner. Remember you told me that a couple of years ago you sorted out a problem for that newspaper proprietor fellow, the one that owns those nasty tabloids, and that he owes our side a few favours as a result?

You do? Good! Well, now I've got a wee problem, and I'd like him to sort it out. In fact, I'd like him make sure that my wee problem never gets a job in journalism in Britain again ... ever.'

THIRTY-ONE

Neil Mcllhenney was never at his best with lachrymose women. In fact, he was rarely at his best with women in any situation. In their occasional matrimonial jousts, Olive Mcllhenney could best her husband in many ways, from simple tears to extended silence, and others which she still kept hidden in her armoury, just in case.

The moments in his career which he had enjoyed least had been those on the Drugs and Vice Squad when Andy Martin, its Commander, had decreed a crack-down on Edinburgh's burgeoning massage parlours — establishments in which the massage, on offer only to men, was of a localised and specialist nature.

Although he had given of his best, his diffidence had been noticed, prompting Martin to comment to Bob Skinner, 'See that McIlhenney! If I sent him in to sort out a male brothel, he'd tear the place, and the characters in it, apart with his bare fists. But take him on a raid on a sauna and he goes in with his cap in his hand. The fact is, the big fella's just scared of women!'

Àt times, who can blame him?' the DCC, fresh from a roasting by his exam-stressed daughter, had muttered.

No, Mcllhenney was an old-fashioned man's copper, and so, faced across the cream-topped table by the sobbing Shana Mirzana, he was happy to play the part of junior officer, leaving all the questioning to DC' Dave Donaldson.

Ms Mirzana had been Assistant Private Secretary to the Secretary of State for Defence.

She was the third member of the Private Office staff whom Donaldson, Mcllhenney and Maui Arrow had interviewed. Their Metropolitan Police colleague, Detective Sergeant Garen Price, was there simply to throw the cloak of his jurisdiction over the proceedings.

He sat in the corner and sipped coffee.

Ì know this is difficult for you, ma'am,' said the DCI, 'but you will understand that an investigation as serious as this must go ahead with all speed. So if you'll compose yourself, please.'

Listening, Mcllhenney was struck by the way in which Donaldson kept a sympathetic tone in his voice, but did not disguise the fact that the woman was there to be questioned, aggressively if necessary.
You're a cold-hearted bastard under that smooth surface, Dave,
he thought.

She nodded, dabbing her eyes with a white handkerchief. 'Of course,' she said. 'I'm sorry. I will try to help you.'

`We know you will, Shana,' said Adam Arrow, offering a familiar face as a reassurance.

'Just keep calm.'

He had shown them her Personnel file and her vetting report. She was twenty-seven, the granddaughter of an immigrant from India just as it gained nationhood, his departure sped, no doubt, by the fact that he was a Muslim. The family religion had been retained in Britain, but half a century on, as she sat before them, Shana wore an outfit which was distinctly Western in its style and cut. She had indeed liberated herself considerably, as her LSE degree bore out. She was the daughter of an orthopaedic surgeon, and, while not on as fast a track as Maurice Noble, she was expected to carve out a good civil service career.

The vetting process had thrown up no skeletons, other than a student membership of the Young Conservatives, and a speeding conviction at the age of twenty-two.

When was the trip to Scotland first put into Mr Davey's diary, Ms Mirzana?' asked Donaldson.

'It was talked about perhaps three weeks ago, when the Chief of the General Staff first invited the Secretary of State to visit the exercise.' She spoke with the few faint traces of a Midlands accent to have survived a good education.

`However, Mr Davey did not wish to commit himself at first. He said that he would think it over. I think he didn't really want to go. It was only after we heard from Washington that Mr Massey would be coming that he felt he should put in an appearance. The Secretary of State doesn't like exercises,' she explained. 'His predecessors have worn battledress and driven tanks, but he won't — sorry, wouldn't have done — that sort of thing.

`So it was only because Massey was going that he went?' said Donaldson.

Shana Mirzana surprised them by smiling, for the first time. `Well, not quite. You see, Mr Massey had insisted that he be accompanied by television crews from America, to help the President in the election. When Mr Davey heard that, he said that he had an election coming up too, and that if our cousins were going to do that sort of thing — well, so would he.'

Ì see. So when did he decide to go?'

`Tuesday afternoon. Maurice told me just after the Secretary of State had gone off to the House. The Permanent Secretary had been going in his place, and could still have gone, but when Mr Davey changed his mind, Sir Stewart decided to withdraw.'

`Did Mr Noble always go with Davey on these trips?'

She shook her head. 'Most of the time. Occasionally, I would go. Once or twice at weekends. Maurice didn't like being away from Ariadne, but usually Mr Davey would insist.'

Ànd did he insist this time?'

`Yes, he did. Because of the Americans being here.'

`How did Mr Noble feel about that?'

`He didn't say anything in particular, but I had the feeling that he wasn't very pleased.' She hesitated. 'I can't be sure, but .,

`Go on, please,' said Donaldson. The woman looked questioningly at Adam Arrow, who nodded.

`Well, Maurice didn't discuss his private life with me as a rule, but there was an inflection in some of the things he did say that made me think . . . that things weren't all right at home.'

`Had his behaviour changed at all recently?'

She considered the question for a few moments. 'When he came into the job at first, he was very enthusiastic, very positive, very outgoing. But that soon changed: just lately he had been very quiet. That happens to people in Private Office, though; I know from experience. The job is very stressful, and when your Minister is very demanding, as Mr Davey was, it can take over your life. You have to walk a tightrope at times.'

`What do you mean?' asked Neil Mcllhenney, interested enough to involve himself in the interview for the first time.

Ì mean that the people who do jobs like ours are the Minister's voice when we speak to Department. If the Minister says something critical, or rude, then we have to pass it on, in the terms in which he commented. That can create potential difficulties for us, since we're mainstream civil servants on secondment, and since the people we're bawling out on Our Master's behalf will be very often in a position to have a considerable influence on our future careers. We have to convey meaning directly without ruffling feathers, and that is very difficult. More than one Private Secretary has found that some very high-level knives were out for him after he'd finished his stint and gone back into Divisional work.'

`How would you say Mr Noble was coping?'

'He was having difficulties. I sat in on a meeting last week, and when it was over the Secretary of State asked Maurice to wait behind. Even before the door was closed, I heard Mr Davey begin to tear into him for being too soft in a memo to one of the Procurement Divisions. He came out looking very white, and didn't say anything for a while. I felt sorry for him.' She paused again, then burst out angrily, 'Actually, the Secretary of State could be a real shit!'

Immediately, as if a second thought had hit her, she looked at Arrow and said, 'Please don't repeat that, will you? We're trained to be loyal to our Ministers above everything.'

The soldier smiled. 'That's all right, Shana. This one's dead, so it doesn't count. As it

'appens, I think you're being too kind to him.'

Was that the general view of Mr Davey?' asked Donaldson, trying to regain control of the interview.

`No,' said Ms Mirzana, freed by Arrow's reaction. 'I'd say it was the universal view.'

'Why?'

`Have we all day? Let me see.' She thought the question over. `Quite apart from Mr Davey being a school bully who graduated somehow to the Cabinet table, quite apart from him being an opportunist, a misogynist, cruelly sarcastic, and taking a delight in the misfortunes of others, quite apart from all that, there was a special sort of nastiness about him, the sort that in a roomful of shits, has a smell all of its own.'

That just about sums the man up,' said Arrow, laughing out loud. McIlhenney joined in; he had warmed to this woman. In fact, he was studying her technique in vituperation, one of the longer words of which he was proud, for a future debate with an unprepared Olive.

Donaldson allowed their mirth to subside. 'What about Mr Noble? What did people think of him?' he asked quietly.

À nice man, probably out of his depth in any event, but completely unsuited to be Principal Private Secretary to a man like Davey. I don't know what Sir Stewart could have been thinking of when he made the recommendation.'

`Don't worry,' said the DCI. 'I'll ask him.' He forestalled her frown. 'But I won't drop you in it, be sure of that. Earlier, you said that you thought Mr Noble could have had problems at home. Have you ever met his wife?'

À couple of times. She dropped in at the office once to pick up some theatre tickets.

Maurice was busy so I took them down. The other time was at their house.'

`You've been there?'

`Yes, I've called in a few times. Once, Ariadne was there.'

`How did Mrs Noble strike you?'

`Formidable. And no one refers to her as Mrs Noble. Its always Ms Tucker. She's one of the youngest Queen's Counsel in England, you know, and one can see why. She has a very quick tongue, and an even quicker mind. She's statuesque, too; long legs, wide shoulders and very blonde hair, beautifully cut — to accommodate the wig, I imagine. All in all, she's quite a package.'

`How did she strike you as a partner for Maurice?'

The woman smiled guiltily. 'Do you remember your A. A. Milne?'

Arrow and McIlhenney turned their eyes from Ms Mirzana to DCI Donaldson. 'Yes,' he said, flushing perceptibly.

`Well, Maurice once told me that they have a cat called Tigger. When he said that, I had an instant picture of Ariadne as Kanga and him as Baby Roo!'

This time, Donaldson joined in the laughter. When it had subsided, Arrow drew his chair an inch or two closer to the table.

'One final thing, Shana,' he said. 'We'd like to talk about the preparations for the trip.'

She shrugged her shoulders. 'They were just like any others. Joseph, our Executive Officer, made all the travel bookings and hotel reservations. And as usual, you handled liaison with the Police at the ultimate destination in Scotland.'

`That's right. Did you hear Joseph make all the bookings?' `Yes, I did. You know the office, Adam. It's open plan.' `Sure, but were you there all the time he was doing it?'

`Yes.'

Ànd were you listening to everything he said?'

She hesitated. 'I wasn't hanging on his every word, but I do know that if he'd broken Security, I'd have picked it up. The flight bookings were made for an unnamed group and the hotel rooms were booked in the name of Mr Noble's party.'

`What about the Red Boxes? Who packed them?'

`There was only one, and I did it.'

Adam paused and looked at her. Without changing tone, he asked, 'What was in it?'

She made a palms-out gesture. 'The usual stuff. Correspondence folders, submissions and Intelligence reports. Joseph gathered all of them together and I packed the box. I locked it, and I gave it to Maurice.'

`When did this happen?'

`Thursday evening. I think I packed the box at about ten past nine. It was another late night.'

`Did Joseph see you pack the box?'

Àfter you locked it and before you gave it to Maurice, was it ever out of your sight?'

`No. Not for a moment.'

And what did Maurice do after he took it from you?'

`He went home, and so did I, in a Government pool car. That was it. Even we finish work sometimes.'

Ànd the box went with you?'

`Yes. On the seat between us.'

`Was there anything in it that he would have had to work on?'

She shook her head. 'No. We'd been through it all.'

Arrow leaned back in his chair, nodding his satisfaction, Donaldson, on cue, stood up.

'Thank you, Ms Mirzana. That'll be all for now.' He made to show her to the door but Arrow beat him to it. As he ushered her out, his hand brushed her hip, close enough for him to drop a note, unseen by the others, into the pocket of her jacket, close enough to whisper, unheard by the others in her ear.

THIRTY-TWO

As always, there was a pile of paper in the in-tray. Skinner attacked it, working mechanically, initialling document after document and passing it across the desk to Maggie Rose. She sat opposite him, taking each item and sorting it by subject.

Abruptly, the DCC tossed his pen on the desk, picked up the phone and dialled a number.

'ACC Elder, please. Mr Skinner here,' he said to the officer who answered the telephone.

He heard her call across the command vehicle; a few seconds later Elder came on line.

`Hi, Jim. Just thought I'd give you a call to see how it's going up there on the moors.'

"Painstaking" just about sums it up. All the bodies have been moved down to Haddington now. Charlie Radcliffe's there, dealing with the relatives as they turn up. We've got a name to nearly all the remains now: one or two of the foreign nationals are unaccounted for, that's all. We're waiting for photos and dental records from Japan and the Czech Republic.'