Thursday legends - Skinner 10 (25 page)

'Mr
Smith had a contact in the army, in military intelligence. He'd told him what he
was going to do; he didn't care whether he killed Scotland or not. He wanted
...
and the army guy wanted
...
a scare thrown into the bloke so bad
that word would get to the guys he associated with in Ireland. He told me that
if it had gone wrong, his army pal would have buried Scotland up there, and
that's what I told Mr McGuire. But thinking back on it, I'm not sure that he
didn't palm the real bullets after he showed them to Scotland and load up with
blanks, just in case.

'Whatever
he did, Lawrence Scotland believed there were real bullets in the gun. His
bowels emptied on him the second time he pulled the trigger.'

The
DCC frowned. 'Funny. Alec Smith's bowels were emptied when he died.' He made a
cutting movement across his lower abdomen. 'Only they were emptied right
out.'Tommy Gavigan gasped and shuddered.

'So
what about you, mister?' Skinner murmured. 'Let me tell you something. I have a
friend in Military Intelligence; not the pal Smith had
...
if he ever existed. He really does have the power to bury you
up on the Pentlands or something like that. Normally you'd be too small for him
to bother with, but he owes me a couple of favours, so
...'
He paused, watching Gavigan turn even paler.

'For
now, though, you can have your early retirement, Tommy. I don't want any
scandal. You can have your full pension.' He locked on the stare again. 'But if
ever I find out that you've breathed a word, a single word about any of this
outside this room, or if ever I find out that you've been holding something
back from us
...

'You
think about me, that's all. Remember me, because I won't forget you. And
remember my army friend, and the favours he owes me. You look me in the eye and
you know I'm not kidding.'

He
put both palms on the table and pushed himself to his feet. 'Now get out of
here. You're stinking the place out. Basement exit please; I'm not having you
mixing with my people again, not even on the way out.'

Gavigan
almost ran to the door; as he was about to open it, Skinner called to him.
'Hey, Tommy. You just remember now; we'll be watching you. You're not an SB
officer any more, you're a target.'

33

Martin
read the report as carefully as all the others even though it was the last of
the pile. It had been submitted by Detective Superintendent John McGrigor, CID
Commander in the big, sprawling division which stretched into the hilly Borders
country, summarising an investigation into stock thefts from sheep farmers in
his area.

McGrigor
was a big, bluff, ex-lock forward, who respected the young Head of CID as much
for his success on the rugby field as for his achievements as a detective
...
maybe more, Martin thought on occasion.

The
report was solid and workmanlike too, ending with the arrest of a gang of
rustlers from South Shields and their initial appearance in the Sheriff Court.
'Sheep-stealers in Selkirk,' Martin chuckled. 'Right up big John's street.'

He
had just initialled the report and placed it in his out-tray when his telephone
rang. It was Sammy Pye. 'Sir, I've got Spike Thomson, the disc jockey, on for
you.'

He
frowned, surprised. 'Put him through.'

There
was music in the background as the presenter came on line. 'Hello, Andy,' he
began in a bright, friendly tone. 'Listen, I'm on air so this can't take long.
A thought occurred to me this morning. Remember I invited you to sit in on the
show sometime, to see how we do it?'

'Sure.'

'How
would you like to come in on Monday as a guest,
a
bit of on-air chat? I promise I won't ask you anything about current investigations,
or stuff you don't want to talk about. Just about police work in general. Good
PR for the force.'

Martin's
first instinct was to say, 'No, thank you', but he gave the offer a second
thought. 'Yes, why not,' he replied. 'I'll have to clear it with Bob, but in
principle, okay.'

'I'm
seeing Bob tonight,' said Thomson, 'at the football. I'll mention it to him.
Cheers, got to go, CD's finishing.'

Martin
grinned as he hung up, until his direct line rang, a few seconds later.

'Afternoon,
sir,' said Mario McGuire. 'I've had young Alice check with Guardian Security on
Lawrence Scotland, like you asked. He works out of their South Gyle depot, but
he's been on the sick all week. He called in on Monday with a stomach bug.
'He's at home. He lives in a flat up in Gilmerton, near the Drum: number seven
Falcon Street.'

'How
do we know he's actually there?'

'His
office called him this morning,' McGuire replied. 'Just to see how he was
...
and to check that he was there. He was
in.'

'What
do they think of him as an employee?'

'Quiet
and reliable, was how they described him. If they only knew, eh? I wonder why
Alec Smith let him stay on at Guardian after he arrived there.'

'The
Hoover Principle again, I guess.'

'Eh?'

'Have
them where you can see them. Right,' Martin glanced at his watch: four-forty.
'I'll pick him up now.'

'Look,
sir, I could do that,' the Inspector said. 'My feet are clear of North Berwick
now; I could lift Scotland.'

'Nan.
I said I would do it and I will. I want a look at this guy, anyway; you don't
get to meet too many retired terrorist hit-men in the course of a working day.'

He
put down the phone and walked into his outer office and called to DC Pye.
'Sammy, have we still got that Mondeo in the car park?'

'Yes,
sir. I've got the keys.'

'Let's
have them then.'

The
Detective Constable looked surprised. 'D'you not want me to come?'

'I'd
rather you got those performance-appraisal forms out to Divisions. I'll see to
Scotland on my own. I don't think for a minute that he killed Smith. If he was
going to do that he'd have done it before now
...
and he'd have shot him too, I'll bet.

'I
might not even bring him in, I just want to talk to him; to find out what he
knew about Alec, as much as anything else.' He picked up the car keys and
walked out of the office.

The
white Mondeo was in the Fettes park, where Pye had parked it the night before
after bringing it back from St Leonard's. He drove out into the late afternoon
traffic.

The
drive to Gilmerton was tedious at the best of times. He switched on the radio,
and selected Forth AM.
'...
and this
is for Margot,' said Spike Thomson. 'I know it's a few days late, but it only
came up on our play-list today.' His voice faded and the sound of Stevie Wonder
singing, 'Happy Birthday' filled the car. Andy grinned to himself as he thought
of his Monday appearance.

Falcon
Street was hard to find. It was a cul-de-sac and it only had a few houses,
built in two small terraces looking across an open field on the other side.
Number seven was one from the end. He parked, stepped out, and walked over to
it and rang the bell.

He
was about to ring again, when a thin man of medium height opened the door.

'Lawrence
Scotland?' he asked. 'I'm Detective Chief Superintendent Martin, I'd like a
chat.'

'Yes,'
the man replied, quietly, 'I've been expecting you, or someone like you.' He
took his right hand from behind his back. It was holding a large pistol, which
he pointed at the detective's stomach. 'You'd better come in.'

34

Mcllhenney
trapped the ball, fired a pass wide to Grant Rock and moved forward into
position to take the return. He felt as fit as in the playing days of his
twenties and, maybe, even fitter since he trained harder now than then, and
drank less.

Grock's
one-two pass was tantalisingly short; Bob Skinner had a fifty-fifty chance of
getting there first. No bailing out now: quicken the stride, right foot in,
sole-first, big Bob off balance for once, spinning off to the side, clear shot
at goal, on weaker foot - so what - drive! Rocket, top-left-hand corner, Spike
Thomson in goal, nowhere. Stick that on your turntable, sunshine.

He
turned and flashed a quick thumbs-up to Rock, acknowledging the pass, perfect
now that it had worked. 'Lucky bastard,' Skinner grunted as he ran past him,
back into his own half. 'Used to be,' he replied.

And
then the door opened, signalling the arrival of the nine o'clock crowd; another
gathering of the Legends was over. As usual everyone knew which side had won,
although no-one had any idea of the final score.

Upstairs
they showered, dressed and paid their money for the hall, then Mcllhenney drove
Skinner, David McPhail and Benny Crossley, whom he had collected in Gullane on
the way through, back to the Golf Hotel in Dirleton Avenue, their post-match
pub. 'I think I'll arrange to be on your side next week, young man,' said
Skinner, as he drove up the slope into
the
small car park. 'You're coming on to something of a game; four don't usually
beat five.'

'Yes,'
muttered McPhail. 'Bloody Diddler not turning up.'

'Why
do they call him the Diddler, anyway?' Mcllhenney asked, as they stepped into
the hotel's small bar.

Skinner
laughed. 'That's down to Grant Rock; the man of a thousand nicknames. When he
was younger Howard fancied himself as a great ladies' man. He was always going
on about diddling this one, diddling that one. One night in the middle of the
game, he's got the ball, dwelling on it as usual, and Grock shouts across to
him, 'For fuck's sake, Diddler, over here!'

'We
all fell about laughing and the name stuck. He's never been called anything
else from then on. Even Edith, his wife, calls him Diddler now, although she
thinks the name refers to his alleged skills with the ball, rather than with
his cock.'

Skinner
picked up the pint of lager which Lesley, the barmaid, had poured for him
unasked, and eased his way into a window seat, well away from the bar so that
it would not be he who went up for the next round. Spike Thomson sat opposite
him, then leaned across the table. 'Bob,' he said, quietly. 'I was speaking to
Andy Martin today; met him at a disastrous party last weekend. I put forward
the idea that he might come on the show next Monday as a guest. I've got more
scope for chat on this new AM format, and I want to have more people in.

'I
promised him that I'd steer clear of current stuff and just talk about the
generality of his work. He said he'd do it if it was okay with you.'

The
DCC took a bite from his pint, and shrugged. 'Sure, I don't mind. You never
bloody invite me, though,' he added, with a grin.

'I
have done and you know it,' the presenter protested. 'You've always turned me
down.'

'Aye,
well. More Andy's style than mine. Even if you started playing games on air
you'd never wind him up; stick an awkward question at me and I'm liable to put
you off air
...
not that you would do
that, of course!'

'I
promise, I promise.'

'Make
way, lads, make way,' came a call from above, as Neil Mcllhenney leaned over
the table looking for clear space for a tray, on which he was carrying a bottle
of port and nine glasses.

'What's
this?' asked Mitchell Laidlaw, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the W&J
Graham's vintage. 'You had a birthday two months ago, Neil.'

The
big policeman's only reply was a quiet smile.

'This
is something else,' said Skinner, as his exec filled the glasses. 'As of this
week, Detective Sergeant Mcllhenney is now Detective Inspector Mcllhenney. From
now on, you lot'll be getting kicked by two line commanders, not just one.'

'Congratulations,
Inspector,' Andrew John called out, triggering of a chorus of congratulation as
he raised his glass in a toast. 'Can I sell you an ISA?'

'Not
a chance,' the new inspector replied. 'But the Diddler's been trying to flog me
one that his firm operates.'

'You
won't go wrong there,' the banker conceded. 'The wee fella might be an
eccentric on the football field, and a grade one chromium-plated gossip, but
he's one shit-hot investment manager.'