They walked on, turning on to the bridge and crossing it, until they reached their objective. The DCC led the way inside and walked straight up to the reception desk. ‘Bob Skinner and colleague to see Piers Frame,’ he said, showing his warrant card and motioning to Shannon to do the same.
‘Yes, sir,’ the receptionist replied, picking up a phone. ‘I’ve been advised of your visit. Mr Frame will meet you here and take you through Security.’
They waited for a few minutes, glancing around the big hallway, noting the position of the security cameras, wondering where the others were, those that could not be seen. ‘Bob, DI Shannon.’ Skinner turned to see the immaculately suited deputy director approaching. ‘Let’s go round the gate, rather than through it,’ he said, as they shook hands, nodding to the security officers, using his seniority to bypass the process. ‘I’ve been advised of your needs,’ he said. ‘I can’t do it all here, but I can get it under way. The first step is to take your photographs; so if you’ll follow me. .’
When they were shown into the deputy director’s office ten minutes later they had posed solemnly for identification photographs, and had provided right index-finger prints and retinal images. ‘Those will go to FCO,’ said Frame. ‘The documents will be delivered to your hotel this evening.’
Shannon could contain herself no longer. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ she exclaimed, ‘but what documents?’
‘Diplomatic passports,’ Skinner told her. ‘We’re flying to Washington tomorrow.’ He turned back to the deputy director and handed him a bulky package that he had brought from Thames House. ‘I’d like that to go across in the secure bag to the embassy, to be collected by me when we get there.’
‘That will be done, but may I ask why? I could make similar arrangements for you in the US.’
‘Let’s just say I’m sentimental.’
Frame raised an eyebrow. ‘Strange sentiments. Do you want an escort in DC?’
‘A pick-up from the airport would be good; from then on, definitely no.’
‘I see.’ For the first time since they had met, Shannon thought that the MI6 executive looked a little apprehensive. ‘You’re not going to do anything that we’re going to have to disown, are you?’ he asked.
‘Of course not.’ Skinner laughed. ‘I’m a police officer, remember?’
‘Not like any I’ve ever met. Is there any other help I can give you?’
Skinner nodded. ‘Two things. I’d like you to let slip our destination, very casually, to someone. But before that, I want you to tell me who it was that ordered you to spring Miles Hassett.’
Sixty-nine
‘What’s on your mind?’ Louise McIlhenney asked her husband. ‘You hardly said a word to the kids over dinner: Spence was just bursting to tell you about his computer test but you barely looked in his direction. You couldn’t take your eyes off the television.’
‘How did he get on?’
‘Ask him yourself, once you’ve told me why you’re so quiet.’
‘I’m worrying about you,’ he offered, more of a suggestion than a reply.
‘You’ve got no need to: I’m fine. I see my consultant in a couple of days, but it’s just routine.’
‘Love, we could move your consultant into the spare room and I’ll still worry about you. A first baby in your forties: I won’t sleep easy until he’s keeping you awake!’
She laughed. ‘If I’m awake so will you be. But I’m not buying that as an excuse. I repeat: what’s up?’
He gave up pretence. ‘It’s work stuff,’ he confessed. ‘If you’d been watching telly you’d have heard that I’ve got a double murder on my hands, and the suspect’s absconded with his wife and son. It’s been a full day now and no trace. I reckon he’s made it out of the country.’
‘That’s yours? I thought you were strategic.’
‘That was the idea, but I’ve had a small personnel problem, so I’ve taken this one over. There’s more than that. Alex Skinner’s got a stalker, and she’s giving us less help than she might in tracing him. I think she knows who it is and wants to protect him.’
‘From her father?’
‘From Mario and me: Bob’s away just now, and he’s left us in loco parentis, you might say.’
‘Don’t let Alex hear you say it. She’s a very capable woman; if she says she can deal with something, I’ll bet she can.’
‘Maybe, but we’ve got a bit of extra insurance anyway.’
‘What kind of insurance?’
‘A good neighbour, you might call him. He’s. .’ He broke off as the phone rang, reached across from his chair, and picked it up. ‘The McIlhenney household,’ he said.
‘Boss, it’s Ray Wilding. I’m going to brighten your evening. I’ve just had a call from the Met. Eddie and Soraya Charnwood have been arrested at Heathrow: they were booked on to a flight to Tunis under the names Edgar and Sonya Wood.’
‘And the kid?’
‘He was with them; they’d dyed his hair blond. It was him who gave the game away, believe it or not. The handler at the check-in desk said to him, “And what’s your name, little man?” and he replied, “Edward Charnwood,” just like that. The name on his passport was John. The clerk pressed the panic button and the police arrived, mob-handed.’
‘Brilliant. I was beginning to think that we weren’t allowed any luck. Where are they now?’
‘The parents are being held in custody overnight, and the boy’s in care. All three of them will be flown up to Edinburgh tomorrow morning, with an escort.’
‘Am I looking forward to meeting them, or am I not? Thanks, Ray, you were right: you have made my night.’
Seventy
Many people in the professions find that the first part of December is their busiest time of the year. Although the month is curtailed by the Christmas season, clients’ needs tend to grow more urgent as the year end approaches. As Curle Anthony and Jarvis, Alex Skinner’s law firm, was one of the biggest in Scotland, her workload was correspondingly heavy. It was one minute before eight p.m. when she made it home on Thursday evening. ‘TGIF tomorrow,’ she muttered, as she slid her key into the lock. ‘Only trouble is, I’ll be working bloody Saturday as well.’ She stepped inside and cancelled her alarm, headed straight for the kitchen, where she switched the oven to keep her pizza takeaway warm until she was ready to eat it, then went through to her bedroom, discarding clothes on the way.
Ten minutes later, she was showered and changed into blue jeans, a sweatshirt and sheepskin slippers, when a pleasing thought occurred to her. She still had the best part of a bottle of pressure-sealed cava in the fridge. Soon she was seated at the dining-table, the pizza divided into eight slices to make it easier to eat with fingers, and a flute on a coaster beside it. She was halfway through both when her eye was caught by the blinking red light on her phone, advising her that she had recorded calls waiting to be reviewed.
She picked up plate and glass and moved over to the dumpy little swivel chair that she used when she was working at her desk. ‘What’s here, then?’ she said, making a mental note to stop talking to herself. She was about to push the button when the doorbell rang. She frowned. The entry-phone from the street had a buzzer; the bell meant that there was someone inside, at the front door. She was still frowning as she walked out into the hall, glass in hand.
On any other week, she would have opened the door without thinking, but the memory of her stalker was still fresh, and so she looked through the spy-hole, to see the distorted figure of Griff, her neighbour. Intrigued, she turned the wheel of the Yale.
‘Alex, hi.’ He seemed a little ill at ease: he was big and fair-haired, and managed to remind her of a lumberjack she had once seen in a movie. His accent was southern hemisphere, but she found it hard to place. ‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I, only. .’
‘You’re not interrupting anyone, Griff. What can I do for you?’