Skinner resumed his seat, facing the prisoner. ‘I knew all that before I went to America, and I had Piers Frame let you in on my plans. So you sent Miles to kill Titus. . but I warned him through Merle Gower that he would be coming. From the moment I left the PM’s room in the House of Commons you’ve all been under surveillance. Once I left Armstead with his video confession in the bag, I made a phone call and you were pulled in. The Americans are taking care of Titus, by the way: they set a team from the Dover air base on my signal and took him, and Miles Hassett’s body, away in a black van.’
He leaned across the table again, until the spymaster flinched. ‘You chose me to run your so-called investigation, Evelyn, because you thought you could control me. A soldier died in your plot after all, and you had Defence Intelligence to placate, so within your own community you had to be seen to do something. You planned to silence Sewell, and have Miles implicate him and name him as Bassam’s controller. Everything would have been closed off, and I’d have written a classic whitewash report for you to show to MoD and to take to the PM when you chose, to cover your arse.’
He looked at Shannon. ‘That’s what it was all about, Dottie, except for the part I’ve missed out: if Hassett had killed Armstead, he’d have been waiting for me to arrive, probably armed with part of the small arsenal that Titus kept in his cellar. That’s why I had to leave you in Washington.’ He gave a small involuntary shudder.
‘The irony of it all, Inspector, is that it wouldn’t have come to that, the whole thing would have worked, if only Miles hadn’t embroidered his carefully planned story by saying that he met Sewell on the Bulrush. Rudy was never there: it was Arrow he met, Arrow who gave him Bassam’s location, courtesy of his stepfather. I’d never have gone looking for a houseboat but for that slip. If I hadn’t, I’d never have found out who Moses Archer was, and I’d never have been led to Armstead, Ormond Hassett, and ultimately to the arch-traitor across the table there.’
‘And to what conclusion?’ Grey asked quietly. ‘As you said of Sewell and Miles at the beginning of all this, they can hardly try Ormond and me for all this, and we’re too important simply to disappear.’
‘Wrong,’ said Amanda Dennis, as she took a small-calibre pistol from the pocket of her grey jacket and shot him between the eyes.
Eighty-nine
Alex was at her desk, thinking about heading back to Gullane, when the phone rang. She had spent Sunday night there, and still did not feel quite ready to return to her flat. She had spent the morning giving Mario and Sammy Pye a formal statement, describing every stage and detail of her relationship with Willis Gannett. She had found parts of it embarrassing, but there had been the consolation that she was speaking to people she knew and could trust. Once she was finished, she had covered her bruises from the dressing-gown sash with cosmetic and had gone back to the office, blaming her brief absence on a sore throat, with the voice to back it up. No one related it to the stories in every Scottish newspaper about the arrest in Edinburgh of a suspected serial killer; only Mitch Laidlaw knew the truth and his discretion was absolute.
Work was the best therapy she knew. She was aware that it would not keep the horror at bay for ever, but the longer it did, the better she would be prepared to handle it. The worst thing for her was her father’s absence. He had always been there for her; she had never experienced missing him, and she found it a strange and disturbing experience.
She picked up the phone, and gave her standard office answer. ‘Hello, this is Alex.’
‘Hi.’ She recognised the voice at once: it was only a few days since she had heard it, recorded, on the phone. ‘It’s Raymond. I was wondering how you are?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. What can I do for you?’
‘I’d like to see you. Not for long, just a quick drink.’
‘When?’
‘Now, if you like: I’m downstairs in Saltire Court.’
As she thought about it, she realised that she was feeling a little guilty. She had suspected Raymond Weston; more than that, she had been ready to believe his guilt without question, something of which she was ashamed, personally and professionally. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’m finishing a couple of things here: go across to the Shakespeare and I’ll join you in ten minutes.’
She took some time over her makeup and her hair; it had been a few years since she had seen him and it was important to her that she made the right impression. She did not want to appear vulnerable; she did not want to appear weak; she did not want to appear a victim.
The bar was quiet when she stepped inside; she spotted him at once, sitting at a table facing the door, with a second chair pulled up, and a pint of lager and a tall glass of what looked like orange juice waiting. He stood as she approached, offering her a smile, but no handshake. She was shocked when she saw him, and hoped that it did not show on her face. Raymond was at least four years younger than her: when she had met him, and enjoyed their brief fling, he had been a teenager. The man she was looking at could have passed for thirty: he was pale, gaunt, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He was well dressed and well groomed, but still he looked to her like someone who had packed too many heartbeats into too short a time.
‘Hello,’ she said, as she sat, then pointed to the tall glass. ‘Is this for me?’
‘Yes. I thought you’d probably be driving so I got you an OJ. You can have something stronger if you like.’
‘No, that’s fine. A perfect choice in fact. So, how are you?’
‘I’m okay, thanks, and you’re wondering why I’ve turned up like this.’
‘True.’
‘Well, first, I want to apologise for that message I left on your phone on Friday. It was inconsiderate, it was crude, and it was unforgivable. I’m sorry.’
‘Apology accepted. In turn, please accept mine for suspecting you in the first place.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘So what you said about me wasn’t true?’
A flash of the younger Raymond shone in his eyes as he grinned. ‘Oh, that’s still true,’ he exclaimed. ‘It shouldn’t have been told to an answering-machine; that was all.’
‘Well, thank you, sir. We’re not going back there, but for the record you were more than adequate yourself.’
‘I’ll cherish the compliment. The other thing I wanted to ask is, are you all right?’
There was something in the way he put his question that made her hand go to the scarf around her neck to check that it was covering the marks: they had darkened, and foundation cream no longer did the job. ‘I’m fine,’ she replied. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘I went to see you on Saturday morning, Alex. I was going to drop by and apologise then. I admit I was pissed off at first that you should suspect me, but when I thought longer about it, I could see why you might have. I could see as well what sort of an effect calls like that can have on a person. So I thought I’d just turn up at your place with a box of chocolates and make amends. I was nearly there when this police car went crashing past, blues and twos, pulled up at your door, then hit the buzzer to get inside. I stood there for a while at the end of the street, watching, until they brought this bloke out, in handcuffs and with his face all bloody, chucked him in the back and drove him away. Then more cars arrived, and all I could think of was you and those fucking phone calls. Finally you came out with another guy, not looking your best, I have to say, and he drove you away. I did my head in all day, wondering, and then I read in yesterday’s Express about the guy they’ve arrested, the serial killer from England.’ His eyes widened a little. ‘Was that him?’