Skinner laughed, shattering the library quiet of the room and causing heads to turn. ‘How fucking cute can you get?’ he exclaimed. ‘When Dražen anglicised his name, everybody must have assumed that he chose one with the same initials. But that wasn’t what he was doing. He was taking a new identity that would prove useful to him, copied from someone he knew and who could act as his double when necessary. Adrian,’ he pointed at the centre of the screen, ‘I want to know everything about this David Barnes, family background, address, the lot. I want all his secrets, all his weaknesses.’
‘That’s not what I do, Bob.’
‘But can you do it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then help us with this, please. Call Amanda for authorisation if you must, but do it.’
‘It’s all right. I have the clearance. Leave it with me.’
‘Good lad.’ He turned to McGuire, as Adrian resumed his place at the keyboard. ‘We’re getting there, mate.’
‘Could it have been him?’ asked the chief superintendent. ‘Could it have been this guy who went to Wooler?’
‘What about the ring?’
’You said yourself, that’s not conclusive. Maybe Dražen is into wearing gold knuckledusters.’
Skinner frowned, then leaned across the desk, picked up the phone, dialled and waited. ‘Arthur,’ he exclaimed, ‘DCC here. Remember that letterbox in Wooler? The final part of the set-up, looping the wire round the door handle: how difficult was that when you did it?. . Very? That’s what I hoped you’d say. So, in your opinion, could it have been done by someone who was naturally left-handed?. . Hah! Thanks.’
He hung up and turned back to McGuire. ‘I quote the mad Dorward: it would have been impossible to do it left-handed unless you were standing on your head: you’d have had to reach too far through the letterbox.’ He shifted impatiently in his seat, then stood. ‘Get back on to Sammy: see how he’s done, whether he has anything fresh. I’m going upstairs. Adrian, what’s the pass-code to get back in?’
‘That’s classified.’
‘Son, it’s changed every fucking week. I know that.’
The man sighed. ‘Okay. It’s one seven zero eight.’
The DCC left the unit and took the lift back to the top floor, where the director general’s imperious secretary, a holdover from her predecessor’s time, granted him admission to her office. ‘Do you have what you need?’ Dennis asked.
’Most of it. I’m on the way to knowing how Dražen killed Ballester and Stevie, and why. It wasn’t just about revenge: he also wiped out any information he might have had on Boras’s operation.’
‘Knowing is one thing, Bob. Proving. .’
‘Teach your granddad, love,’ he said, and winked. ‘I’ll bet you have this conversation wiped from the tape. To prove it, I need to lift someone; I could use the Met to do it, but that would get messy. I’d need to take him to one of their stations, but that would be on the record and all sorts of questions would be asked.’
She laughed. ‘You are a master of manipulation,’ she exclaimed. ‘What’s the man’s name?’
‘David Barnes.’
‘David. . Isn’t that. .?’
’Dražen’s alias; that’s right. The other David is Boras’s driver. It’s a nice arrangement, I’d guess, if Dražen ever needs to be in two places at once. Wherever Davor is, his driver will be, and since he never seems to stray far from his inner sanctum in the City, you should be able to pick him up from the garage below it. He’ll probably be polishing the boss’s Roller.’
‘Okay. There’s a house we use in Clapton; you can interrogate him there, but please leave him in one piece.’
‘We’ll have to; with a bit of luck his boss will never know he’s been gone.’
‘I’ll get it under way.’ She smiled as he rose to leave. ‘About the tape: one thing that people in intelligence learned from Richard Nixon was to be sure you have an off switch.’
Skinner was still smiling as he made his way back to Adrian’s desk. ‘There you are,’ said the operative, holding out a two-page document. ‘David Barnes, his life and loves. Memorise it, then shred it, please. It can’t leave the building.’
‘I know. Thanks.’ He turned to McGuire. ‘Any more from Sammy?
‘Well, he says that Ray Wilding’s a happy boy: he’s just arrived back from the airport with Becky Stallings. He tells me she’s looking pretty pleased with herself too.’
‘Which flight did she catch?’
‘The first one. It’s taken them two and a half hours to get back to the office.’
‘I don’t want to know. Apart from that?’
‘He’s found an airfield. It’s just west of the A1 north of Newcastle; it’s a wartime RAF place that reverted to the farm from which it was requisitioned. It was kept in operational condition and the present owner runs it commercially. It’s called Walkdean.’
‘How far from Wooler?’
‘Forty-five minutes by car, Sammy says.’
‘Would the Beechcraft be able to land there?’
‘Easy.’
‘But how the hell would he get a car? They didn’t have time to get one there, and a hire vehicle would be traceable.’ Skinner scratched his chin. ‘You know, Mario,’ he murmured, ‘I reckon it’s time to let our friends in the north in on a bit of what’s happening.’
Seventy-seven
Deputy Chief Constable Les Cairns smiled as the Land Rover edged along the narrow road. He was a countryman at heart, and so he snapped up any excuse to escape from the city, and from his office in Ponteland.
He liked a bit of mystery too. Much earlier in his police career, he had been a detective constable in Special Branch, and he had enjoyed the cachet that the posting gave him among his professional peers. Since attaining command rank, he had been confined to the office; he was envious of people like Bob Skinner, mavericks who had the balls to write their own job descriptions once they had made it to the heights.
Actually, when he thought about it, there was only one Bob Skinner. Even in England he was legendary, although in some eyes notorious, for his ability to delegate and yet still manage to stay involved. Cairns had seen the man for himself a few days before, and he had to admit, he had an air about him, a compelling friendliness, yet with menace close to the surface.
His call had come entirely out of the blue, and it had been intriguing. His request was simple, investigate and report, to be carried out by someone with Special Branch clearance, with nothing on paper. The temptation had been too much to resist and, anyway, the place was not all that far from HQ. He had called up his favourite car and driver, harbouring a strong feeling that Skinner had guessed he would.
He gazed ahead until, around a slow right curve, he saw an old finger-pointing road sign that read ‘Walkdean’. ‘That’s us,’ he murmured.
His driver turned off the road and into a track that led through a copse and opened out into flat countryside. Around half a mile away, Cairns could see a line of grey wooden huts, two tall hangars and what appeared to be a parking area for cars and microlight aircraft. Beyond, rising above them all, there was a control tower, and to the right, on the other side of the landing strip, two squat round tanks, which he assumed contained aviation fuel. ‘Find the office,’ he instructed.
It was easy enough. As they drew closer he saw a sign fixed to the side of the first hut: ‘Walkdean Airfield. Leisure flying and general aviation. Enquire within.’ They pulled up at the door, and the deputy chief stepped out, buttoning the tweed jacket that he had picked up on the way out to disguise what was clearly a uniform shirt.
Two steps led up to a door marked ‘office’. He opened it and went inside.
‘Morning,’ a woman greeted him brightly. ‘Welcome to Walkdean. I’m Chloë Ritter, proprietor. How can I help you?’
‘Les Cairns,’ he said, shaking her hand and finding her grip as strong as his. ‘Northumbria Constabulary.’