I was halfway through mine when Mario’s phone rang, or rather played some garish Italian-sounding song. I know that ringtones have to be distinctive these days, but there are limits. He took the call, from DI Pye I gathered, then went bug-eyed as he reacted to what he was being told.
‘Guess what?’ he said when he was done. ‘That van along there belongs to Freddy Welsh’s company.’
I was beginning to wonder whether Mr Welsh had been in it when that fucking awful tune sounded again, and I learned that wasn’t the case.
‘DC Montell,’ I heard him say. ‘Tell me why you won’t let me eat my lunch?’
I watched him again as he listened, saw his face change again, the black eyebrows come together until they were almost, but not quite touching. ‘That’s reason enough,’ he murmured. ‘Thanks, Griff.’
He laid the phone on the table and turned to me again. ‘Jock Varley’s been weighed in, just like Cousin Freddy promised. That was him in the van, and, we can assume, his wife. Just as well we didn’t wait for them at their house.’
Bob Skinner
The Home Secretary? Who the hell does she think she is?
That’s what I thought when Clyde told me about her ‘orders’. I’m a police officer and I’d been given information about a crime, or a potential crime, so I had a duty to investigate it, and to advise my colleagues in Strathclyde of what might be about to go down on their patch. In theory, if push came to shove, I could have the Home bloody Secretary arrested, on the basis of what I knew, for obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.
But that’s not the way the real world works, is it?
‘Catch them,’ she’d said; those were her instructions to the security service, and my protege’s career. . I’d started to think of him as that already. . was riding on the outcome. Indeed it was at serious risk, for her ‘catch them’ was easier said than done, but I could see a line of enquiry, a long shot but one that might pay off.
On the other hand, it might not. If it didn’t, although a sniper shot on Fabrizzi somewhere between his hotel and the venue was the likeliest option, we didn’t know enough to rule out anything. That meant that a hit within the Royal Concert Hall was a possibility, even if it was the most difficult to pull off, given that there was bound to be a police presence of sorts.
However, among all the doubt there was one certainty; I wasn’t having any excitement going down in that hall, not with my wife. . however I felt about her. . and Paula Viareggio sitting in front-row seats. That wasn’t going to happen, regardless of what any bloody woman in Westminster had to say about it.
‘Wait here till I get tidied up,’ I told Clyde. ‘We’re going for a drive.’
I left him in my office while I took a quick shower, shaved and changed into my normal summer weekend gear: slacks, a short-sleeved shirt and a light cotton jacket. That took me fifteen minutes; the call I made to Maggie Steele took five more; three for her to believe I was serious, and another two for her to write down my detailed instructions.
Once I was done I went back downstairs. ‘We’ll take your car, I think,’ I said.
‘Where are we going?’ young Houseman asked.
‘Edinburgh,’ I told him. ‘We’re going to see a man I was planning to talk to anyway. Your visit’s made it a little more urgent, that’s all.’
‘Does he know we’re coming?’
‘No, not yet. I want to keep it a nice surprise for him. But don’t worry, Clyde, he’ll be there.’
I gave the directions, back to the A1. All the time I was thinking. ‘A man like Cohen,’ I began as we were cruising towards Prestonpans, ‘on an operation like this one, how would he arm his people?’
‘He could bring the weapons in,’ Houseman replied. ‘But that would be an added risk. If he could source them locally, that’s what he’d do. Mind you, sir, they would have to be specialist. These are not the sort of men who blaze away with sawn-offs.’
That’s the conclusion I’d come to myself.
‘Follow the signs for Glasgow,’ I said, when we got to the slip road that leads to the city bypass.
He frowned. ‘I thought we were heading for Edinburgh.’
‘We are, but it’s quicker this way.’
‘Come on, sir. Where are we going?’
I laughed. ‘We’re going to the place where you’d have wound up if I hadn’t given you that card.’
Just under half an hour later we pulled into the car park of Her Majesty’s Prison, Saughton. ‘You may have to pass through a metal detector when we go in there,’ I warned my driver. ‘Do you understand me?’
He nodded, reached inside his blazer, took an automatic pistol from its holster and locked it in the glove compartment.
I led the way up to the pedestrian entrance. I was ready to show the duty officers my warrant card, but they knew me by sight. I told them that Clyde was with me; that got him in without a pass.
‘What can we do for you, Mr Skinner?’ the senior man asked.
‘My colleague and I need to see the remand prisoner Bass, now.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, sir, but won’t we have to get him a lawyer?’
‘Not this time. Bass has been charged already and he’s had the benefit of legal advice. This will be a private conversation, just the three of us. Understood?’
The officer was a veteran; he nodded. His smile suggested that he was a fan of the old-fashioned way of doing things.
He made a phone call, then escorted us to the remand section of the prison. By the time we got there, our host was waiting for us, in a small musty room with opaque glass in its only window. He was cuffed, seated, and a guard stood by the door, watching him.
‘You can go,’ I told the minder.
The prison officer stood his ground. ‘That’s against. .’ he began.
I looked him in the eye. ‘Now. No worries, on you go. Wait at the end of the corridor.’
As the door closed behind him, Kenny Bass glowered up at us. There was only one chair on the other side of the table; I took it, leaving Clyde to lean against the wall. Neither of us spoke. We hadn’t discussed our approach but I could tell that he had the nous to follow my lead. I waited, he waited, until Bass’s glare faded and was replaced by a look of nervousness.
Inevitably, he broke the silence. ‘Who are you guys?’ he asked.
‘I’m the chief constable,’ I replied. ‘This gentleman is an associate.’
‘What d’you want?’
‘We want you to tell us about Freddy Welsh.’
Bass sighed, and leaned back in his chair. ‘No, again. Like I said to all the other tossers, I don’t know any Freddy Welsh.’
I reached out, grabbed his handcuffs and pulled him towards me, hard. I jerked him right off the chair and his chest slammed into the edge of the table. I leaned forward until our faces were no more than a foot apart.
‘In case you didn’t hear me,’ I murmured, ‘let me repeat; I am the chief constable. Ask yourself this: how many other petty cigarette smugglers merit a personal visit from the top cop? The time has come to stop pissing us about, Kenny. You were a trivial little plonker, but now you’ve acquired significance.’ I twisted the cuffs, contorting his arms and drawing him even closer to me. ‘You will answer this question, or it’s going to get tough for you. Who set up your trip to Spain to pick up those fags? You, or Freddy Welsh?’
I held him, with my eyes unblinking, keeping the pressure on his wrists. He resisted for a few seconds, but no longer. ‘Freddy did!’ he squealed.
‘That’s a good start,’ I told him, loosening my grip a little. ‘What was the deal?’
‘He came to me and he told me he had this cargo that needed bringin’ over from Spain. He gave me a truck and told me to take it to a place in Valencia; he said there would be serious money in it for me. I did what he said; there were guys waiting for me. They told me to leave the truck wi’ them and come back in a couple of hours. I did. They told me I was ready for the road and they gave me papers. They said they were import permissions for what was in the van and that if I was asked, I should show them to the customs guys. That was it; they said I should go, so I did.’