‘Where’s Paula?’ I asked, idly.
‘On her way to Glasgow; the government car’s just collected her. Why?’
‘Nothing,’ I said briskly. ‘Mario, change things a bit; you go to Welsh’s house, babysit his wife, in case he does come home, but make sure also that she isn’t in touch with him. Get armed officers out there as well, just in case. I’m not far from Livingston just now. I’ll check the Varley place myself. I know the street name, but what’s the number?’
‘Seven.’
‘I’m on my way there. Keep me informed.’
By that time we were in Stevenson Drive: I told Clyde to do a three sixty at the roundabout then to turn right into Calder Road, heading back to the bypass. There are two ways to get to Livingston from where we were at, the long way and the short way. Unless there are tailbacks on the motorway, and I knew that there wouldn’t be on a Saturday, the long way is always quicker, so that’s the one I told him to take. As we approached the town I fiddled with the navigation system and worked out how to programme the address into it.
As bad luck might have had it, Varley’s house was located beyond the Almondvale shopping centre. It’s huge by Scottish standards; I know that because Sarah likes it, and when we were married she dragged me along there on many an occasion, to marshal the kids. The traffic can be intense around it, but fortunately in the early evening it all goes in the other direction, so we had a clear run in. The name of the street was stuck in my head, for there’s one in Gullane of the same name and I know the people who live at its number seven. It’s a cul-de-sac and so, by coincidence, is the Livingston version.
Clyde turned into it and paused, counting down the numbers. I didn’t have to. My body hasn’t quite caught up with my age yet, and my long vision is still very good. At the end of the street a single house faced us. There was a car in its driveway, a Mercedes E class, metallic blue. I couldn’t make out the numbers, not quite, but the letters of its personalised number were FJW.
I pointed towards it. ‘That’s number seven,’ I said, ‘and I think we might just have come up lucky.’
Maggie Steele
I’ve learned a lot over the years that I’ve worked with Bob Skinner, and one of those lessons is never to question him when he’s in full flow.
He’s a friend as well as a boss, but we’ve never socialised much, our interests and circumstances away from the office being entirely different. (For example when it comes to golf, I belong to the ‘good walk spoiled’ brigade.) He’s considerate too. Through all my bad times, and through all my worst times, he’s been rock solid in my support, and even now, although I hold the second most senior rank in the force, he goes out of his way to ensure that I have as much quality time as possible with my wee Stephanie.
For him to phone me on a Saturday afternoon, it had to be serious.
‘Mags,’ he began, as soon as I picked up his call, in the kitchen, ‘how are you for babysitter cover?’ No preliminaries, straight to business; unlike him.
‘I think I’m okay,’ I replied, ‘Bet’s here.’ I looked at my sister, who was by the sink, and raised an eyebrow. She nodded. ‘Yes, I’m clear.’
‘Good, I’ve got a crisis and I need someone with your clout to deal with it.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ he murmured grimly. ‘There’s a charity concert taking place in Glasgow this evening in the Royal Concert Hall at the top of Buchanan Street. It starts at seven thirty, with a VIP reception half an hour before. The star turn’s a pianist called Theo Fabrizzi. I want you to go there and arrest him.’
‘You what?’ I chuckled, instantly incredulous.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘it’s a bit out of the ordinary, but we’ve got a problem; no, a whole raft of them. There is a credible threat against this man; he’s Lebanese, pro-Hezbollah, anti-Israeli and it is highly like that Tel Aviv wants him dead. We believe there’s a hit squad in place ready to take him out. He’s been advised of the danger, but the stupid bastard carries a martyr’s shroud around with him and he’s refusing to back down.’
I knew I was sticking my head in the lion’s mouth, but I had to ask. ‘Bob, surely the obvious solution is for Strathclyde police to cancel the event.’
‘Maggie,’ he snapped; then he stopped. ‘I’m sorry, I keep forgetting; you’re my deputy, you’re supposed to question me. The complicating factor is that this is not a police operation. The first objective is to capture or kill the hit team and that’s in the hands of MI5. I’m not really speaking to you as a cop here. I’m involved. We’ve had a specific instruction from the very top not to advise Strathclyde. That said, I’m not letting anyone offer this man as a target, not even the man himself. We have to take him out of play another way.’
‘How?’
‘As I said, I want you to go to the sheriff and get a warrant for his arrest, then pick up David Mackenzie, if he’s available, if not somebody of equivalent rank, and go through there and arrest him.’
‘Eh?’ I exclaimed. ‘On what charge?’
‘Suspicion of the murder of an Israeli national named Beram Cohen,’ he said. ‘His was the body we found the other night at Mortonhall.’
‘But I thought that was death by natural causes?’
‘The sheriff won’t know that, though. See if you can dig out Sheriff Levy, the one they’re calling Miss Whiplash. If she wants to know the grounds for arrest tell her he’s a known anti-Zionist and that witness statements place him near where the body was found.’
‘Is that true?’
‘The first part is,’ he chuckled. ‘I’ll bet you that’s enough for Ms Levy.’
‘What do we do with him when we’ve arrested him?’
‘Head back to Edinburgh, very slowly. Chances are you won’t be halfway there before I call you to say that the witness has recanted his statement.’
‘Okay.’ I paused. ‘Do you know for sure that the attempt will be in the concert hall?’
‘No,’ he admitted.
‘Well what if they try somewhere else?’ I asked him.
‘Then Fabrizzi will be dead, the career of a certain young MI5 man will be in jeopardy, and I will make it my business to ruin the politician who gave him his orders. Go to it, Mags.’
He was right about Sheriff Levy. I found her at home; all I had to do was mention the words ‘anti-Zionist’, ‘Hezbollah’, and ‘Lebanese’, and her signature was on the warrant.
I’d called Mackenzie before I went to see her. His wife answered and treated me to one of those heavy stage sighs, before calling him. He was all too keen, when I told him that I had a job that required senior officer back-up.
I have to confess that I’ve never liked that guy much. He’s always been a Bob Skinner project. The chief thought he saw a good detective in there behind the flash, when he recruited him from Glasgow to run our drugs squad. I’m sure he also thought that he could knock some of the arrogance out of him, but it took a loss of bottle during an armed operation to do that. Loss of bottle. . followed by taking to the same in a big way.
There were strong grounds for tipping him over the side, but that would have involved the boss admitting he’d been wrong about him, and that is not something he does with either ease or grace. Instead, Mackenzie was given time to prove that he was off the scoosh, then he was given a uniform and a job in the command corridor, as senior officers’ exec. He does it efficiently, I can’t deny that, but I always feel that he has something of the Cassius about him, and I don’t mean Clay.
I was sure I’d told him ‘no uniform’ so I was less than pleased when he stepped out of his front door looking like he was going on duty at the Queen’s Garden Party. I’d have told him to change, but there wasn’t time. Mental note though, Maggie, in future all instructions and requests to him must be repeated, for the avoidance of doubt.