‘Back entrance,’ he whispered. There was no doubt about who was in command: I knew my role and I trusted him.
The drive was covered in small white pebbles, so we stepped as lightly as we could. We walked silently along the side of the house, past the two cars. The ground at the rear, which sloped down towards fields beyond, was landscaped, with a small neat lawn surrounded by rose beds and a classic herbaceous border, all of it beautifully tended. Someone in the Varley family had been a gardener. I had a fleeting thought of the contrast with the street where I’d grown up, where any flower that poked its head above the surface was liable to wither and die of embarrassment, that’s if it wasn’t yanked out by a rough and lawless kid like me.
Mr Skinner held out a hand, signalling me to pause. A sound came from somewhere around the corner, a muffled noise of something being dragged. He stepped out beyond the house, into the open, and I followed, my hand inside my blazer, on my gun. There was nothing else to do.
The villa had been extended at the back; it was a proper two-storey construction, not one of those glass box things that the double-glazing guys, and Kenny Bass, call conservatories. Beneath, as Bass had said, there was what appeared to be a cellar, or storeroom. It was windowless, for its door was a little ajar and we could see that it was lit within, on a summer evening. I checked behind me to make sure that no neighbour could overlook and see us, then drew my pistol.
‘I go first,’ I murmured to the chief, my only show of insubordination.
‘You’ve got the fucking gun,’ he replied, his voice as quiet as mine, ‘so fair enough.’ He was smiling again.
We crossed quickly to the entrance and I stepped through it. The space was not what I expected, a single room; instead it was divided into two. The side into which I’d stepped was full of gardening equipment, nothing more, but on my left there was a second doorway, in which a large, heavyset man was framed. Even as I saw him he was in the act of throwing something at me, a box; it was aimed straight at my head, and travelling. Instinctively I threw my arm up to protect myself; it caught me on the wrist and sent my weapon flying. And then he was on me, knocking me aside with brute strength as he headed for the exit. . into the path of Bob Skinner.
The chief hit him, not with his fist, but with the heel of his hand, right in the middle of the forehead, as hard a blow as I’ve ever seen. It halted Freddy Welsh, big and all as he was, in mid-stride, lifted him off his feet and sent him crashing on to his back, spark out.
‘Jesus!’ I exclaimed. My first thought was that he’d killed the guy.
‘I used to do karate,’ he offered, almost apologetically. ‘I’m out of practice. A few years back, he’d never have got that close to me.’
I didn’t bother to ask him what belt he’d attained; that was obvious.
Stretched out on the cement floor, Welsh proved that he was still alive by making a snorting noise. The chief leaned over him, seized the waistband of his trousers and started to drag him into the other chamber, from which he had come. ‘There’s a tap over there,’ he grunted. ‘Fill a bucket, or anything like it you can find. Then close the outer door and come in here.’
I reclaimed my pistol and did as he had said. As it happened there was a bucket just beside the tap.
‘Close that door too,’ he told me, as I joined him and handed him the bucket. I did. ‘This might get a bit noisy,’ he added, as if in explanation. I looked around me as he spoke. The room was bigger than the other; it wasn’t full, or near it, but there were four crates in the middle of the floor, tea chests, the sort that furniture removers use, and a box with the lid removed.
Welsh was beginning to regain consciousness; Mr Skinner helped him by pouring half of the bucket’s contents over his face, slowly.
‘Moving the stock, are we, Freddy?’ he asked, as the man came to, spluttering and choking.
As he did that I was looking through the chests; they were full of boxes, and most of them bore a manufacturer’s name; I recognised them all, Colt, Smith and Wesson, household names, many of them, albeit in the sort of household that watches combat movies, and some more obscure. ‘Hey,’ I exclaimed, ‘he’s got a Beowulf in here.’
‘Indeed?’ he replied. ‘What’s a Beowulf?’
‘A specialist, high-quality rifle; American.’
‘Is that what you supplied to Smit and Botha?’ the chief asked.
‘Fuck off,’ Welsh snarled, and started to rise, but a foot in the centre of his chest slammed him back down.
‘No, you stay there. You can answer my questions just as easily from the floor. And those are: number one, did Kenny Bass know what was in the box he brought here hidden among the cache of bootleg fags? My guess is no. Our Kenny might be up for a driving job, but he does not have the bottle for being part of the weapons supply chain in an assassination. Number two, what type of weapon did you supply Cohen? Number three, did he describe his operation to you? Number four, did Varley know anything about the operation you were running from underneath his house, or did he know everything about it? Number five, why the hell did you have to kill him, and your cousin? Number six, who was careless enough to leave Jock’s wallet in his pocket, and dumb enough not to realise that even if you can wedge off the engine number, every vehicle can be traced through a unique chassis identifier that’s hidden way out of sight?’ He paused, smiling down at the man on the ground.
‘I’m saying nothing,’ Welsh hissed. ‘I want a lawyer.’
Mr Skinner shook his head. ‘It isn’t that sort of situation, Freddy. It’s the kind that calls for advanced interrogation techniques, of which officially I do not approve, unless we need information quickly about a potential terrorist assassination, in a venue where my wife and the wife of a friend will be present. Now that I’ve explained that, let’s deal with my questions.’
Welsh stared up at him. He was afraid by then, but there was still resistance in him.
The chief held up the bucket. ‘Ever heard of waterboarding?’ he asked.
‘You’re kidding,’ our captive grunted.
‘Yeah, you’re right. We don’t have time for that.’ He put it down and squatted beside him, leaning close. ‘Have you ever seen that Liam Neeson film,’ he murmured, ‘where he plays a CIA man whose daughter’s been kidnapped? There’s a bit in it where old Liam. . if anyone ever makes a movie of my life,’ he said conversationally, ‘I want that man to play me. . where he’s on the phone to the bad guy and he says something along the lines of, “I have a particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a long career.” My young colleague here hasn’t had all that long a career, but he has those skills. If you don’t talk to me, I’m going to leave the room and let him practise them.’
‘I know who you are,’ Welsh hissed. ‘You’re Skinner, the cop. You wouldn’t fucking dare.’
The chief stood up again. ‘Oh no?’ He turned to me. ‘The floor is yours.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, sir; but you really must leave the room. I’ll call you when our friend has something to say.’
‘Okay.’ He did, and closed the door.
As he left, Welsh tried to rise, but I kicked his legs out from under him. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked.
‘That’s irrelevant. All you need to know is that I’m the man with the gun. Are you going to talk to us?’
‘No fucking chance.’
The truth is, I don’t have any advanced interrogation skills. I was planning on making them up as I went along, as once or twice we had to in Iraq. Holding my gun on the man on the floor, I took the Beowulf from the chest with my free hand. ‘Lovely weapon,’ I said, ‘fifty calibre.’ I checked the magazine; it held seven rounds and it was loaded; I slipped my pistol into my pocket then hefted the rifle. ‘If I shot you in the kneecap with this,’ I asked, ‘do you think you’d ever walk properly again? Personally I’d doubt that.’