‘No. Maman is with Lucille, so I’m free.’
‘Then I’d like you to come into the office, quick as you can.’
Forty-Eight
Lowell Payne had seen the interior of Westminster Abbey several times, but only on television, when it had been bedecked for royal weddings or draped in black for funerals, and packed with celebrants or mourners. As he stepped inside the great church for the first time, he found himself humming ‘Candle in the Wind’ without quite recalling why.
It was the sheer age of the place that took hold of him, the realisation when he read the guide that its origins were as old as England itself, and that the building in which he stood went back eight centuries.
He knew as little of architecture as he did of history, but he appreciated at once that the abbey was not simply a place of worship, but also of celebration, a great theatre created for the crowning of kings and, occasionally, of queens.
In common with most first-time visitors, he paused at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, wondering for a moment whether the occupant’s nearest and dearest had been told secretly of the honour that had been done him. ‘Somebody must have known,’ he whispered as he looked down, drawing an uncomprehending smile and a nod from a Japanese lady tourist by his side.
He moved on and found a memorial stone, commemorating sixteen poets of the First World War, recognising not a single name. Charles Dickens he knew, though, and the Brontë sisters, and Rabbie Burns, and Clement Attlee. Stanley Baldwin was lost on him, but somewhere the name Geoffrey Chaucer rang a bell.
His mobile did not ring, but it vibrated in his pocket. He took it out, feeling as if he was committing a form of sacrilege, until he realised that half of the tourists in the place were using smart-phones as cameras.
He read the screen and took the call. ‘Chief,’ he said, keeping his voice as low as he could, and moving away from the throng of which he had become a part.
‘Where the hell are you?’ Skinner asked. ‘You at the station already?’
‘No, I’ve got time to kill, so I’m doing the tourist thing. Does the name Stanley Baldwin mean anything to you?’
‘Of course. He was a Tory prime minister between the wars, and even less use than most of them. He took a hard line on Mrs Simpson and made the King abdicate, but he didn’t mind Hitler nearly as much. Bloody hell, Lowell, what did you do at school? You’ll be asking me who Attlee was next.’
‘No, I know about him. What can I do for you?’
‘Cancel your return flight. I’d like you to stay down there overnight. Can you do that?’
‘Sure. Has there been a development?’
‘Maybe. I’m not sure. But if something plays out. .’ His voice drifted off with his thoughts for a few seconds. ‘I’ll know in a couple of hours, but meantime you just hang on down there. I’ll be back in touch.’
The conversation ended with as little ceremony as it had begun, leaving Payne staring at his phone. ‘If you say so, Bob,’ he murmured. ‘I wonder if I can put a West End show on expenses.’
Forty-Nine
Skinner smiled as he gazed at the ceiling. Stanley Baldwin, he thought. He guessed where Payne had been when he had reached him. The abbey was one of his favourite stopping-off places when he was in London.
London. For all that the prospect of an independently governed Scotland was looming, the great monolith in the south remained the centre of power. He had decided that he would vote ‘Yes!’ with his heart in the referendum, but he had no illusions over the difficulty his country faced in extricating itself from the British state, if that was what the majority chose.
Scotland might become a nation, fully self-governing, a member of both the European Union and the UN, but it would still share a head of state and an island with its English neighbours and their common problems of security would remain. He knew better than most what that would mean. MI5 would continue to operate north of what would have become a national border.
Even if a future first minister had access to its work and to those of its secrets that affected his interests, he would have a very small voice in decisions that affected its remit and its funding, and no control at all over its activities. Strings would continue to be pulled in secret, by secret people, like his friend Amanda Dennis and her immediate boss, Sir Hubert Lowery, the director of the service.
It would be up to the new Scotland to come to terms with the need to have its own counter-espionage service, to protect itself against potential threats from wherever they came, even if that was Westminster. He had discussed this with Clive Graham, at a meeting so private that he had kept it from Aileen. Whatever their differences on the unification of the police forces, the two men were agreed that if the time came, their country would need its own secret service. There was also an understanding over the man who would head it.
His smile was long gone when the phone sounded; he flicked the switch that put it on speaker. ‘Yes?’
‘Sir,’ a woman replied, ‘it’s PC May in reception. I’m very sorry to bother you, and I wouldn’t normally, but there’s a man here, an odd-looking wee chap, and he’s asking to see you. He won’t give me his name but he says to tell you that he’s been sent by Mr McGuire in Edinburgh. What should I do?’
‘He’s okay,’ Skinner told her. ‘He’s a tradesman I need to solve a practical problem. Take him to the lift, then come up with him to this floor, straight away. I’ll meet you there and take charge of him.’
He hung up and walked from his office. He was waiting by the elevator door when it opened less than two minutes later. A small wiry man with a pinched face and a jailhouse complexion stepped out.
The chief looked towards his escort. ‘Thanks, Constable. I’ll call you to come and collect him when we’re done. By the way,’ he added. ‘I’m expecting another visitor quite soon. Let me know directly he arrives.’
She was nodding as the lift door closed, leaving Skinner alone with his visitor. ‘Well, Johan,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s good to see you, under different circumstances from the usual.’
Johan Ramsey was dressed in baggy jeans and brown jerkin, over a Rangers football top that his host judged, from its design, to be at least three seasons old. He was one of those people whose only expression was furtive. ‘Is this legit?’ he asked.
Skinner laughed. ‘Johan, I’m the chief fucking constable; of course it’s legit. A wee bit unorthodox, that’s all. Come on.’
He led the way to his office, and into his private room, where he pulled aside the door that concealed the safe. ‘That’s the problem,’ he said. ‘My predecessor took the combination to her grave, and I can’t open it. Six digits, I’m told.’
Ramsey took a pair of spectacles with one leg from a pocket in his jerkin, and perched them on the narrow bridge of his nose. He appraised the task for a few seconds, then nodded, and declared, ‘A piece of piss,’ with a degree of pride. ‘If you’ll just step into the other room, sir, Ah’ll have it open in a couple of minutes.’
The chief’s jaw dropped, then he laughed. ‘Jo, if you think I’m leaving you alone in here, you’re daft.’
The little man pouted. ‘Professional secrets, Mr Skinner,’ he protested.
‘My arse! Jo, you’re a professional fucking thief! I don’t know what’s in the bloody thing. Tell you what, I’ll stand behind you, so I can’t see your hands.’ He took five twenty-pound notes from his wallet and waved them before the safe-cracker’s eyes. ‘And there’s these,’ he added.
‘What about ma train fare?’
Skinner snorted, but produced another twenty. ‘There you are: and a couple of pints when you get home. Now get on with it.’
‘Aye, okay.’
He turned and hunched over the safe. The chief saw him reach inside his jacket again then insert a device that could have been a hearing aid in his ear. Everything else was hidden to him; all he could see were small movements of Ramsey’s shoulders.