Houseman’s eyebrows formed a single line. ‘Point taken, sir. Any suggestions?’
‘Nothing radical; the obvious mostly. Vary your dress, and when you go casual, don’t wear stuff with big logos or pop stars on the front. Shop in Marks and Spencer rather than Austin Reed. Let your hair grow a bit shaggy. Don’t shave every day. Wear sunglasses when it’s appropriate, the kind that people will remember rather than the person behind them. Choose what you drive carefully.’
He smiled. ‘That day you and I met, back in the last century, I was driving my BMW. That was an accident; normally I’d have been in my battered old Land Rover. If I had, you and your gang wouldn’t have given it a second glance, and I wouldn’t have had to warn you off.’
‘Then whatever caused that accident, I’m grateful for it. You gave me the impetus to get out of there. Otherwise I might not have. I might have stayed a stereotype and wound up in jail.’
‘Nah, I think you’d have made it. You were a smart kid. You’d have worked it out for yourself, eventually.’
‘Maybe.’ He pulled himself a little more upright. ‘However, I’m sure you didn’t call me here to give me fashion advice.’
‘No,’ Skinner agreed, ‘that’s true. I felt I should give you an update on the investigation, since you were in at the death, so to speak.’
‘Thanks, sir. I appreciate that. How’s it going?’
‘It’s not,’ the chief sighed. ‘It’s stalled. All our lines of inquiry have dried up. There is no link between Beram Cohen and the person or organisation who sponsored the hit. We know how it was done, and even if it points in a certain direction, the witnesses are all dead. That’s probably my fault,’ he added. ‘You had no choice but to take down Smit, but if I was a better shot I’d have been able to stop Botha without killing him.’
‘There will be no further inquiries about our part in that?’ Houseman asked.
‘None. Everything is closed.’
Skinner rose to his feet, and his visitor followed suit. He moved towards the door, then stopped. ‘I’m aware,’ he said, ‘that in Toni Field’s time MI5 policy was to keep our counter-terrorism unit at a distance. It’s okay, I’m not asking you to comment. Toni may not even have been aware of it, but I know it was the case. I just want you to know that while I’m here, I won’t tolerate that. You can keep secrets from anyone else, but if they affect my operational area, not from me. Understood?’
Houseman nodded. ‘Understood, sir.’
They walked together to the lift. The chief constable watched the doors close then went back the way he had come, but walked past his own room, stopping instead at the one he had commandeered for Lowell Payne. He knocked on the door then opened it halfway and looked in.
‘Come on along,’ he said.
Marina Deschamps put down her magazine, stood and followed him. ‘This is all very surprising,’ she murmured, with a smile. ‘Even a little mysterious. By the way, did you solve the mystery of the safe?’
He nodded. ‘This very afternoon. I’ve still to check its contents, but if there’s anything personal in there I’ll let you have it. As for the rest, you’re right, but now I can show you what this visit’s all about.’
He sat behind his desk and touched the space bar on his computer keyboard to waken it from sleep.
‘This room has a couple of little bonuses,’ he began. ‘Having worked next door, you’re probably aware that there’s a security system. There’s a wee camera in the corner of the ceiling and when the system is set, anyone who comes in here is automatically filmed, without ever knowing it.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Some evenings I would be last out of here, and so I had to be shown how to set it.’
‘Yes, I imagine so. But did Toni tell you that it’s more than an alarm?’
‘No, she never did. It is? In what way?’
‘It can also be used to record meetings. Clearly, if that happens, all the participants should be made aware of it, but if they weren’t they’d never know.’ He used his mouse to open a program then select a file. He beckoned to her. ‘Come here and take a look at this.’
As she walked round behind him he clicked an icon, to start a video. There was no sound, but the image that she could see was clear and in colour. The chief constable with his back to the camera and facing him a sharply dressed, immaculately groomed man, whose skin tone was almost identical to her own.
‘Ever seen him before?’ Skinner asked, hearing an intake of breath from over his shoulder.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘That’s Don Sturgeon. What’s he doing here?’
Fifty-Two
‘What d’you think of the beer?’ Neil McIlhenney asked.
‘It’s okay,’ Lowell Payne conceded. ‘What’s it called?’
‘Chiswick Bitter. I don’t drink much, not any more, but when I do it’s the one I go for.’
‘That’s because it doesn’t take the top of your head off,’ one of their companions remarked, ‘unlike that ESB stuff. Bloody ferocious that is. I’ve seen tourists staggering out of here after a couple of pints of that stuff. Not like you Jocks, though. You’d drink aviation fuel and never feel it.’
‘I used to,’ the DCS chuckled. ‘Me and my mate. In those days we used to say that English beer was half the strength of a Scotsman’s piss, but since I came down here I’ve developed an occasional taste for it. Travelling to work on the tube has its compensations.’
The other Londoner glanced at him. ‘Where do you live?’
McIlhenney raised an eyebrow. ‘Was that a professional inquiry? I’ve heard about you guys; you’re never off duty.’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Richmond, actually.’
The man had his glass to his lips, he spluttered. ‘You what? On a copper’s pay? Maybe it should have been a professional question.’
‘My wife’s owned the place for years. When we lived in Edinburgh it was rented out. We used her flat in St John’s Wood if we ever came down.’
‘You’re shitting us.’
‘Oh no he’s not,’ Payne laughed. ‘Ask him who his wife is.’
As he spoke, the phone in the pocket of his shirt vibrated against his chest. He knew who the caller would be without looking at it. He excused himself as he took it out, and stepped out into the street.
‘Where are you now?’ Skinner asked.
‘I’m in a pub called the Red Lion, in Whitehall, with Neil McIlhenney and two guys he says are part of the Prime Minister’s protection team. This might be a good night to have a go at him.’
‘Given what happened on Saturday,’ the chief pointed out, ‘that’s not very funny. Have you got a hotel?’
‘Yes, the Met fixed me up with one near Victoria Station.’
‘Good. I want you to meet me tomorrow morning. Victoria will do fine. I’ll be coming up from Gatwick, same flight as you caught today.’
‘I’ll see you there. Where are we going?’
‘I have a meeting, and given where it is and what’s on the agenda, I’m not going in there unaccompanied.’
‘Sounds heavy. Where?’
‘Security Service, Millbank. I’m just off the phone with my friend Amanda Dennis, the deputy director. She’s expecting us.’
Payne gasped. ‘Jesus Christ, boss. Why are we going there? What’s happened?’
‘Nothing that I can slam on the table, point at and say “He did it”, but enough for me to fly some kites and see how they react. I can see a chain of events and facts that lead to a certain hypothesis, but I can’t see anything that resembles a motive. Still, what we’ve got is enough for some cage-rattling. I’m good at that.’
‘I think I know that.’
‘Then you can sit back and learn.’
‘At my age I don’t want to.’
‘You’re a year older than me, Lowell,’ Skinner chuckled, ‘that’s all. One thing I want you to do in preparation for the meeting. When you call Jean, as I’m sure you will, tell her where you’re going. I’ll be doing the same with Sarah. I know, I said that Amanda’s a friend, and she is, but in that place, friendship only goes so far.’