I’d only seen photographs of Eden’s boathouse, but it was on my way, surprisingly close to the base, in fact, and so I had to take the opportunity to see it up close. Thanks to Google Earth, I knew exactly where it was, only a few yards off the main road that ran along the loch side.
It was big, no doubt about that. A private black-topped road ran from the gated entrance down to a sliding double door, the only landward entry point. It was set in the west side, secured by a shiny new padlock, a replacement, no doubt, for the one they’d sheared off with a bolt cutter. Dead leaves were piled up against it, a sign that it hadn’t been opened for a while.
Having seen all I wanted, I drove on; a couple of miles down the road, I reached the roundabout at the north gate, the main entrance, where I was expected. The fences were topped with rolls of razor wire, sure, but I’d seen the same at many other secure establishments that I’ve visited during my career. There was no sign that read, ‘Home of your very own nuclear deterrent’, nothing to indicate that the place was different, and yet it was, even to me.
It may have been its incongruity in its beautiful location, or it may simply have had an aura of evil about it. Whatever, it gave me the creeps. With a sudden flash of insight, I knew that if my life had taken another course and given me the power of a prime minister rather than that of a mere chief constable, HM Naval Base Clyde would not exist.
Naturally, given what they were guarding, the MoD police at both gates, inner and outer, were armed. They had been told to expect me; the only credential that I had to present was my driving licence, that got me through each point, although my car was inspected at the second stage and I was given a pat-down search.
Once that was done, the officers at the second gate gave me clear directions to a building at the southern end of the massive base; they called it HMS Neptune. The people there weren’t armed, but they were still pretty straight edged. I was greeted by a petty officer and escorted to a room with a view of the loch, where a uniformed man was waiting. He was so sharp he looked as if he could have cut steel.
‘I’m Tim Boyne,’ he said. ‘Captain Boyne, Lieutenant Gates’s CO. I’m also his friend, and I’m concerned for him. I was asked to keep him on base without explanation, and I’ve done that. I gather you have some sort of connection with the Security Service, Mr Skinner. Perhaps you have the authority to tell me what this is all about.’
‘I have a very loose connection with MI5,’ I advised him. ‘It was the only way I could get in here, to see Lieutenant Gates privately. An easy alternative would have been his arrest as soon as he left this place, but there are circumstances that make that undesirable.’
‘Arrest David?’ Boyne exclaimed. ‘Why?’
‘This man’s your friend,’ I countered. ‘Do you want to keep him in a career?’
‘Of course, but . . .’
‘So do I,’ I said. That was true; it was the real reason, beyond Gates’s personal security, why I’d had him held before he stepped, officially, onshore. I knew what he’d done, and I knew why he’d done it. I knew also what had been done to him, and I reckoned that was punishment enough.
‘I need to have a private meeting with Lieutenant Gates,’ I continued. ‘We’re going to discuss certain matters, and then I’m going to have to give him some very bad news. I don’t want our conversation to be eavesdropped, not even by you, Captain, and I sure as hell don’t want it recorded. Are we clear on that?’
The submariner nodded. ‘We are. Am I ever going to know what this is about?’
‘Only the bad part, I’m afraid,’ I replied. ‘I’d guess he might need to share that with you when we’re done.’
‘Then let’s get on with it. I’ll fetch David and leave you together. There are no hidden microphones in this room, I promise.’
He left, and didn’t return; instead, when the door reopened, David Gates stepped into the room, unaccompanied. I knew it was him; there had been a passport image in the investigation folder. Dark, lean, but shorter than I expected; he couldn’t have been more than five feet six.
‘Mr Skinner?’ he began, tentatively. It occurred to me that he was still uncertain how to play the game, back foot or front, cautiously or assertively. In his shoes, held on the base overnight without reason being offered, I’d have taken the latter approach.
I nodded, ushering him to a couple of seats beside the window.
‘What do I call you?’ he asked. ‘Is it plain Mister, Chief Constable, or what?’ He’d recognised me too; damn that media profile.
‘Anything you like,’ I said. ‘Call me Ishmael.’
He smiled. ‘I’m a submariner, not a whaler. But I did love Moby Dick. What’s this about, Mr Skinner?’’
‘Did you enjoy your lunch?’ I asked.
His face screwed up in bewilderment. ‘What lunch?’
‘Your lunch in the Rocks, in Dunbar, with Jock Hodgson and Hector Mackail.’
‘Fuck!’ he gasped. ‘You really are a spook.’
‘No I’m not,’ I assured him. ‘I’m not even a cop any longer. I know about your lunch because of some good work by real police officers, and I know this through my own instincts and experience. You and Mackail stole the Princess Alison, Eden Higgins’ five-million-pound motor cruiser, from its boathouse just along the road. You did it out of revenge, to get even for your pal Hector being bilked out of his business by Higgins Holdings, and maybe for your wife’s indirect loss for the same reason.’
He tried for an impassive expression as he stared at me, but fell well short.
‘We’re not going to bother with ritual denials, Lieutenant, are we?’ I murmured. ‘No, there would be no point, because I know and you know it’s true.’
‘I think I need a lawyer,’ Gates said.
‘No you don’t,’ I told him, ‘because, believe it or not, I’m on your side.’
He switched back to bewildered mode. ‘Why?’
‘Natural justice,’ I replied, ‘because this is where we get to the bad part. Your friends are dead. You stole the wrong fucking boat, David.’
‘What? How? What are you saying?’
I explained exactly what I was saying, chapter and verse; that the truth had been burned out of Hodgson, then he’d been shot, his killing followed by the casual, non-accidental death of Hector Mackail.
‘If you hadn’t been at sea, you might be dead too,’ I said. ‘Unfortunately, once you’ve heard the rest of the story, you’re going to wish that you were.’
I gave him a minute to gather himself, and then I told him what had happened to his partner and daughter, and who had done it. When I’d finished, he sat there, looking at me as if I was mad. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘terribly, terribly sorry. I hate being the man to give you this news, but I know the whole story, and I thought it was important that you heard it in context.’
Then he started to cry; I wanted to join him, but instead I left him alone with his grief. Captain Boyne was waiting in the corridor outside. I told him what had happened to Zena and Grete, then stayed where I was while he went in to comfort his friend.
After ten minutes, he reappeared. ‘David wants to talk to you,’ he said. ‘I’ll fix up coffee for us, and a brandy for him.’
I went back into the room. Gates was red eyed, but composed. ‘The guy who did it,’ he murmured. ‘You said he’s dead?’
‘Yes. The belief is that Zena’s death wasn’t meant to happen, and that the person who paid Francey to kidnap her silenced him after he screwed up.’
Gates’ eyes were icy. ‘Just as well. It saves me the trouble.’
‘I can’t argue with that,’ I told him. ‘The girl, though, Anna; I’d like to think that she didn’t understand everything that was going on.’
‘I don’t care,’ he retorted. ‘They can all fucking die. You said that Higgins’ man paid for it, and for Hector to be killed.’