Suddenly and surprisingly, McCartney’s big brutish face broke into a smile. ‘Them, you mean, not him.’
‘Eh?’
‘Same deal right? Ah plead to those two charges and that’s it?’
The detective nodded.
‘The Indico job. Twenty-something years ago. Ah was on that one. Tony Manson called me in and said that this lad had come to him with a proposition, looking for money and muscle to back it. Tony had agreed, but on condition that the lad was involved in the action himself.’
Martin sat back in his chair. Beside him, Neil McIlhenney leaned forward, expectantly. ‘So,’ asked the Chief Superintendent, quietly, ‘who was on the team?’
‘There was five of us on it. Me, Barney Cogan, Dougie Terry, Jackie Charles and Carole Charles.’
The two policemen stared at him. ‘Carole?’ said McIlhenney, incredulous.
McCartney nodded. ‘Aye. Ah’ll swear to it. She drove the getaway car. Dougie Terry drove the other one, that we used tae block in the van. Jackie didn’t want her on the team, but she didn’t give him a choice. As far as I could see she never gave him a choice about anything. It was okay in the end, though. She was a great driver.’
‘One of the security guards was shot,’ said Martin. ‘Who did that?’
‘Jackie did it. Dougie Terry got careless, and turned his back. The bloke was about to brain him with a pickaxe handle, but Jackie blew his leg off. That’s why the pair of them are so close. It all goes back to that.
‘Jackie Charles shot that guard, and saved Dougie Terry’s life.’
64
‘We’ve got him, Bob, by the balls. McCartney and Kirkbride have each given us independent statements, taken separately, implicating Douglas Terry in the Birmingham murders, and the Lee attack.’
‘Brilliant, Andy. Let’s hear the bastard joke his way out of this one.’ Skinner smiled at his friend’s delight, evident even over the telephone, yet he sensed that there was something else.
‘Ah but there’s more,’ said Martin, confirming his feeling. In the background Skinner could hear the distinctive sound of Neil McIlhenney’s laughter. ‘He’s given us the key to Jackie Charles’ cell as well. All we have to do is force Dougie Terry to turn it.’
Quickly, he related McCartney’s account of the Indico robbery. When it was over, Skinner sat silent for a while.
‘I’ve waited twenty-three years for that,’ he said, at last. ‘Listen, no-one knows we’ve got McCartney and Kirkbride locked up, do they?’
‘No, we’ve had a news blackout over the whole thing. So have the Northumbrians, at our request.’
‘That’s excellent. In that case you can choose your moment. You could pick Terry up now, if you like.’
‘What would you do?’
‘Guess.’
Martin scratched his chin and smiled. ‘I reckon you’d knock up the Fiscal and get a formal arrest warrant,’ he said. ‘Then you’d pay a call on our funny friend first thing tomorrow morning, at his home, and invite him to give us a special performance.’
‘Spot on,’ said Skinner. ‘Where does he live? Torphichen, isn’t it? Say around seven thirty. Late enough for him to have had his last breakfast as a free man. Light enough for our people to see. Still early enough for there not to be too many neighbours around to get in the way. That’s what I’d do.’
‘Good enough for me,’ said Martin. ‘Let’s have him, then, and let’s see how he reacts when he finds himself looking at thirty years.’
‘Don’t let’s build our hopes too high, Andy. I spoke to a man today who’d happily have done life for his friend. . in a sense he is. If Terry doesn’t talk, we may get him, but we don’t get Charles.’
‘He will, though; I feel it in my bones. Terry isn’t in the same league as his gaffer. Do you want to be there?’
‘No, son. It’s your show. You don’t need me around. Take no chances though. When you pick him up, go in armed. We’re lifting him for ordering three murders, after all.
‘Let me know as soon as you’ve got him.’ He smiled. ‘And if you need me to come into the interview and terrify him, just ask! I’d enjoy that. Good luck.’
He hung up and looked at his watch. It was five minutes past seven, and he was alone in the Command Suite. He picked up the phone again and dialled the number of the mobile which had been issued that morning to Pam Masters.
‘Yes?’ She sounded hesitant.
‘It’s okay,’ he said, ‘it’s me. Where are you?’
‘Still at Companies House,’ she said. ‘No luck so far though, sir.’
‘Got much still to do?’
‘There are a few things I can try.’
‘In that case, I’ll come up and help you.’
Outside, the snow which had been teasing the city all day had finally made up its mind to get serious. The BMW snaked sideways momentarily as he eased it down the white-blanketed driveway, but his reaction, and the car’s own systems, straightened it up at once. He chose the least hilly route to Companies House, relocated from George Street to plush new premises in Saltire Court, a showpiece office building in Castle Terrace. By the time he parked before its high-pillared entrance, sat in the shadow of the Castle Rock’s great bulk, the car’s clock showed 7.29.
Saltire Court is home to major law firms, accountancy practices, fund managers and others as well as to the Scottish Register of Companies, and so the building was ablaze with light as he walked into the first of its two atriums, and showed his warrant card to the doorkeeper. As he reached the lifts, one of them slid open and a round-faced, blue-suited man stepped out. ‘Hello, Neil,’ said Skinner, recognising a lawyer friend from East Lothian. ‘Knocking off early tonight?’
‘You’re not, I see,’ said the man with a smile. ‘You don’t need our services, do you?’
‘I hope not,’ said the policeman, suddenly grim, ‘but if it turns out that I do, I’ll give you a shout. Cheers for now, though. Watch yourself on the way home. The roads are pretty bad.’
As the lawyer looked after him, frowning, puzzled by his off-the-cuff remark, he strode off in search of his assistant.
He found her in a glass-walled office, accompanied by a registrar. He could tell at a glance that the man was clearly not enjoying his enforced overtime.
‘Hello, boss,’ said Pamela. ‘Just in time for the final act, I fear.’ She shifted in her seat, adjusting the skirt of her tight-fitting two-piece grey outfit. ‘I think I’ve run out of ideas. Mr Shaw and I have covered every company registered in the last twenty-five years and still trading. There’s nothing with John Jackson Charles, Carole Charles or Douglas Terry listed as a director that we didn’t know about before.
‘We’ve looked for every combination of those names that we could think of. Carole Jackson, Charles Jackson, Terry Douglas, the lot; no joy. Except that Terry Douglas is a director of a toffee manufacturer in Inverness, and Charles Jackson is on the board of a computer firm in Glasgow. I’m coming to the conclusion that this is one very wild goose.’
Skinner sat down beside her. ‘Sounds like it.’ He scratched his chin, racking his brain. Suddenly his eyebrows rose. ‘There is one other outside possibility,’ he said. ‘Try looking for the surname Huish, Mr Shaw. Spelled H-U-I-S-H. Carole Huish.’
The man sighed with undisguised impatience, adjusted his spectacles and bent over a computer printout, his untidy black hair dropping flakes of dandruff on the pages as he searched through its leaves.
At last he looked up. ‘There’s no Carole Huish listed,’ he said. ‘Only one person with that surname, in fact. Jacqueline Huish, sole director of a company named Thirty-First Nominees, registered three years ago, registered office, 31a Rankeillor Street.’
‘Pull its records for us, Mr Shaw, then we can all go home.’
The man disappeared, unsmiling. ‘Heavy going, isn’t he,’ said Skinner, quietly, as he left.