Skinner's good humour disappeared as he described his altercation with the Secretary of State. 'I hate these boys when they decide to get brave, Andy. It's always some other bastard that winds up bleeding.'
'Let's hope not this time.'
'Yeah. Anyway, forget that for the moment and let's look at what's in here. It's my report from Five.'
He drew up a chair and sat down, facing Martin across the desk.
Slitting open the white envelope, he drew out its contents, three sheets of A4 folded top to bottom. He scanned the first sheet, and glanced across at Martin.
'This says they've been through all of the most sensitive running files on politicians, and found only one that fits the bill.'
He put the covering letter to one side and studied the two-page report.
'We know about this guy all right. Grant Forrest Macdainnid.
Labour MP for Glasgow Marymount. He used to be a right wee hoodlum when he was a youngster. Ran a gang and did time in Barlinnie Young Offenders, till he got into politics and started doing people over legally. He's on the ultra-nationalist wing of the People's Party. Advocates direct action to secure Home Rule. But there's a twist to him: he's a monarchist. Wants to set up a Scottish Parliament with a head of state on Scandinavian lines you know, what they call a minimalist monarch. A king with a day job. He's even got a candidate picked out: a descendant of the Stuarts. Our potential king is an Italian who barely speaks English, but that's nae bother to our Mr Macdainnid. The general view of him is that he's just a nutter, but worth watching nonetheless. He's got the sort of humourless zeal in his eye that alarms the likes of you and me.'
'Mm. I know what you mean,' said Martin. 'I've seen him on telly. Have we been paying him any special attention?'
'Up here? The Glasgow Special Branch keeps a tap on his phone. It's never picked up anything more sinister than an order for a carry-out Chinese. That probably means that he expects to be tapped. He makes a load of noise in public, but in private 94 well the transcripts read like he's a real A-l bore. That's what he's like up here.' Skinner tapped the report on the desk. 'According to this, though, he comes out of the closet when he's in London. Five were giving him a sort of general look-over a few weeks back.
They tailed him to an Irish club in Camden Town. It seems they walked into a sort of terrorist jamboree. All shapes and sizes:
Irish, Basques, neo-Nazis, Libyans, all jabbering away, pissing it up, and our man Macdainnid right in the midst of it all.'
'So what did the Five guys do?'
'Hung around long enough to commit as many faces to memory as they could, then beat a retreat. Apparently, so says this report, they had a problem; one of the Five guys was a gal. This was a real hairy-arsed place and they felt too obvious, so they split. When they got back to the shop, they dug out the picture gallery, spotted four or five faces, and realised what they had been into. They sent the heavies round right away, but the party had broken up.
They've been tailing Macdainnid ever since. No more contacts, but three weeks ago, as soon as Parliament broke up, he went on holiday.'
Where to?'
'Ready for this? Tripoli. One of the world's prime sources of Semtex and other choice ordnance. He got back to Glasgow last Thursday.'
'Fucking hell!'
'Couldn't have put it more eloquently myself. They searched his luggage at the airport. He had a big hold-all thing as hand baggage, and when he caught the shuttle, they X-rayed it, but they couldn't search it without making him suspicious. He could have had anything in there.'
Skinner folded the report, replaced it in the envelope, and handed it to Martin. 'Here, lock this in your safe. So Mr Grant Forrest Macdainnid MP has been installed as bookies' favourite.
We need a round-the-clock job on him.'
'Want me on it?'
'No. Your wee friend Julia and I both need you here. Anyway, it's a Glasgow job: one for Super-Haggerty. Dig out his home phone number for me. You've got it here, haven't you?'
Martin nodded. He flicked through his Filofax until he found the Glasgow number, dialled it and handed the receiver to Skinner.
Two rings later a gruff voice answered. 'Hullo.'
'Willie? It's Bob Skinner.'
'Momin', sir. Sunday mornin', too. What's up? Ye got a crisis in Edinburgh? Is it rainin' or something?'
It's about to rain on your weekend, fella. I need you through here. I'm seeing your Chief and others in about ninety minutes in St Andrew's House. I want you there to hear what I've got to tell them. It'll save me having to repeat myself. Are you fit to drive? I know what your weekends can be like.'
'Aw, come on, sir. You ken very well I'm teetotal.'
Skinner laughed ironically, and replaced the receiver.
'Scotland can sleep easy in her bed, Andy. Haggerty's on the job. Speaking of which, take a few hours off and see your new girlfriend. There isn't a lot you can do here till the troops finish their reports from last night. Me, I'm going along to kill some paperwork till it's time for my briefing.'
Martin smiled his new contented smile. 'Yeah, okay, boss. I think I'll do that. Before I go, though, one thing occurs to me about Macdairmid. If he's such a nutter, why doesn't the Labour Party get shot of him as one of their MPs?'
'They can't,' said Skinner. 'You see he's really a Nat.
Apparently an extreme nationalist splinter group, like that old Seed of the Gael thing from ten years back, infiltrated the, Marymount constituency Labour Party, took control, deselected the last MP, and installed the boy Macdairmid. He's untouchable by Head Office. They'd love to find a good excuse to bump him, but they haven't come up with one yet. Labour are desperate to keep the whole thing hushed up. None of the other parties know, not even the official Nationalists. If they found out, they'd crucify them, and so would the voters. Funny game politics, eh.'
Martin grunted. 'Not when you start playing it with Semtex, it isn't.'
19
'Macdairmid? That bampot? Surely he's all wind and piss, sir.'
'That was my impression too, Willie, till Five told me different.'
The last of the Chief Constables had driven or been driven away from St Andrew's House, and the Secretary of State had departed for Charlotte Square. Skinner and Detective Superintendent Willie Haggerty, the new head of Special Branch in Glasgow, were sitting alone in the big conference room, which still reeked of the smoke from Sir John Govan's pipe. The Glasgow Chief, two months from retirement, had smiled cheerfully through the coughs and splutters of his colleagues.
The big table was still littered with the debris of the buffet lunch which the Secretary of State had provided. Haggerty munched on the last of the sandwiches as he considered Skinner's story.
'Christ, that's amazin'. We listen in taste the guy's phone and he never as much as breaks wind. Down in the Smoke and he's off taste a Murder Incorporated smoker! And taste Libya fur his holidays!
Looks like he could be our man, right enough.'
'Not our man, Willie. One of them, perhaps, but not the only one. He was home in Glasgow when the bomb went off, and when the first letter was delivered, and when that biker took a shot at me.'
'How d'you know that?'
'Because I've read the transcripts. The tap picked up three calls during that time. One at 11:20 to his wife – they're separated.
One at 11:30, to his girlfriend. One right on the stroke of midday, to the Chief Reporter of the Sunday Mail. It's the third one that interests me. Twelve noon on the dot, the same moment that the bomb goes off, and he phones a mate on a newspaper.'
'What did they talk about?'
'That's the strange thing. He calls the bloke up to ask what time the Rangers game kicks off. Says he thought it could have been one o'clock rather than three, but that his Daily Record hasn't been delivered that morning, so he can't check. Says he realises the