'We're putting this out live on TNI. Could you just run over the whole picture of what happened tonight?'
Certainly. It's now clear that the so-called independence campaign was in fact a professionally planned operation to cause chaos and confusion among the police and emergency services, and to steadily stretch us to the point we reached tonight, when w had to call out every last resource at our disposal, including theji garrison from the Castle. We know now that the real objective was theft of the Honours of Scotland, our Royal Regalia. Call it fantastic, call it audacious, but it actually happened, and it almost succeeded.'
'Do you think you've got them all. Bob?' The questioner was the grizzled John Hunter, looking slightly unkempt in the middle of the night, an unaccustomed time for him.
Skinner smiled at the familiar face. 'No, John, we haven't. We don't know yet whether the types who planted those bombs and fired the missiles were the same ones who attacked the Castle.
Forensic tests should tell us, though. Also we don't know for sure that there were only four in the raiding party up at the Castle. long rope ladder was found fastened to the Half Moon Batta dropping down to the lawn below. That was their get-away roll so possibly someone was guarding it, then legged it.
"There's Mary Little Horse, too. We still haven't traced him"
And there's someone else we haven't got. That's the one who set this whole thing up. Somebody who wanted so badly to possess the Scottish Crown Jewels that he or she was ready to provide-the necessary finance for an operation as brilliant and as ruthless as this one. There is absolutely no clue as to who that person might be, but we can assume that he or she is extremely rich, and must have some very special interest in Scotland.'
'So what else have you got?' said Al Neidermeyer.
'Well, we've got a wounded man in the Royal, under very special guard. An hour and a half ago we faxed fingerprints from all four intruders to various agencies around the world, but we've had no firm response as yet. So we still haven't identified any of them. However, we think we may have the getaway vehicle. We found a Mercedes saloon with false plates parked in Johnstone Terrace under the Half Moon Battery. Not the driver, though, and none of the four killed in the raid had car keys on him.
'Within the last hour we've learned that an aircraft, a De Havilland Dash, has been sitting in a hangar at Cumbernauld Airport, ever since it was flown in two weeks ago. The hangar rent was paid up until tomorrow, cash down, by the pilot who flew it in. The copy receipt is made out in the name of Mr Black.
Unfortunately, the airport manager is away on holiday, but we're trying to trace him to obtain a description, and we're also tracing the ownership of the plane. My guess is it'll turn out to have been chartered, for cash.'
'This Mr Black, could he have been one of the men taken tonight?' asked Neidermeyer, Skinner shook his head. 'I don't think so.'
'So Mr Black is still out there?'
Skinner nodded. 'I reckon so. Mind you, I don't expect him to turn up in person to collect his aeroplane.'
78
The getaway plane stayed where it was. But something else was picked up instead, something much more precious.
'One thing that niggles me, Andy, is not knowing if any of the bastards are still hanging around here.'
It was just over twelve hours since the press briefing. Skinner and Martin were settled in the DCI's office in the Special Branch Suite, going through the mountain of paperwork involved in the winding up of the enquiry. Each had snatched a few hours at home, although Andy had spent much of his break consoling Julia after her frightening experience with the Filmhouse explosion. 'If any of them are still here,' said Martin, 'they're bloody crazy.
That guy in the Royal's going to make it. He's bound to bargain a few years off his sentence in return for telling us everything he knows.'
'Don't count on it. Those were pros. They'll have been well paid for this job, and it probably included something extra for keeping shtum if they got caught. And don't assume that he knows-'
Skinner was interrupted by an internal call on Martin's extension. Being closer to it, he picked it up. 'Skinner.'
The caller was Ruth. 'Sorry to bother you, sir, but I felt I had to. It's a Mr Morris, and he says it's important. It's about Alex.'
'Put him through.'
Skinner had never met the man, but he recognised the name.
Ben Morris was the director of Alex's theatre company.
'What can I do for you, Mr Morris?'
The man hesitated. 'Look, I'm sorry to bother you, but do you happen to know where your daughter might be.'
The first faint chill crept into Skinner's stomach. 'What d'yqu mean?' He didn't realise that he had snapped at the caller, a hard edge suddenly in his voice.
Morris began to splutter. 'Well, it's just that – well last nigt her friend Ingo didn't turn up. Alex didn't know where he'd g0t to. We went on with the show, but without the lighting effects!
It was a bloody disaster. Alex did her best, but I still felt I had to give the audience half their money back. I called their number this morning to find out where the hell he had been, but I got no reply.
So I went round to see them. The landlady said she hadn't seen or heard either of them all day. She let me in with a pass-key, but the place was empty. Not a sign. All his clothes, all of his things were gone. Some of Alex's stuff seemed to be there, but I couldn't see her handbag – you know, that big one she carries everywhere. So can you help me? Are they with you? I've got to know if he's coming back.'
Skinner replaced the receiver without a word.
Martin watched him anxiously as he sat staring chalk-faced at the wall. His first thought was that his boss had experienced some delayed reaction to the night's events.
'What's wrong, Bob?'
The voice which replied was strange, quiet, shaky – unlike anything Martin had heard from him before. 'It's Alex. She's been snatched.' •Eh!'
'That was her director. That guy Ingo didn't show up last night.
Now Alex has disappeared too. Andy,1 knew he was wrong! He's taken her!'
'Steady on, man. She could be anywhere. Maybe he's just done a moonlight on her, and she's down at your place now, crying her eyes out to Sarah.'
Skinner shook his head, feeling cold all over.
'No, Andy. Since last night I've been wondering whether our Mr Black would have a Plan B. Now I know that he has, and I can guess what it is.'
79
The letter was delivered only ten minutes later. It had been found on a table in the first-floor coffee lounge of the busy Mount Royal Hotel, but none of the staff could describe the person who had sat there last.
It was addressed:
Assistant Chief Constable Skinner,
Police Headquarters.
Private and Confidential
To be delivered.
The hotel manager had brought it personally to Fettes Avenue.
Skinner could not stop his hand from trembling as he slit the envelope. He had recognised at once its style and its size, and the typeface on the address label. He withdrew the familiar single sheet of white paper, and steeled himself to read what he knew would be there.
He read it aloud to Proud, Martin and Arrow, who had all gathered in his office.
"Mr Skinner, 'You may know my name already. Let us say that I am simply someone who has undertaken to obtain something special for a client who wants it very badly. Last night I almost succeeded, but your own good fortune prevented me.
'However, I do not give up as easily as you might have hoped. Through the good offices of Ingo Svart, I now hold in my care someone who is very precious to you. I now propose that we exchange her for that which is just as precious to my client: the items which you prevented us from taking last night.