The words left Skinner's mouth almost without conscious thought.
'To do it again,' he said quietly.
As Martin looked at him, his initial disbelief faded against his knowledge of a hundred other viable kites that his friend had flown in the time that he had known him. 'How many other MPs have young children?' he asked.
'No idea,' said Skinner. 'But the Special Branch offices around the country should know. I think it's time we got on the phone. You dig up McGuire, and I'll contact Strathclyde.'
51
The two Manchester detectives had flown British Airways to London, for the onward flight to Guernsey. Alex had chosen to travel with British Midland, to minimise the time she would have to spend in the company of the formidable and hostile Cheshire.
With very few business travellers in the air on Saturday, the flights were all on time, in take-off and in landing. As they disembarked through the tiny Guernsey terminal building into the dul, breezy morning, after a cross-Channel hop spent mostly in silence, Alex looked around for a taxi rank.
'It's all right,' said Ericson, coming up behind her as she headed for a white Primera minicab. 'We've arranged transport. I'm sure my boss won't mind if you join us.'
Cheshire looked as if he would be quite prepared to allow her to take the taxi, but said nothing. Alex fell into step beside the two officers as they headed for the police car which waited a short distance from the terminal entrance, a uniformed constable standing to attention by the driver's door.
'First time in Guernsey?' Ericson asked her, in a reasonable show of courtesy, as the car pul ed away from its stand.
Alex shook her head, setting her curls tumbling, and smiling at the policeman in a way that made even Cheshire stir in his seat. 'No.
Dad brought me here on holiday once, a couple of years after my mum died. I was only about six, but I remember. It rained al the time. We were in the best hotel in town, though, with plenty of covered facilities, so it didn't matter so much.'
Cheshire turned in the front passenger seat. 'Your father could afford good holidays even then?' he asked, his cold expressionless eyes fixed on her. 'He's a man of property, isn't he? Two houses in Scotland, I understand, and two more in Spain. Looking at that, some might say it's hardly surprising that some chickens have come home to roost.'
Ericson looked straight ahead, focusing on the back of the driver's head. She wondered if his question had been a set-up, until she realised that he was embarrassed by his chief's brutal directness.
Quite unexpectedly, Alex smiled. 'Mr Cheshire,' she said, 'if that look is meant to intimidate me, you're wasting your time. When I 171 was a wee girl, if I did or said something I shouldn't have, my dad would let me know just by giving me a long look. It was his worst punishment, almost the only one he ever needed; a couple of seconds, and I'd be saying "sorry". Believe me, when it comes to intimidating stares, you're not in the same class as him.'
Her smile vanished. 'I'm not here to be interrogated by you two, but I am happy to put you right about Pops. He's had three inheritances in his life. When my mum was killed, the mortgage on the Gullane house was paid off, and there were other life policies in his name.
That helped him to buy, largely, an apartment in Spain, which we used. He still owns it, but he rents it out to policemen… at a very reasonable rate, incidentally.
'Later, an aunt died, and left him a lot of money, the bulk of it in property in Perthshire, which he sold. He only needed part of that to buy the Spanish vil a, which we use as a family. The rest was invested.
'After that, when my grandparents died, he and I were the only beneficiaries. Oh yes, and the Edinburgh property is jointly owned by Pops and Sarah, my stepmother. There's a smal loan on that, because with mortgage tax relief it was cheaper to borrow than take it all from invested capital.'
Now it was her turn to stare hard at her inquisitor. 'Mr Cheshire, we're all here looking into an al egation by persons unknown that my dad's taken a bung of a hundred grand. If al you've done so far is check up on his assets, without checking how he came by them, you're pretty shoddy detectives. No wonder the crime rate in Manchester is so high.
'The fact is, gentlemen, my dad doesn't need a hundred thousand.
He has a hundred thousand, and quite a lot more.'
Cheshire's glare had softened, but he was stil unsmiling. 'Very good. Miss Skinner. I hear what you say, and if you thought I was trying to bully you, I apologise. The fact is, we know all of your father's financial history. He's been vetted several times in the course of his career.
'But I have to tell you, I don't care how comfortably off he is. I have never met anyone – even my own dear wife,' he interjected, with his first flicker of humour – 'who couldn't use another hundred thousand.
'I once knew a man; neighbour of mine,' said the policeman, in his rumbling northern accent, 'gynaecologist, he was, middle-aged, private practice, very successful, who was arrested for nicking a pound box of Cadbury's Roses from W.H. Smith. His defence was that he was experiencing the male menopause. The prosecution case, which the Bench accepted, was that he was just a thieving bastard.'
As he finished, the car drew to a halt. They had barely noticed their journey through St Peter Port, the island's tiny capital; now they 172 r- found themselves in what seemed to be a side street, outside a three-storey, white-painted building. As they emerged from the car they saw a single entrance door, with three brass plates and three door buzzers beside it.
JZG Bank was the middle of the three. Cheshire stepped forward and pressed the button. Almost immediately a tinny voice sounded through the smal speaker grille which surrounded it. 'Yes?'
'Three visitors for Mr Medine.'
'I am he. Please enter and come up one flight of stairs.' There was aloud buzz, at which the policeman pushed the door open.
Medine was waiting for them on the first landing. He was a smal, thin man, aged around sixty, with a sal ow wind-burned face and round, rimless spectacles of the type worn almost invariably by Gestapo officers in movies. Alex wondered, fleetingly, if they might be a relic of the days of the German occupation of the island.
'Come in, come in,' said the little man, after Cheshire had made the introductions. 'There is no-one else in the building. It is discreet.'
He was dressed, not in a business suit, but in the casual shirt, baggy cardigan and slacks, which Alex guessed he might wear for his weekend gardening. She had been expecting to hear French overtones in the Channel Islander's accent, but in fact there were none. If anything, there was the merest touch of Home Counties South.
He led them into a small office suite, which looked not at all like a bank. He caught Alex's expression and smiled. 'This is not a place where people come to withdraw fifty pounds, or negotiate an overdraft, for all that it says on the sign by the door. Here we handle fairly large amounts of money for people who require offshore banking services.
'Normal y they're ex-pat workers, or people who've retired abroad
– to Spain, France or Italy, say – but who prefer to keep their main money in the British Isles.'
'For tax reasons?' Alex enquired.
'That's their business. We don't declare interest paid to the Exchequer in London, Paris, Madrid or anywhere else.'
He showed them through a large office into a smaller conference room with a window which looked across the street, to an almost identical, white building as the one in which they took their seats.
'Thank you for seeing us,' Cheshire began, brusque, formal and forbidding once more. 'This is an informal meeting, but Mr Ericson and Miss Skinner may take notes. Miss Skinner is here as an observer, but she may ask a few question at the conclusion of our discussion, if she feels it necessary.'