‘And that wee dead bastard Fuzzy did all that?’
‘That’s what us simple coppers are meant to think. But you and I know better, Allingham, don’t we? This is another fucking stitch-up!’
For a second, Allingham’s face was illuminated with pure terror, and in that instant Skinner knew with absolute certainty that he was right about it all.
Allingham fought for self-control. He blustered. ‘You’re crackers, Skinner! You’ve botched this whole affair. Last time you arrested an innocent Japanese diplomat. Now you’ve allowed the President of Syria to be shot, and you’re peddling some ridiculous conspiracy theory to divert attention from your own incompetence.’
Skinner smiled at him: it was a strange smile, a savage smile. ‘You knew, Allingham, didn’t you. “An innocent Japanese”, you just said. But when you and I first met, after Yobatu was arrested, I was convinced he was guilty and you couldn’t get him out of the way fast enough. Now I can prove he was innocent, but only a handful of people close to me know that. So how come you do, too? You knew all along, my son, didn’t you. And Hughie Fulton had me believing that you were too low down on the food chain to be let into secrets like that.’
Allingham was chalk white. ‘You’re mad.’
‘You’d better hope I’m not, mister. You and I are going somewher very quiet for a chat. No one else is coming. It’s going to be just you and me. And you’re going to tell me the whole story. I’ve got most of the bits of the jigsaw in my head, and I think I can fit them together. You’re going to help me with the last few pieces. Most of all you’re going to tell me about Maitland.’
‘You can’t make me go with you.’ The man turned despairingly to Mackie.
The Inspector shook his balding head. ‘I wouldn’t bet the house on that, Mr Allingham.
‘You’ll need a car, boss. Why don’t you take the one that Mario and I came in. It’s unmarked. I think the Merc would be a wee bit conspic uous.’
‘Fine, Brian. When I’m gone, nip along to the Royal and find Andy. Tell him that Mr Allingham and I have gone down to the coast to sort things out. And tell him this, too. If either one of you sees that man Maitland, disarm him and lock him up. Be very, very careful. Give him no opportunities. Just lock him up. And if he as much as looks at you the wrong way, don’t hesitate. Shoot him.’
He turned again to Allingham, who had backed away into a corner For a moment, Skinner thought the man was going to shout for help.
‘Let’s go. You’ve got some talking to do. The rules on your side of the street are new to me, but I’m learning fast. Move!’
He hustled the man outside, into the cold January night. The three cars were still parked in front of the Hall. Their drivers, two policemen and one civilian, stood talking together. The policemen stood to attention as Skinner approached.
‘Keys please, John.’ He held out a hand to the driver of Mackie’s car, a blue Sierra.
‘Sir!’ The constable handed over the keys without another word.
‘Get in, Allingham. Front seat.’ The man obeyed, his shoulders drooping in submission and a look of hopelessness on his face.
Skinner started the engine. But, before pulling away, he looked into the face of the man on his left.
‘I’ll tell you what I think, my friend. I think that you’re scared shit-less. You’re involved in something that’s just too big for you to cope with.
‘You leave the Met for what you think will be a nice cushy job as a sort of diplomats’ baby-sitter and general bum-wiper. Then all of a sudden it starts to get more than that. You’re involved in the dark side of international relations. People start getting killed. It’s all part of a serious Intelligence operation, and a state secret, but those nosy coppers up in Scotland won’t cooperate. You see, they’ve got this aversion to their people being chopped up and shoved under trains and stuff like that. And now the whole thing’s a mess. It’s out of control, and you find yourself up to your arse in hedgehogs. You know the truth and, as recent events tell you, that could be fatal.
‘ Well, chum, this is your way out. You’re going to point me at brother Maitland, and I’m going to see that he’s put away. I don’t care much whether it’s done in private or in public, but he’s got to be locked up.
‘We’re going for a drive to my place. It’ll take us about half an hour to get there. You’ve got that time to consider your position in all this. And you’ve got that time to make up your mind to tell me the whole story. You’re going to tell me anyway. I’m not pissing about here. There’s the easy way, and there’s the hard way. I don’t want to have to beat it out of you. That’s strictly against my rules. But as I said, I’m on your side of the street now, and if I have to, I will. Now I’ll shut up and let you think it over.’
He slipped the car into gear and moved off, out of Bristo Square, turning back towards George Square, past the open-air car-park, towards the main road. As the Sierra turned left into Potterow, a nondescript elderly Ford Escort, its locks worn smooth with age and easily picked, pulled gently out of the car-park.
It followed the Sierra’s turn into West Nicolson Street, past the Pear Tree pub, its customers overflowing into the beergarden as the Friday-night crescendo gathered momentum, and the student survivors of the MacEwan Hall massacre began to arrive.
It kept the Sierra’s tail lights in sight as it headed through Holyrood Park, towards Edinburgh’s eastern suburbs, and beyond, to East Lothian.
98
Skinner was as good as his word on the drive to Gullane. He was silent all through the journey, throwing only the occasional glance at Allingham. Once or twice, in the headlights of on-coming vehicles, he could read the despair written on the man’s face.
The drive in the dark took the half hour that Skinner had forecast. There was no street light near the cottage. After drawing to a halt, he allowed the Sierra’s headlights to illuminate the front door, while he unlocked it with Chubb and Yale keys.
He stepped into the entrance hall, switched on the light, and deactivated the burglar alarm. Then, leaving the Yale off the latch, went back to the car, switched off the lights, and motioned to Allingham to preced him back to the cottage. Inside, he pointed him towards the living room. As the man obeyed, Skinner closed the front door behind them.
The house was chilly. Skinner turned on the gas fire at full power. He pulled the heavy, lined curtains across the windows and across the double patio doors, and stood for a minute in silence with his back to the heat, facing the door to the hall. Allingham had slumped on to the long green leather couch to his left; where he sat, staring at his knees.
‘Right, chum,’ Skinner said abruptly, rousing the man from his contemplation. ‘Your moment has arrived. I don’t really want to get blood and snot all over my upholstery, so save us both a lot of pointless grief and tell me the whole story.’
He walked over to his hi-fi stack, to his right on the wall facing Allingham, picked up a cassette and slipped it into the tape-deck. He pressed the RECORD button.
For a second or two, a last faint gleam of defiance showed in the Londoner’s eyes. Then it was gone. He sighed long and deep.
‘Okay, Skinner, okay. How much do you know?’
‘I know that Mortimer and Jameson were working together to develop a legal case to invalidate the Declaration which set up the State of Israel. I know that their paymaster was a man named Fazal Mahmoud, an old lover of Rachel Jameson from her student days. He was a Syrian then, but currently is — or was until tonight — trading as a Lebanese out of their Embassy in London.