‘Turn around very slowly,’ a voice growled.
Skinner began to do as he had been told, moving to his left. Then suddenly, he pivoted on his right foot, dropping his bag as he did so, knocking an arm aside and grabbing it by the wrist.
‘Careful, Bob,’ said Adam Arrow, ‘or you’ll break my fookin’ banana.’
The Scot laughed out loud and released him. ‘You daft wee bugger,’ he exclaimed. ‘How did I do anyway?’
‘Not too bad,’ Arrow answered, as he slipped the fruit back into his blazer pocket, ‘but at best you’d have had a big flesh wound; at worst you’d have been minus your left kidney. Come on, let’s get out of here, there’s a couple of coppers over there giving us funny looks. I should have known better than to pull a stunt like that in an airport these days.’
Adam Arrow was a short man, with massive shoulders and a slim waist that gave him the overall appearance of a spinning top. His hair seemed to be cut shorter every time that Skinner saw him; the DCC suspected this was because there was less of it to cut. The two men had known each other for years. . professionally at least, since Arrow only ever discussed business. . and an absolute trust had developed between them.
They had met after Arrow had moved from undercover SAS work in Northern Ireland and other hotspots into a role in Ministry of Defence security that did not appear in any published documents and was defined only in vague terms to outsiders, even to those as close to him as Skinner. This was fine by the DCC; all he needed to know was that Arrow reported to very few people and that when something secret and serious needed doing, he was the man who could make it happen.
‘Where are we going?’ the Scot asked.
‘There’s a car waiting for us outside.’
Skinner picked up his bag, and the two men walked through the terminal building’s arrivals exit. Less than twenty yards away, a black Citroën waited; its driver was in military uniform and stood beside it. He nodded briefly to Arrow and opened the back door.
‘So now,’ the Scot asked, ‘where are we going?’
‘We’re booked into the Royal Windsor Hotel, on rue Duquesnoy. It’s just about the best hotel in Brussels.’
‘That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t worry about it. They’re looking after us, just as we look after them when they come to London. We don’t piss about with two-star accommodation, mate: no fookin’ security. The man we’ve come to see is meeting us there for dinner at eight thirty. One thing about your Belgian. . he does like ’is food.’
65
‘You’re no feart, are ye?’ said Malky Gladsmuir.
‘Of you?’ laughed Mario McGuire, amiably. ‘There’s a very small list of people and things that scare me, pal, and you’re definitely not on it. I thought I’d convinced you of that. I don’t like those big spiders you find in the bath sometimes, and my granny can still get to me, but not you, son, not you.’
‘Maybe no’, but meeting me here might not have been the smartest thing to do, if I’d brought a whole team wi’ me.’
‘I suggested this place, remember, when you asked for somewhere quiet. Anyway, give me credit, man. I watched you arrive from across the street. Only you and him came in here. If anyone else tries to join us, they’ll find obstacles put in their way. It’s you that’s in bother, Malky, not me. . if it turns out your man here’s going to waste my time.’
The detective and the pub manager were in a half-built house on a site not far from Salamander Street, where investment by developers was turning acres of redundant warehousing into a residential district. There was a third person there too, a weedy man of medium height, in a woollen hat, a well-worn leather jacket and dark trousers.
‘This is Spoons,’ said Gladsmuir, ‘the bloke I wanted you to meet. He’s got something you might like to hear.’
The man looked at the superintendent with cunning eyes. ‘Is it going tae be worth my while, like?’
McGuire glared at his escort. ‘Is he serious?’ he asked.
‘It’s no’ like that, Spoons,’ the publican barked at him. ‘I told you. Now talk.’
The man shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Aye, okay.’ He looked down at the detective’s feet, as he readied himself to tell his story. ‘Malky said ye wis asking about Sunday night. Ah mibbe saw somethin’.’
‘What time?’
‘After ten.’
‘Where?’
‘Doon the shore. Ah’d come oot the Pheasant. . Ah kent whit the time was ’cos the Spanish fitba’ had finished on the telly, like. . and Ah wis just comin’ tae the bridge ower the watter, when Ah saw this on the ither side. There wis a man. .’
‘Describe him.’
‘Quite a big bloke. No’ as big as you, but quite big. He wis wearin’ this donkey-jacket thing. That’s a’ Ah kin remember; it was dark, ken. Onyway, he’s walking doon the shore, towards Commercial Street, when this motor pulls up alongside him; naw, a few yards in front of him. Jist as he got to it the passenger’s door in the front opened, and the fella stopped.’
‘How many people did you see get out?’
Spoons shook his head. ‘Nane. There was naebody got out. The boy on the pavement just stood, as if he was starin’ at it.’
‘Could you hear anything?’
‘Naw, Ah wis still only hauf-wey across the bridge; Ah wisnae near enough.’
‘So what happened next?’
‘The back door opened like, and the boy got in.’
‘Of his own accord?’
‘Whit?’
‘Nobody forced him?’
‘Naw. He jist got in, and the motor drove off.’
‘Do you remember what sort of car it was?’
‘Aye, it was a Land Rover.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Course Ah’m sure. Ah ken whit a fuckin’ Land Rover looks like.’
‘Registration number?’ McGuire asked in hope, not in expectation.
‘Ah wisnae close enough. Ah think it wis wan o’ the new sort.’
‘Did you see anybody else around?’
‘Naw, no’ a soul. It’s quiet doon there on a Sunday.’
McGuire looked at him, sizing him up, trying to gauge his honesty. . questionable, going by his name. . and what he would have to gain by making up a story. . nothing, unless Gladsmuir had wanted CID off his back.
‘Did you put him up to this, Malky?’ he asked.
‘No. I promise you I didn’t. The manager of the Pheasant’s a pal of mine. I asked him if he’d heard anything, and he remembered that Spoons had left his place around the time you were asking about.’
‘Okay. I think I believe you both. I’ll need a formal statement from you.’
‘Aw, naw, come on,’ the man pleaded. ‘The word’s oot that this was a hit; Ah don’t want any o’ that.’
‘Have you ever heard of Bilbo Baggins?’ Spoons stared at him as if he had been asked to recite Einstein’s theory of relativity. ‘No, maybe you haven’t. What he said was true, though. Every time you step out your own front door you never know the trouble that might be waiting for you on the road. Come on, pal; you and I are going to Queen Charlotte Street, and you’re going to tell all that to a tape-recorder.’
66
For a hotel in the centre of Brussels, even a five-star, Royal Windsor was a very strange name, Bob Skinner told himself as he blew his grey hair dry with the device in his bathroom. However, there was nothing strange about the establishment itself; its facilities, its furnishings and its fittings were all of the highest quality.
His musing was interrupted when a sudden thought elbowed its way in and hit him. He picked up the phone, found an outside line and dialled home. He was pleased when Sarah answered, rather than Trish. ‘Hi, honey,’ he said. ‘I’m going to be a bit late tonight.’
‘How late?’
‘Maybe twenty-four hours, maybe forty-eight; I don’t know for sure. I’m in Brussels.’
‘Brussels!’
‘Yeah, the Royal Windsor Hotel. The Belgian thing’s grown some wrinkles, and I’m trying to smooth them out.’
‘Now you tell me!’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. It’s been a trying day.’