Skinner shook his head firmly. ‘I’m telling you, they’re coming back. That’s why they killed Mawhinney: to eliminate the risk of him spotting his dead wife in the stadium. And, incidentally, his huge stroke of luck wasn’t so good, was it?’ He pointed a finger at McIlhenney. ‘Has Dorward reported back yet?’
‘Give him a chance. Arthur will get results if they’re to be had, but he has to do it at his own pace.’
‘I suppose so,’ said the DCC, morosely. ‘I just feel so fucking helpless, Neil. I know all the answers, save one; we know where, we know when, and we know who. But I don’t know what they’re planning to do. . and until I know that, then I am dead certain the life of a very brave and very great man will be at risk.’
‘I know something else. The more exhausted you get, the less likely it is to come to you.’ Lights in the drive made him glance out of the window. ‘That’s Merle Gower now. Once we’ve heard what she’s got to say, you’re for my spare room again. . and no arguments.’
The big man’s sigh sounded desperately weary. ‘If you say so,’ he exclaimed. ‘There’s no point arguing, I suppose, since you’re one of the few guys in this force I can’t shout down.’
The internal phone rang. McIlhenney picked it up and spoke to Night Security. A minute later there was a knock on the door and Merle Gower was shown in. She looked at the inspector doubtfully. ‘He stays,’ said Skinner. ‘He’s cleared.’
‘I know, but this is. .’
‘He stays.’
‘Okay,’ she conceded. She took a document from her bag. ‘I let you see this and then it goes in the shredder. Is it okay in here?’
‘You mean is it bugged? Do me a bloody favour, woman. I say things in here that I don’t even want to hear myself.’ She grinned weakly. ‘Do you feel out of your depth, Merle?’ Skinner asked her.
‘I’m a strong swimmer,’ she replied. ‘I’ve just never been in this deep before.’
‘It makes no difference; you just keep going. What have you got?’
‘Just this. The name you gave me, Franco. It squares with a reported casualty, Franco Gattuso, who worked in the first tower. . on one of the floors that took the impact of the first plane.’
‘Fuck. But it isn’t just that, though, is it?’
She shook her head. ‘No. And this is what must be shredded, because our knowledge of it has never been revealed. The aircraft strikes didn’t just rely on the skill of the pilots alone. The planes actually homed in on beacons that had been planted in each tower. When the agencies examined the air-traffic recordings, they picked up two signals. They were puzzled for a while, but eventually they determined that they were from homing devices. We believe that the mission of Gattuso and Margery Mawhinney was to conceal them somewhere on their floors, and activate them. The assumption was that the people who planted the beacons had perished also, but now it seems that was wrong.’
‘They lived to kill another day,’ Skinner whispered. ‘And now they’re here.’
‘There is one last thing,’ said Gower. ‘The timing of the attacks has always concerned the investigating agencies. The gap between the two strikes was enough to allow a full Fire Department response to the first to have been made when the second hit. It’s always been suspected that this was based on inside information; thanks to your discovery, we believe we know how it might have been obtained.’
‘That’s going to stay secret, I hope,’ McIlhenney growled.
‘That will only be possible if there is a certain outcome to all this.’
‘What the hell do you mean by that?’
‘She means, Neil,’ said Skinner, ‘that when we catch them, we’ll charge them with the murder of Colin Mawhinney. Everything we now know about them will become public in the course of a trial here. That’s if there is a trial here. As soon as we lock them up, the First Minister and the Lord Advocate will come under huge political pressure from the American government to hand them over. If they have the bottle to refuse. . which I doubt. . we could have an internal constitutional crisis, with Whitehall trying to stare down Holyrood. But if they’re sent to the US, they’ll be at the centre of the biggest show trial the world has seen since Nuremberg, one that will expose the failures of the FBI and the personal indiscretion of a New York policeman.’ He stopped. ‘What Merle is saying is that it’ll be best if we don’t capture them; not breathing at any rate. Isn’t that right?’
‘You get the picture I’ve been told to paint. I’ve even been instructed to offer you expert assistance if you wish.’
Skinner glared at Special Agent Gower. ‘That’s a step too far, lady. I will have none of your fucking gunslingers on my turf, and you can pass that on to whoever needs to hear it.’
‘I will. But what else do I tell them?’
The DCC winked at her. ‘Tell them I’ll do as I’ve been asked.’
84
Sarah Grace Skinner had always taken pride in her self-control. She had known some difficult moments in her otherwise sunny and privileged life, but she had come through them all with a toughness she was sure she had inherited from her father.
So, as she had felt it ebb away over days, weeks and then months, she had grown more and more frightened. Her loss of her sense of place and her self-confidence was starting to show in her work. That stupid rush to an unsupportable conclusion in the autopsy of the banker suicide was something that she would never have done before.
And now she was doing something else that in the past would have been alien to her. She was running away. She had risen from a sleepless night, not for the first time spent alone, had dressed quickly and had seen to her children. She had said nothing to them other than the usual, ‘Be good today,’ and then she had left them to Trish, with a lame excuse about an early appointment, and had carried on with her own preparations.
She had slung her case into the back of her car when the nanny was occupied in the nursery, and had driven off without a backward glance, her view of the road slightly blurred by the tears in her eyes.
She was unsure how she would be welcomed, or even whether she would be welcomed, but it was a chance she was prepared to take. Before, she had always weighed the consequences of her actions; at that moment she found, for the first time in her life, that she did not care.
The traffic was building up as she drove towards Edinburgh. She was no fan of rush-hours and had managed to avoid them for most of her working life. She was no fan of city living either but, in the right circumstances, she reckoned she could grow used to it.
As she approached the turn-off to Fort Kinnaird and Craigmillar beyond, she switched on the radio. By one of those random chances that always come up when least wanted, the Beatles were singing ‘All You Need Is Love’, on Forth Two. She switched it off again, at once.
The traffic slowed through Craigmillar. Edinburgh’s traffic planners did not like motorists and went out of their way to make life difficult for them, laying down bus lanes and narrowing roads at every opportunity. By the time she reached Peffermill, she feared that she would arrive too late, but at the Cameron Toll roundabouts, it speeded up. When she turned into Gordon Terrace, it was ten past eight.
She parked across the street from the house and took her case from the car. Slowly she walked up the driveway to his door, as if she was considering every irrevocable step. Just once, she hesitated, thought about turning back; but she kept on, until she stood on his front step. She rang the bell and waited.
She waited for a while; remembering the lay-out of the house, she thought that he might be upstairs, in the shower, so she rang again, keeping her finger on the button for a few seconds.
She had barely taken it away before the door opened. ‘Can I. .’ she began, before the question died in her mouth.
A woman stood there, staring at her. She wore a long t-shirt that came almost to her knees, her red hair was tousled and she wore no makeup. The look in her eyes was one of pure, undiluted hostility.