store name; nothing at all. There were no others like it in the house or
in the garden shed, nor was there any sign of the black tape. We've
looked everywhere now; someone took it away, for sure.'
'Probably brought it too. The ex: what do we know about him?
What does he Profess? Do we know yet?'
Martin nodded. 'Brian Mackie had all that before ten o'clock this
morning. He's a surgeon. He has a chair at Edinburgh University, and
works mostly at the Western General Hospital.'
'Mmm. Divorced for seven years, you say. Did Mrs Weston have
any man friends?'
'Apparently so. Maggie found a neighbour, a Ms Joan Ball, another
single woman, who claims to have been a close pal. According to her,
15
Mrs Weston was having a relationship with one of her clients, a guy
called Terry Futcher. He runs an advertising agency, and he's married.
'The husband was still around, as well. They stayed friends after
the split. . .'
'Do we know why they were divorced?' the DCC asked.
'It seems to have been her idea. She told Joan Ball that she just
wanted her own space. She wanted the freedom to be herself, she said.
After they parted, the boy stayed with his father during the school
term and with her during the holidays. The Prof has a cottage up in
the Highlands and occasionally the three of them went up there
together.
'He'd visit her at the steading on occasion too. Joan Ball knew not
to call on her when she saw his car there ... or Futcher's for that
matter.'
'And did these cars stay all night?'
'Of course.'
'Did she see any cars there last night?'
'No, she didn't,' Martin replied. 'She was out herself, and got
home well after midnight. She said that Gaynor's lights were on, but
other than her own, there was no car at the door. She'd have noticed if
either of the blokes were there.'
'Did the Prof know about Futcher?'
'Yes. But Ms Ball didn't think that the boyfriend knew about him.'
Skinner shook his steel-grey head. 'Shit. Two-timing the married
boyfriend with the single ex-husband. That's a nice twist.'
Martin smiled, suddenly and wickedly. 'Who said the ex is single?'
he asked. 'Professor Weston married his secretary five years ago.'
'Jesus!' The acting Chief Constable laughed out loud. 'Two cheated
wives, a cuckolded lover, and an ex-husband with a guilty secret.
There seems to have been a whole queue of people with a reason to
top this woman.'
'Except,' countered the Head of CID, 'that Sarah's thinking, and
mine, is that Gaynor Weston topped herself, with assistance. Now
why would she want to do that? According to Joan Ball's account, she
was living the life of Reilly.'
'Could you and Sarah be wrong?'
The DCS frowned at his friend. 'The postmortem may show that,
but I don't think so.'
'Then I hate the sound of this one,' Skinner said. 'Unless we get
a clear DNA link to the helper . . . suppose they made love before
they did it ... it could be a bastard to prove. Christ, I almost wish
this person had been just a wee bit cleverer; hadn't left the second
glass, and most of all that the bugger had left that roll of black tape
16
. .. stuck, preferably, to Mrs Weston's fingers.
'If he ... or she . .. had done that simple thing, we'd be reporting
this one as a suicide, and saving ourselves a lot of work; and probably
grief.'
He frowned. 'Did she leave a note?'
'No. We turned the place inside out; even looked in her computer.
Nothing at all.'
'Apart from her gentlemen callers, did Mrs Weston have a big
circle of friends?'
Yes. Her diary was chockfull.'
'In that event, all those people will have to be checked out... as
indeed will the very helpful Ms Ball, if she's as close a pal as she told
Brian. At the moment she's our only witness. I wonder if she has a roll
of black tape in her toolbox?'
'Let's wait for good Doctor Sarah's postmortem report, said Martin.
'Once we have that we'll have a better idea of the basis of our
investigation. If we do find ourselves with a lot of interviewing to do,
I'll give Brian extra resources to handle it, if he needs them.'
The Head of CID looked across to the far end of the big room, as
Gerry Crossley, the Chief Constable's secretary, came in carrying a
tray with two mugs and a plate of biscuits. 'Apart from all that,
though, sir,' he said, as the young man placed the tray on the coffee
table, 'why did you want to see me?'
'I want to brief you on something that's developed. And to ask your
view on what I intend to do about it.' He paused, as the door closed
behind the secretary. 'I've called a meeting of heads of Special Branch
from all eight Scottish police forces; two o'clock this afternoon, in
this building.
'But before I get round to that, let's deal with the really important
stuff. Sarah called me from Edinburgh Royal, while she was waiting
for the body to arrive from Oldbams. She said that she was worried
about you; that you weren't yourself this morning.
'I can tell just from looking at you that she's right. What's up, son?'
Martin picked up his mug, took a sip to test the temperature, then
a mouthful. He held it, cradled in both hands, for several seconds,
staring across the room and out of the long window. Finally his gaze
swung round to Skinner.
'It's Alex and me,' he said, at last. 'We're in bother. I think we
might be breaking up.'
There was an edge to the silence which filled the room. Andy
looked at his friend, trying to gauge his reaction.
'Anybody else involved?' Bob asked quietly.
'Yes,' Martin replied. 'But not in the sense you mean. Mitchell
17
Laidlaw's the problem; Laidlaw, and the mighty firm of Curie Anthony
and Jarvis. With every day she spends there, Alex's ambitions are
becoming more clear. Before she graduated, they were vague, and
involved going to the Bar.
'Under Mitch's influence she's become hooked on litigation. That's
the specialist area she wants to follow, and being Alex, she's only
interested in becoming the best there is.'
'Do you begrudge her that?'
'No, I don't. But her ambition and my hopes for the two of us don't
fit together any more. We've been dancing around this for a while
now. This morning I brought it to a head. I asked her whether she
wants to break off our engagement to concentrate on her career.'
Skinner gasped. 'That's a bit heavy, Andy, isn't it?'
'Maybe it is. But she didn't say "no".'
The silence returned, ever more palpable. Bob stood up, walked
over to the window and looked out. 'Is this purely about Alex?' he
asked, quietly. 'Or does her mother come into it too?'
'What d'you mean?'
'You know bloody well what I mean. You tell me you see her career
as a rival; but are you coloured in that by what you know about Myra?
Let's not piss about: Alex's mother was a serial adulteress. Are you
asking yourself whether this new-found ambition others, this lusting
after something other than you, might be some sort of genetic
inheritance setting itself free?'
Martin threw back his head. 'Jesus, Bob!' The words burst out in a
great gasp.
'Alex isn't a bit like her mother. It's you she takes after, and that's
what really worries me. I'm sorry to be so blunt, but all that time that
Myra was screwing around, you hadn't the faintest idea of it, because
you were so wrapped up in the job. If she hadn't been killed, your
marriage would probably have gone on.'
Skinner snorted. 'You think it would have survived her being
pregnant by another man?'
'Sure. She'd either have had the kid aborted without your knowledge,
or she'd just have told you that it was yours. You'd never have
doubted that for a second.'
The big man's eyes narrowed. 'So my family's subordinate to my
job is it?' he whispered.
'No it's not,' Martin snapped. 'Not any more. You've sorted out
your priorities. But you've done it from a position at the top of the
tree. Alex hasn't, and she's only just started to climb. I hadn't thought
of it this way before, but if I think of you and Myra, then look at Alex
and me, the roles are reversed.
18
'I'm not saying for one moment that I'm afraid Alex will start
sleeping around: but sometimes I'm not so sure about me.'
'Ahh Christ,' said Skinner wearily, shaking his head. 'Life's never
easy, pal, is it. Look take it from me, my daughter loves you. Do you
love her?'
'Of course.'
'Well? Isn't that enough?'
'That's what I'm asking Alex. So far, I've had no answer, just
silence. And to me, that's speaking volumes.'
19
6
There is nothing especially mysterious about Special Branch. Every
police force has such a unit within its organisation, and they link
loosely together into a network which is responsible for protecting the
public against subversion, terrorism and other threats outside the
bounds of run-of-the-mill criminal activity.
Nevertheless, looking at the eight officers, seven men and one
woman, who were seated at the conference table as he came into the
room, Bob Skinner experienced an unusual sense of personal power,
and pride. He was Chief Constable only on a temporary basis, during
the absence of Sir James Proud, struck down by a mild heart attack
while on holiday in Spain. Sir John Govan, the outgoing Strathclyde
Chief, and new security adviser to the Secretary of State, could easily
have assumed command of the operation he was about to outline, and
yet it was Govan himself who had proposed Skinner for the task.
'Bob has a track record in this type of situation,' he had said. 'The
rest of us are pen-pushers by comparison, so let's all of us agree to put
our people under his command until this crisis is resolved.'
Skinner and the two men who had accompanied him into the
room took their places at the head of the table. As they did so, the
eight others looked at them in complete surprise. The DCC scanned
their faces. Detective Inspector Mario McGuire, his own Special
Branch chief, Superintendent Harry McGuigan from Strathclyde, then
Lorraine Morrison, from Tayside, Walter Paton, from Central, Joe
Impey from Dumfries and Galloway, Brian Burns from Fife, Andrew
Macintosh, from Grampian and lan Evans from Northern, detective
inspectors all.
'Good afternoon, people,' he said briskly. 'Welcome to Fettes, and
thank you all for getting here promptly.
'I know that in your roles as heads of Special Branch, you maintain
regular contact with each other, so wholesale introductions aren't
necessary. However, for those of you who don't know my companions,
the officer on my right is Detective Chief Superintendent Andy
Martin, my Head of CID, and on my left is Detective Sergeant Neil
Mcllhenney, my Executive Assistant.
20
'Mr Martin is here as my deputy in these matters. I'll explain DS
Mcllhenney's role later. Now, to business. All of you, even Mario
McGuire, my own head of Special Branch, thought that this was
going to be an ordinary liaison meeting. It isn't, and for that small
deception, I apologise.
'So why the hell are you here? Don't worry, I'm going to tell you,
but first, I want to say this. You all work on a confidential basis, and
know the importance of keeping your mouths shut. This meeting isn't
just confidential, it's Top Secret. Neither its existence nor its subject
are to be discussed with anyone, other than members of this group, or
with your own Chief Constables. In this instance, all of you are
working directly under my command, so that's an order.'
He picked up McGuire's glance. 'Yes, Mario, that applies to you
too. I know your wife's a Detective Chief Inspector, but she doesn't
need to know about this.'
Skinner looked round the table. 'You'll all remember a couple of
years ago, when we had major problems here in Edinburgh with a
gang of terrorists at the Festival.' There was a general murmur of
confirmation round the table, and a few nods.
'Well this time, we may have something similar on our hands.
Martin, Neil and Mario are aware of this, and now you should be
too, if only so that you understand the strength of what we're dealing
with here. Sir John Govan may have taken over from me as the
Secretary of State's security adviser and good luck to him ...' Only
Martin and Mcllhenney caught the edge of bitterness in Skinner's
tone. '... but that doesn't affect my links with, or my position
within, Ml 5.'
He paused, to let his words sink in. 'Last weekend, the Director
General had a call from his opposite number in the Secret Intelligence
Service. The Cold War may be long behind us, but as we've seen all
too often, that doesn't make the world a less dangerous place, or take
away the need to gather knowledge of potential threats to our national
interests.
'There are some people out there who are potential threats to
everyone. They're for hire, and the skill they sell is violence. The
media call them international terrorists, but that's too broad a
description. Very few of them are motivated by creed or belief; their
driving force is large lumps of cash paid into Swiss bank accounts.
They are not street criminals. You won't find them behind any gang
murders, not in the States, not here, not in Russia, not anywhere.
'They are what the boys in the CIA really do call wet workers;
assassins for hire to take out political and other targets. There are no
21
COO-U 0-7
formal qualifications required, but in fact most of them are ex-special
forces.
'All of the major intelligence services have a list of these people.
They know who they are, where they're based, the identities they use,
the type of job they handle. There's a database in Langley which lists
them all, and which even shows their operational records. We have
partial access to it.' He smiled, softly. 'Partial, because the CIA is
understandably shy about even us getting to know which projects
they've sponsored themselves.
'As far as possible, these subjects are kept under constant observation
by the Western Intelligence services, who in this instance at least
pool resources and information. But they're good, these folk; they're
aware of that, and whenever they've got something cooking, they
simply drop out of sight, to reappear, maybe somewhere else, maybe
under another name once the job's done. These patterns of movement
actually give a good picture of who was behind what. They also give
the intelligence community a clear idea when a project is under way.'
Skinner looked round the table. 'That's what's happened here,' he
said. 'The message which Ml 6 passed to Five a few days ago,
concerned the disappearance of one Michael Hawkins from surveillance
in Cape Town.' He looked around the table once more.
'Michael Hawkins is the current identity of a man formerly known,
during his service with the South African army, as Hencke van Roost.
Using a variety of names, other than those, he has completed projects
for the intelligence services of five different countries, and for at least
six political or fundamentalist organisations.
'His credits include the assassination by bomb, a few years back,
of an Asian Head of State, a shooting in Dublin which was thought to
be gang-related but which in fact was carried out for political reasons,
and the elimination of a very high-profile international public figure
... Guess who? ... in which the official verdict was accidental death.
'When one of these people goes to ground, then naturally enough
the intelligence services want to know why ... unless one of them
already knows, in which case the word is passed discreetly to the
sponsor's friends.
'When Hawkins slipped his surveillance it took everyone by
surprise. The first thought was that he had a role in the recent US
Embassy bombings in Africa, and was running for his life, or indeed
that he might already have lost it. But the US scotched that one. The
Osama bin Laden terror group did have a specialist adviser in those
incidents, but he was taken out in the initial missile strike on
Afghanistan.
'The Americans, however, did volunteer information from one of