Lethal Intent (39 page)

'That's quite a downpour,' he replied, 'losing your kid. But it didn't just rain on George and Jen Regan: the cloud hovered over Dan and Elma Pringle as well. Their daughter was gassed last week by a heater in her room on Riccarton Campus. She died a couple of days later.'

Aikenhead's eyes held his. 'That's bad luck,' he said, coldly.

'Yes, it was. Fortunately Neil and Louise McIlhenney were luckier: their son was supposed to have a fatal accident up at Hillend on Saturday, but he managed to escape from the man who took him.'

'A real chapter of accidents, from the sound of it.'

'That's what we were meant to think, but thanks to some excellent work in our lab, we can prove they weren't. We're looking at two counts of murder, and one of attempted abduction. Can I take you back through your movements over the last ten days, sir? For example, where were you on Saturday afternoon, when we had that blizzard?'

Chris Aikenhead stared at the two detectives in absolute astonishment: and then, without warning, he exploded into laughter. When finally, it subsided, he shook his head. 'Make it easy for yourselves,' he said, still chuckling. 'Just get the fuck out of my house.'

'You've got it the wrong way round,' Steele snapped back, his patience eroded. 'We have a warrant to search these premises; if you don't start treating our questions with respect I will have a team up here within half an hour and we will take this place apart.'

'You want answers?' Aikenhead shot back. 'I'll give you one answer, and that's all you'll need.' He seized the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. Standing erect and staring down at both of his interrogators, he unbuckled his belt, unfastened his jeans and let them fall to the ground.

His right leg had been amputated just above the knee, and replaced by a prosthesis. He let them stare at it for several seconds, then dropped back into his seat and pulled himself back, awkwardly, into his trousers.

'That's the reason I came off the rigs,' he told them, calmly. 'I lost it ten months ago. I'm getting good on the new one, but only on level ground. Any more questions?'

'Just one,' Steele replied. 'Why didn't you tell us that at the start?'

'Haven't you worked that one out yet? I don't like you guys. It doesn't matter whether it's you two or the other three, you're all the same to me, unsympathetic bastards in suits whose only interest is in getting a result. That man Pringle bullied my Patsy into confessing to something she didn't do; because of that and because of two clowns who couldn't be bothered to see for themselves, she died a miserable death in a prison cell.'

Aikenhead paused; his anger had been replaced by pain. 'You know,' he murmured, 'since I met Jessie, I've actually been trying to forget about it all. I even thought that when my leg got ripped off, some of that old hurt got torn out as well. I was wrong: you guys have brought all of the injustice back, and more. You came in here prepared to accuse me of being a child-killer.'

He shook his head, sadly. Steele looked down at him, feeling awkward and, for once in his life, at a loss for words. 'I'm sorry,' was all he could say, as he and Wilding turned and headed for the door.

They were almost in the hall when Aikenhead called after them: 'What I don't understand is why you picked me. If I had decided to take revenge ten years on, why would I have killed their kids? An eye for an eye in my case would have been their wives.'

Eighty-one

The helicopter flew low and fast through the night skies. It was a big ugly brute of an aircraft, built for functionality and not for comfort. McIlhenney and Mackenzie were strapped into seats at the back with four uniformed soldiers, Skinner in front with the pilot.

It was gloomy: the only illumination came from the instrumentation and from a small night-light in the cabin, but outside and to their left, they could see the lights of the Fife coastal towns, as they swept across the Forth estuary. They were flying over land once more when the radio crackled into life in Skinner's headset.

'Bob, are you receiving me?' a tinny voice asked. 'It's Adam.' The pilot handed the DCC a microphone, showing him a button and pointing to indicate that he had to press to transmit. He took it from him.

'Receiving,' he shouted.

'I've advised the Palace of the possibility of a threat and told them that a detachment is on the way to St Andrews to secure the area. What action have you taken?'

'I've contacted the local chief constable: he's mobilising what resources he can. What will the Palace do?'

'They'll make direct contact with the protection officers on the ground, advise them of the situation and tell them that you're coming. He is in the college, Bob; repeat, in St Salvator's College building, in his private suite. Do you understand?'

'Received and understood. What about the number?'

'I've had no joy with that yet.'

'Keep trying. What do you want me to do with Amanda?'

'Keep holding her. She may be part of it, she may not; we don't know how far it goes yet. But forget that: what you have to do in the next hour will need your full attention.'

'Acknowledged. I'll call you when he's secured.' He put the microphone back in its slot below the instrument panel and stared out into the night. 'How close are we?' he asked the pilot.

'See those lights up ahead, sir? That's it. We're less than five minutes away.'

'Good. When we get there I need you to put us down as close to St Salvator's College as possible. Do you know the town?'

'Yes, but it's dark, sir,' the young lieutenant shouted back. 'Without proper lighting the safest place for me to land would be on the golf course.'

'I'm bothered about someone else's safety, not ours. If it's clear of students I want you to set us down right in the middle of St Salvator's quadrangle.'

'I'll try, sir, but no promises.'

The lights of St Andrews shone ever clearer, made brighter by the blanket of snow that still lay on the ground. As the aircraft swung over the town, Skinner could make out the shape of South Street, then Market Street and, furthest away, North Street, their objective.

'I can't get into the grounds, sir,' the pilot shouted. 'There are a lot of people down there.'

'In that case, set us down in the middle of North Street, but don't cut your engine. I want you to wait, ready to lift off immediately when your next passenger gets here.' He twisted round in his seat to face McIlhenney, Mackenzie and the four infantrymen. 'It's begun on the ground,' he shouted at them. 'We won't know what the situation is until we see it, but remember this, all of you: our only objective is to make the Prince safe and get him out of there. You've all studied photographs of Naim Latifi, the Ramadani brothers and Peter Bassam: if you see any one of them, put him down unless he's clearly unarmed and offering no resistance.'

'You mean shoot them, sir?' All of Mackenzie's customary flippancy had evaporated; even in the surreal light within the cabin, it was clear that his face was ghostly white.

Skinner stared at him. 'Bandit,' he asked, 'are you up for this? You can stay in the chopper if you want, and it will never be held against you. The same goes for you, Neil. You guys have got kids, after all.'

'So have you,' said McIlhenney, tersely. 'And the young man in the college, he's someone's kid as well.'

The DCC looked out of the window to the side. The pilot had taken him at his word: he had switched on his searchlight and was setting the aircraft down in the middle of North Street, next to the university chapel with its tall illuminated tower. The wheels were barely on the ground before Skinner jumped out, the Glock big in his hand and shining silver in the night.

As the pilot had said, they were not alone. A stream of young people were pouring out of Butts Wynd into the thoroughfare. They were running for their lives, and one or two were screaming. Some were bleeding, but the DCC reasoned that if they were mobile they could be cared for later.

'With me,' he ordered, then led his small force in the direction from which the crowd had come, round the corner of the chapel and into St Salvator's quadrangle.

The scene that greeted them was one of total chaos. More students rushed past them, barely noticing their presence. A few were not running; they lay on the ground, ominously still. He looked across the snow-covered grass to the college itself. He had been there once before, when he and Sarah, as guests at a Fife police summer event in the nearby Younger Hall, had been given overnight accommodation.

The doorway that they had used on that occasion no longer existed. It had been blown apart, and only a great gaping hole remained. Another blast had hit the façade of the old building further along. 'Missiles,' Skinner shouted at McIlhenney. 'The protection-squad guys would have secured the building when they got the alert. They just blasted their way in.'

A tall young student rushed towards them, intent on escape. The DCC grabbed him, halting his flight. 'Where is the Prince's suite?' he yelled. The terrified boy gazed at him, shock in his eyes, but the policeman had no time for sympathy. 'Where?' he roared again.

'One floor up, to the left.' Skinner set him free to run into the night. He turned to his six companions. 'You four,' he said to the soldiers. 'You've got carbines, so you're best in the open, I want two of you here to take down any of the targets if they get past us and try to escape this way, and the other two in The Scores, the street behind, covering the back. Neil, Bandit, we're going in.' As two of the infantrymen raced off across the lawn, and the others took position, the three police officers ran towards the newly carved entrance.

The building was ablaze with light: it had not occurred to the attackers to try to cut the power, or they had been completely confident of the effect of their ferocious assault. The trio sprinted inside, each covering the others' backs. The flood of fleeing students had subsided, and the entrance hall was empty… of the living, at any rate. A few must have been in the hall when the missile hit, three, Skinner reckoned, although he could not be certain. The bodies of two uniformed police officers, a chief inspector and a female constable lay at the foot of the stairs. They had each been shot at least a dozen times.

'Automatic weapons,' said the DCC, 'keep yourselves close to the ground, boys, and for Christ's sake, shoot first if you have to.' He led the way up the stairs, moving fast and silently.

At his heels, McIlhenney prayed silently, and thought of Lou and the children. He was aware that Mackenzie, by his side, was trembling; but he was pressing on nonetheless, defying his fear.

They reached the top of the stairs, which opened out on to a corridor; they had turned back upon themselves, and so if the student's direction was correct, the Prince's suite would be on their right. A doorway opposite offered some shelter: Skinner tensed himself and dived towards it, trusting that he still had the speed to beat an Albanian's trigger finger and a hail of bullets.

But none came: the corridor was eerily quiet. Taking his life in his hands once more, he stepped out of the doorway, braced and ready to fire.

Outside a door at the end, two figures, another constable and a man in a suit, lay still on the floor. The DCC ran towards them, beckoning his colleagues to follow. The man in plain clothes wore a small gold badge in his lapel, the sign of a protection officer; his right hand still clutched a pistol, loosely. He had been shot several times in the chest and head, and he was beyond help. Skinner felt the gun in his hand; it was warm, as if it had been fired.

The police officer was still alive: he had wounds in his right arm, shoulder and his upper chest, but he was not bleeding profusely, and he was conscious. 'You'll make it,' said Skinner, quietly. 'What's your name?'

'PC Alan McManus.'

'I'm Bob Skinner, from Edinburgh. How many years on the job, Alan?'

'Fourteen, sir.'

'All of them quiet till tonight, I'll bet. Tell me what I need to know.'

'They took him, sir,' the wounded officer replied, weakly and painfully. 'The other protection officer's in the suite; I think he's dead.'

'He is,' McIlhenney murmured. 'Just inside the door.'

'Where did they go?'

'Down the fire escape: there's a door over there that leads to it.'

'How many?'

'Three, but one was wounded.' PC McManus groaned. 'This man here got off a shot before they opened fire.'

'Okay. You just lie quiet now.' Skinner looked at Mackenzie and took pity on him. 'Bandit, you stay here: make him comfortable and make sure that the emergency services get to him as fast as possible.' He turned to McIlhenney. 'Neil, let's get after them. From Sean's map we have to assume that they're heading for the Sea Life Centre. We've heard no shots from outside, so they must have gone before our two soldiers got into position. But if one's wounded that might slow them down.'

They found the door that led to the fire escape, as the constable had described it. The emergency exit swung on its hinges. The DCC saw, with a burst of savage satisfaction, that it was smeared with blood. They trotted down the metal staircase at double time, no longer caring about noise, then found the gate that led out into The Scores.

The roadway was deserted; skeletal trees rose around them, shifting, ghostly figures in the weak glow of the sodium lamps.

'Bob,' McIlhenney whispered, hoarsely, breaking into a run once more. 'Look.' Skinner followed him across the road; on the other side, huddled against a low stone wall, the two infantrymen lay dead, their carbines by their sides. Each had been shot in the back, at close range, and again in the neck, a
coup de grâce.

'How the hell did the Albanians do that?' the big chief inspector asked himself, aloud. 'Poor bastards; it looks as if they never had a chance.'

'They must have had an outside man too: there were four of them in all, remember, including Bassam. I'd been guessing that the fourth man would be on the boat, but I must have been wrong: it looks as if he was guarding the escape route. Christ, they could almost be gone by now.'