Lethal Intent (41 page)

'Yeah, sorry, mate. I'm on the move, that's all.'

Martin could hear background noise: people calling out, their voices filled with urgency. 'What's up?' he asked.

'The proverbial balloon,' Skinner sighed, 'but I can't talk about it. Switch on the telly, and I reckon you'll find out soon. What do you want?'

'It's this Murtagh thing: I'm almost certain that Brindsley Groves is his father. The official version's a load of crap: his mother never married, so she was never widowed by any tragic works accident. Groves did his MBA at York, where she lived; Tommy was born around the time he went back to Dundee and joined the family firm.'

'That's very interesting, but really, Andy, I cannot deal with this just now.'

'Will I speak to Neil?' Martin asked.

'No, please don't. He has his hands full as well.'

'Okay, I'll leave it till tomorrow, if you insist, but there's one other thing I wanted to ask you. I checked out the current beneficiaries of the Groves family trust. There are four: Herbert Groves, Brindsley's son, Rowena, his daughter, Tommy Murtagh, and someone called Chris Aikenhead. Do you have any idea who he is?'

It was as if Skinner had been given an instant shot of a powerful stimulant. 'What?' he exclaimed, his voice back to full strength. 'Andy,' he continued, 'if you're desperate to talk to someone tonight, get hold of Stevie Steele, wherever he is. Your investigation and his have just bumped into each other.'

Eighty-three

Aileen de Marco had never driven as fast after dark. She had done as Bob had asked and had heard the Home Secretary's manner change from one of annoyance, to bewilderment and finally to panic, all within thirty seconds. Then, rather than leave Lena McElhone at home to field incoming London calls about which she knew nothing, she had taken her with her in the Fiat. Her presence was a bonus, for Lena was a St Andrews graduate and guided her along the fastest, straightest road to the town.

They kept the radio switched on all the way. The eight o'clock news headlines told them that reports were coming in of an incident in the university town, they gave no details, but reminded listeners that the Prince was a student there.

When they arrived, the whole of North Street was blocked off by armed police, and a contingent of the RAF regiment flown down from Leuchars, but when Aileen identified herself a detective sergeant took them into his charge and led them towards the college.

A small group of journalists, photographers and television crews had been allowed inside the perimeter, under tight control. They recognised the minister and called out to her. She stopped and walked across. 'Wait, please,' she said, stilling their cries. 'I don't know what's happened yet; I'm just going in to be briefed. When I can I'll talk to you.'

As the sergeant led them into the quadrangle, they stopped in their tracks, shocked by the devastation, and the mangled side of tire building. Lena gave a stifled scream; she had known it well.

They passed through the bloody hall, where five large white sheets had been laid over the dead, and found Skinner in a room at the back of the building. Aileen had seen him straight from a transatlantic flight, but then he had looked nowhere near as exhausted. He was slumped in a chair, pale-faced and wearing a military flak jacket. A glass of whisky lay on a table near his right hand, which seemed to her to be trembling very slightly.

He stood when he saw her enter. Their eyes met, then they came together in a great shivering hug. 'Thank God you're here to warm me, baby,' he whispered in her ear. 'I thought I was going to freeze to death.'

'Hush, now,' she murmured, stroking his hair. 'It's all right.' The chief constable, Lena McElhone, Bandit Mackenzie, and the detective sergeant all looked away, trying to be as invisible as possible.

When Skinner had stopped shaking, she released him from her embrace and made him sit once more. She turned to Chief Constable Tallent. is the Prince safe?' she asked.

'Yes. There was an attempt to kidnap him, but thanks to DCC Skinner and his men it was foiled.'

'Those…' she hesitated '… in the hall?'

He understood her question. 'There have been seven fatalities in the building,' he told her. 'Two students killed by the blast and another by gunfire, two of my officers and two members of the royal protection squad.'

'And three outside,' said Skinner, hoarsely, from his chair. 'Two soldiers and one of the kidnappers; his body's down by the Sea Life Centre, being guarded by the military.'

'Can I go there?'

'You don't want to. Anyway, it's off limits to everybody for now.' His eyes were still slightly glazed as he took a sip of his whisky.

She turned back to the chief. 'How many kidnappers were there?'

'Four in all. Three escaped by boat, although Mr Skinner says that one is wounded, possibly fatally.'

'Probably,' the DCC snapped. 'I shot him in the middle of the back, right between the shoulder-blades. He fell into the boat.'

Chief Constable Tallent nodded. 'The RAF have scrambled aircraft and are searching for them. We believe that they'll be meeting up with a larger vessel offshore.'

'Do we know anything about the attackers?'

The chief hesitated.

'It's all right, Clarence,' said Skinner. 'Aileen's entitled to know; anyway, we might as well go public now. They were a gang of Albanians, four of them, and their aim was to collect the biggest ransom pay-off in history. They got paid off all right, and any minute now the RAF will be blowing what's left of them out of the water.' He smiled, weakly. 'That last bit isn't for the press, by the way.'

'Killed trying to escape?'

'They are certainly still armed. They may even have another missile. No chances will be taken.'

'I understand; anyway, that's military business. Chief Constable,' she continued, 'there's a hungry media pack outside. Shall we give them a joint statement for the ten o'clock news programmes?'

'It's very early in the investigation,' Tallent answered, doubtfully.

'What bloody investigation, Clarence?' Skinner snarled; he pushed himself to his feet once more, stripping off the flak jacket and throwing it into a corner. 'We know what's happened, and we know who did it. It's a national issue, there's Christ knows what speculation already, and the people need to be told: most of all they need to be told that the prince is safe and sound.'

He looked at Aileen. 'Get out there and tell them, Minister. Just don't mention the body count, for there are next of kin to be told, and don't mention my name.'

'If she doesn't I will,' said the chief constable gruffly. 'Let's do it, then.'

Aileen was in the doorway, when she turned. 'Bob, I understand that you don't have transport back to Edinburgh. When this is over, can I give you a lift?'

Skinner's tired smile crinkled the lines around his eyes. 'That's very kind of you. Do you have room for DCI Mackenzie as well? His transport's gone too, and I'd hate for him to have to hitch-hike in this weather.'

Eighty-four

The flashing green light on the telephone receiver told Stevie Steele that he had a message as soon as he and Maggie stepped into the house. He pushed the hands-free button, then play-back and listened.

'Stevie, it's Andy Martin here. There's something I've been working on and a name's come up. I've been told I should speak to you about it, urgently. So if you get in at a reasonable hour, say before eleven, give me a call on this number.' Steele grabbed a pen and scribbled as Martin recited. 'Failing that, I'll call you in the office tomorrow, nine sharp.'

'Wonder what that's about?' said Maggie. 'He sounded pumped up. That's not like him: he's usually pretty cool. Go on, give him a call: it's only just gone ten fifteen.'

He nodded and walked through to the play-room, where he picked up the phone and sprawled on the couch. He dialled; Martin picked up on the first ring. 'You're keen, sir,' he chuckled, 'or were you sat beside the phone?'

'You wake the baby, I get grief.'

Stevie smiled, thinking of days to come. 'Sorry to call you back so late, then; we were at a movie. In that case, whatever you want to discuss must be really urgent.'

'Bob Skinner said it was. I spoke to him earlier tonight and happened to mention a name. He sparked on it and said it might relate to an investigation of yours.'

'Try me.'

'Chris Aikenhead.'

Steele smiled. 'Indeed it does, sir,' he said softly. 'Do you want to go first, or will I?'

'Fire away.'

'We've had three incidents here, two fatal, one might have been, all involving the children of police officers who worked on a specific case together. It ended in the suicide of the accused, following which the guilty verdict was turned over by the appeal court. Chris Aikenhead was her husband.'

'Of course: Patsy Aikenhead, the child-minder who killed the baby.'

'That's not what the appeal court decided.'

'Maybe not, but it's what Dan Pringle believes to this day. Are you telling me this Chris Aikenhead killed Ross, and George's kid?'

'No,' Steele replied, vehemently. 'He couldn't have. He's missing half of one leg. The guy I'm looking for ran up a mountain in the snow with Neil McIlhenney's boy, and put Mario McGuire in hospital into the bargain.'

'Ouch! I'd have thought you'd need three legs to do that. So where does that leave you, with him out of the frame?'

'It leaves me looking at the parents of Mariel Dickens, the dead child. That's on my agenda for tomorrow.'

'I reckon you'll be wasting your time. I was the head of CID's gofer in those days: we had a look at the investigation after it went pear-shaped and, from what I remember, the mother was the main breadwinner in the family because the father had severe multiple sclerosis.'

Steele groaned, and made a face at Maggie, who had come to sit beside him. 'If you're right, unless Mrs Dickens is a hell of a woman, that just leaves Patsy's family.'

'And that's where I might be able to help. Have you ever heard of the Groves Charitable Trust?'

'No, sir. Should I?'

'I don't suppose so,' Martin conceded. 'It's a foundation that provides for the family of the owners of Herbert Groves Construction plc, a big construction firm based on my patch. The current beneficiaries include the children of the present boss of the company. They also include Chris Aikenhead.'

'How come?'

'Have you read the papers in the Aikenhead investigation?'

'Yes.'

'Can you remember the name under which Patsy was charged, her full, formal name, that is, as it went on the charge sheet?'

'No, but I didn't pay any attention to that, because I didn't think it was relevant.'

'Sod it. We might as well have waited until tomorrow.'

'Not at all: I've got the file at home with me. It's in my briefcase.'

Maggie jumped up. 'I'll get it,' she called out, as she headed for the door.

'Thanks, love. It's in the bedroom.'

'Was that who I think it is?' asked Martin.

Stevie chuckled. 'You're well out of the Edinburgh loop, aren't you?'

'I didn't realise how much until now. Are you together?'

'Permanently.'

'That's great. I'm happy for you both.'

Maggie returned with the case and handed it to him. Quickly, he spun the combination locks, opened it and took out the file. 'Hold on till I flip through this,' he said, the phone jammed between his shoulder and his ear. 'Let's see,' he mumbled. 'No, not that. Wait a minute, yes. Here it is, a copy of the indictment. She was charged as Cleopatra Aikenhead… Patsy for short… and her maiden name is given as Murtagh.' He paused. 'Murtagh? That sounds very familiar.'

'Too right it is, Stevie,' Martin exclaimed, not trying to disguise his triumph. 'She is… or, rather, was… Tommy Murtagh's sister.'

Steele gasped. 'Stone me! That puts the First Minister at the top of the list of people I need to interview. That is one I am definitely not going to do without referring back to the boss. I'd better call him now. I hope I don't wake his kid.'

'Somehow I don't think you'll find him at home. I've just seen the BBC ten o'clock news; check out Ceefax or Sky, if you've got it, and you'll see that he's had a busy night'

Eighty-five

The drive back was much more gentle and sedate than the women's headlong rush to St Andrews had been. It was also virtually silent, once the radio news round-up was over and they had heard Clarence Tallent's trembling solemnity as he read his statement.

'The attempt was foiled,' he concluded, 'by a team from Edinburgh, headed by Deputy Chief Constable Bob Skinner. That's all we can tell you for now, but we hope to have more information later. Let me repeat: the Prince is safe and has been taken to another location.'

He was followed by Aileen de Marco, her voice steady and grave, as she paid tribute to the rescuers and offered her sympathies, and any effective help and support that her department could give, to the casualties.

When it was over, and he had switched off the radio, Skinner sat in the front passenger seat, staring ahead into the night, thinking about the part of the story he had not told Aileen, or the chief constable, the part they would never know.

He had sent the two surviving soldiers to guard Arrow's body, with orders to allow no one to come near it, not even the police; then he had called the commanding officer of RAF Leuchars and had arranged for it to be removed by helicopter, taken to the air station and kept under guard. He had told him a simplified version of the truth, that the dead man was a member of the intelligence services, and that his presence at the scene could never be acknowledged.

There would be a cover-up: he knew that. Rudy Sewell and the other conspirators would be disposed of in some way. A bullet in the head, explained to relatives as death in the line of duty; military detention, explained as missing in action; or perhaps, in the bizarre world in which they lived, they might simply be dismissed from the service and kept under supervision for the rest of their lives.