Skinner's Ordeal (32 page)

She grinned at him, coyness and lust mixing in her eyes. `Let me go home to pick up a change of clothes, then.'

`That's what I like about you London girls. You're so hard to persuade. Okay, you do that.

But don't keep me waiting. I want to have a serious talk with you tonight.'

Shana stared at him in surprise. 'Serious, Captain Arrow? You?'

He stood up from his desk and came towards her, enfolding her in his arms. 'Why not?

We've been seeing each other for a while now. Just to show you how seriously I take you, Ms Mirzana, tonight I'll be home by eight, and I'll even cook. Spicy sausage in tomato sauce, with pasta tubes.'

'Penne Picante
. I love that.' She rubbed herself against him.

`That's good to hear. I got into terrible trouble, once, when I asked for that in a restaurant in Spain. It means "Hot Cock" in Spanish!'

She drew him close and kissed him, leaning over him slightly. Ì'm game for some of that,'

she murmured. 'I like it Castilian style.'

`Later!' he said, turning her and propelling her towards the door. For now, woman, back to your silent office.'

She grimaced. 'Must I? It's like a morgue there. All the paper's going to the Minister of State. There's nothing for Joseph and me to do.'

`That'll suit Webber. He'll be able to put in more time in the Red Lion. Between you and me, I heard that Morelli was going to cut his notice period, and let him leave straight away.'

Ì know. Joe told me this morning. He goes on Friday. Adam, have you heard any gossip about who the new Secretary of State will be, or even when he'll be appointed? All my sources have dried up.'

Arrow continued to ease her gently and very slowly towards the door. 'The hot tip was Andrew Hardy, the Scottish Office guy. But the problem is that they're short of Tories in Scotland, and McGrath's death made it worse. So it looks as if he's stuck there. Now the word is that the Minister of State in Northern Ireland is being lined up, but that his Secretary of State is baffling to keep him. If he wins that fight, then Maglone, the Minister of State here, will get it. But however it goes there'll be no announcement until Sunday, after the memorial service for Davey in his Constituency. Now,' he said firmly, patting her bottom. 'On your way!'

He closed the door on her and went back to his desk, to start his scrutiny of the pile of submissions. The task was easier than he had feared would be the case. He began by eliminating those papers where the decision was purely administrative, where it was wholly routine, or where it was inevitable. This editing process left him with a small pile of contentious decisions.

The great majority involved the continuing battle with Her Majesty's Treasury to hold the Ministry's budget at a level which its establishment felt to be consistent with effective defence. A few involved troop deployments which were not in the public domain, including secret assignments in which Arrow's own SAS unit had been involved. An even smaller group involved purchasing decisions.

Of these Arrow was drawn back again and again to one submission.

It involved the placing of a contract for air-to-ground missiles, to equip Harrier aircraft of the RAF and Fleet Air Arm. Arrow remembered the controversy which Davey's decision had caused at the time of its announcement. He had turned down the option of an English weapon with a revolutionary guidance system developed by a relatively small firm in the Cumbrian town of Workington, in favour of a conventional, work-horse, and, it was said, slightly outmoded missile, built in France by a consortium of European countries.

Arrow read and re-read the submission. Davey's decision had been taken against all Departmental advice, in the face of a field test which showed the home-based product to be far superior to the European concoction, and finally, despite overwhelming cost advantages.

`What the hell!' Arrow muttered to himself, as he read the Secretary of State's curtly delivered decision for the third time. Ìf that isn't worth a bloody good look, I don't know what is.'

He picked up his telephone and dialled an internal number. John Swift, his colleague and number two, answered at once. `Swifty,' said Arrow. 'You still got that SIS contact?'

`Yes,' grunted the Yorkshireman.

`Well, see if you can use it for me. I need a warts-and-all report on a European defence consortium called Aerofoil. They got a bloody big contract from us a few months ago, and for the life of me I can't see why!'

SIXTY-EIGHT

‘You know, Neil, I never realised it before, but one of the advantages of being a copper has to lie in the fact that we never have to stay in court to listen to the Judge's summing-up. What a balls-aching bore of a day this has been! I'm thirty-six, a man in his prime. An unlimited spell on the loose in London should be my dream, yet here I am, just wishing I was back home with my wife.'

Mcllhenney laughed quietly in the darkness. 'Listen, sir, I can think of worse days in my career than one spent sitting in the back row of the Old Bailey gallery watching the top of Ariadne Tucker's wig. And I'm sure that my Olive's enjoying her break from me.'

He shifted his body behind the steering wheel of the parked car. 'I remember after Tony Manson's murder, when Andy Martin and I had to interview all the tarts from those sauna brothels of his. You'd have thought that given their line of work, so to speak, they'd have had access to soap and water. But sweet suffering Christ did they hum. From the smell of sweat off them, ye'd have thought they did their business actually in the bloody saunas!

Aye,' he said reflectively, 'after that, a day in a courtroom gallery's not that much of a chore.'

`So you didn't like the Drugs and Vice squad, then?' asked Donaldson.

'I didn't say that. It was about half and half. As far as the vice stuff goes, for a lot of the time we're regulators. The law says prostitution isn't a social service, but we all know that it is. We all know what these saunas are like, but if the councillors licensè them, which they do, then fair enough. All we can do is make sure that no one works there who doesn't want to, that those that do are old enough to know what it's about, and that they're clean. I think the Council should send the Environmental Health people in on regular inspections, but they're not that liberated - not yet, anyway.'

He paused, looking across at the DCI from the driver's seat of their car. 'No, it's the drugs side of it that gives you job satisfaction in D 'n V. Every time you break a supply chain, that's good. And it gets better the higher up the chain you go. The guys at the top are clever, and they've got a hell of a lot of firepower, but every so often one of them'll get careless, or someone becomes more scared of us than of him. Then we get a real result . . .

there's no better sight than a big dealer going away for fifteen years.'

Ìn that case,' said Donaldson, 'how come everyone I spoke to was so worried when Tony Manson got the chop?'

Mcllhenney shook his head. Ach, come on, nobody was worried about Manson. The thing was, he was the devil we knew. He was the only drug dealer I ever heard of with anything that passed for principles. He didn't sell to kids, and he only dealt in pure stuff, not crap.

When he went, all sorts of cowboys moved in. That girl who stabbed the boss worked for one of them, I'm sure.'

`Yes, I know,' Donaldson interrupted. 'He was nicked early this morning, right in his factory. A bloke called Divers. Alison told me when I called her.'

`Vic Divers? The Squad's been after him for a while. How did we get him?'

The DCI chuckled. 'Somebody grassed him.'

`You're kidding!'

'No. Apparently, on Monday, after the Big Man was attacked, our Andy came down on the city like a ton of bricks. Anybody with even the faintest suspicion of illegality about them was turned over. He was pulling people in for farting in the street, more or less! At the same time he put the word out that things would stay that way until we had arrested the guy behind the operation that the boss ran into. Yesterday he had an anonymous phone call putting Divers in the frame and telling him where to find him.'

`Great stuff,' said Mcllhenney. 'I know that Divers. He'll be so pissed off about being shopped that he'll tell us tales about everyone he knows. I tell you, man, the jails will be full and running over by the weekend.' He laughed. 'Aye, you'll like D 'n V all right, sir.'

Donaldson's eyes widened so that the whites showed, even in the dim light of the Putney street-lamps. 'What d'you mean?'

Mcllhenney smiled inwardly, knowing that he had scored a hit. 'Call it an educated guess.

There are only two serious candidates for Andy Martin's old job. The way big Bob's played it in the past, the Head of D 'n V's always a DCI promoted into the post. Of all the runners, it'll lie between you and Brian Mackie, and Brian's too tied into Special Branch to be moved.'

`You're dreaming, Mcllhenney. No one's said a thing to me.'

`Hah! You'll be the last to know!'

`You serious about this?'

Àye. Only one thing can stop it, as I see it.'

`What's that?'

Ìf it turns out that Ariadne and her soldier boyfriend booby-trapped wee Maurice's lunchbox right enough, you and I'll be doing nothing for the next six months but working on the trial.'

The big Sergeant paused, considering the implications for his own career. 'After that, you'll be a Superintendent and I'll be a Inspector, and we'll both be in uniform. Our faces'll be too well known to be useful in CID for a while.'

`Bugger that,' said Donaldson vehemently. 'Let's get out of here then. When's the Met guy due on shift to relieve us?'

Mcllhenney peered at his watch in the dim light, and looked back along the one-way street towards Ariadne Tucker's house. `Five minutes ago,' he said. 'In fact, I think he's there now. More than that, Garen Price is heading in this direction.'

He had hardly finished speaking before the back door of their Peugeot, a step up from the undistinguished Vauxhall, opened and the Welsh Detective Sergeant slid in behind them.

`Hello, boyo,' said Mcllhenney. 'What brings you here? Did you remember that it was your turn to buy the beer?'

Price's smile gleamed in the silver night. 'You lads will be in the chair when you hear what I've got here.' He produced a tape cassette from his jacket pocket and handed it to Donaldson. `Drive on down the road, well away from here, then shove it in the player.'

Mcllhenney switched on the engine and moved smoothly and quietly away from their observation point. 'What is it, then?' he asked, over his shoulder. Price leaned back in his seat, still smiling, but said nothing.

He made a sharp left turn, then a right. He drove for just under a minute until another right turn took them out on just Clapham Common, where he drew to a halt at the kerbside.

`Come on, Garen,' he said in exasperation to the wide-grinning Welshman. 'What the fuck is it?'

`We picked it up tonight off the telephone tap. I thought I’d share it with you right away . .

. and then let you buy me that beer.'

'Let's see how many pints it's worth, then,' said Donaldson. He pushed the cassette into the player. A hiss came from the speakers as the tape started to run.

The white noise continued for a few seconds, until it was broken by the sound of a phone.

It was answered on the fifth ring. 'Six-seven-eight-two,' said a soft, well-spoken male voice.

`Stephen!' At once Ariadne Tucker's voice sounded slightly petulant. 'Why didn't you show up in court today? I put off a consultation this afternoon and stayed there, listening to boring old Ormrod's summation, all because I was expecting you.'

Ì'm sorry, darling. It's all hell down here. We've had a no-notice inspection team in from MOD. Everyone's stuck on base until it's over. I was going to call you, but later, when I was sure you'd be home.'

Ariadne sighed softly. 'Oh! Poor darling. Imagine, being stuck in bloody Aldershot!'

Àye, imagine,' echoed Mcllhenney grimly.

Her tone changed yet again, taking on a sudden urgency. 'Are we still all right for the weekend?'

`Yes, of course, even if it means resorting to Plan B.' He paused. 'Listen, Ariadne darling, are you really sure that this is kosher, and all that, so soon after Maurice dying? Before the funeral?'

`Stephen, my poor little Galahad, if I didn't feel any guilt when Maurice was alive, why the hell should it bother me now that he's gone? As for the funeral, it looks as if he's been cremated already, in mid-air. I'll hold a memorial service at an appropriate time, in a couple of weeks perhaps. In the meantime, a woman's needs are many fold, as they say.'

She laughed, suddenly, out loud. The sound rang round the car, startling at least two of the three detectives.

`How's this for a joke? I had the police round last night, wondering if I might be having an affair with Colin Davey.' seems that one line of enquiry is that Maurice thought I was, and might have been driven to kill him, and take himself out in the process. They've got the affair part right — too bad they're wrong about the name, eh? And about Maurice's murderous intentions.'

Her laugh deepened, becoming a chuckle. 'Imagine, me and Colin Davey. Every time I met the man he made my flesh creep! Oh no,' she said with a flourish. 'My tastes are much more agreeable than that.'

Òhh!' Stephen Richards moaned in the dark. 'Well, my darling. You'll have the opportunity to indulge them at the weekend.'

`Yes, sweetheart. And you will have the object of your heart's desire. Sleep tight.' She blew a kiss into the phone and hung up.

White noise hissed around the car once more. The three men sat silent, until finally, Donaldson ejected the tape.

`She's a cold-hearted piece of stuff, is she not,' he said quietly, to himself as much as anyone.

`Not half,' said Mcllhenney. 'I'll be extra nice to my Olive from now on.' He switched on the engine and drove off steadily into the night.

`So where does that put us, sir?' he asked, swinging away from the Common and heading off in the general direction of Chelsea Bridge.

‘For a start,' said the DCI, 'although it doesn't rule out the possibility that the paranoid Noble might have believed that his wife was having it off with Davey, she seems pretty definite that he didn't kill him . . . Why is that, I wonder? Is it simply because she doesn't think he had the stuff to do it, or because she and the soldier boy killed him, themselves?'