Quintin Jardine - Death's Door

Actually, when he thought about it, there was only one Bob Skinner. Even in England he was legendary, although in some eyes notorious, for his ability to delegate and yet still manage to stay involved. Cairns had seen the man for himself a few days before, and he had to admit, he had an air about him, a compelling friendliness, yet with menace close to the surface.

His call had come entirely out of the blue, and it had been intriguing. His request was simple, investigate and report, to be carried out by someone with Special Branch clearance, with nothing on paper. The temptation had been too much to resist and, anyway, the place was not all that far from HQ. He had called up his favourite car and driver, harbouring a strong feeling that Skinner had guessed he would.

He gazed ahead until, around a slow right curve, he saw an old finger-pointing road sign that read ‘Walkdean’. ‘That’s us,’ he murmured.

His driver turned off the road and into a track that led through a copse and opened out into flat countryside. Around half a mile away, Cairns could see a line of grey wooden huts, two tall hangars and what appeared to be a parking area for cars and microlight aircraft. Beyond, rising above them all, there was a control tower, and to the right, on the other side of the landing strip, two squat round tanks, which he assumed contained aviation fuel. ‘Find the office,’ he instructed.

It was easy enough. As they drew closer he saw a sign fixed to the side of the first hut: ‘Walkdean Airfield. Leisure flying and general aviation. Enquire within.’ They pulled up at the door, and the deputy chief stepped out, buttoning the tweed jacket that he had picked up on the way out to disguise what was clearly a uniform shirt.

Two steps led up to a door marked ‘office’. He opened it and went inside.

‘Morning,’ a woman greeted him brightly. ‘Welcome to Walkdean. I’m Chloë Ritter, proprietor. How can I help you?’

‘Les Cairns,’ he said, shaking her hand and finding her grip as strong as his. ‘Northumbria Constabulary.’

‘What have we done?’

‘Nothing, I hope,’ he replied, the police-punter cliché conversation. ‘I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, that’s all.’

‘Fire away.’

‘Thanks. What sort of traffic do you get through here?

‘It varies; it’s mostly hobby flying, but we do get some commercial landings. There are a few swish resort hotels in the area and they use us when guests want to fly in, for golfing weekends or whatever. I keep hoping that a helicopter firm will decide to base itself here but, to be honest, I think we’re on the wrong side of Newcastle for that.’

‘Did you have anyone land last Saturday?’

She nodded. ‘The usual swarm of microlights, Mr Alexander in his Piper and, oh, yes, the Beechcraft.’

‘What was that?’ Cairns asked.

‘A Beechcraft Bonanza, twin-prop; a cracking little plane, although it’s bigger than it looks in terms of payload.’

‘Were you expecting it?’

‘No, it wasn’t booked in. He came on radio asking for landing clearance and my husband gave him the okay; he was in the control tower at the time.’

‘Family business?’

‘Yes. We own all the land around here, but the farming operation is all tenanted now. This is what we like doing.’

‘Did you see the pilot?’

‘Yes, I did. As soon as he had parked and offloaded his motorcycle he came across, paid his landing fee, and roared off. We’re a cash-only business,’ she added.

‘His motorcycle?’

‘Yes. I’ve seen that before. People fly in from other cities, land here and then bike it into Newcastle. Some even use pedal cycles.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘I’m afraid not. I never saw his face close up. He was wearing his crash helmet when he came in here, and when he came back, it was my turn to be up in the control tower, shepherding the microlights.’

‘Would your husband have seen him?’

‘I doubt it. The guy rode straight up to the plane, loaded the bike, up its little ramp, then climbed inside. He had to wait for take-off clearance, in the queue with the flying sewing-machines, but he got off all right.’

‘He didn’t refuel?’

‘Obviously he didn’t need to. Bonanzas have a range of around eight hundred miles with a low payload, as this chap had.’

‘Right,’ said Cairns. ‘That’ll be all, Mrs Ritter. You’ve been very helpful.’

‘My pleasure, but can you tell me what it’s all about? Has he crashed, or was he doing something illegal?’

He would have answered her question, but he knew no more than she did, and so instead he shook his head and fed her another cliché. ‘No, no, nothing like that; purely routine.’ He gave her a brief salute and stepped outside.

The security service safe house was in Millfields Road, a quiet thoroughfare well away from congestion zones, cars parked outside houses with the security of traffic-calming bumps, which prevented them being driven away at high speed.

David Barnes was waiting for Skinner and McGuire at a table in an upstairs room when they arrived just after two p.m. He was handcuffed and his ankles were secured to the legs of his chair. He glared at them as they entered and sat opposite him. ‘What the ’ell is this?’ he barked, in broad Mancunian. ‘Who are you barstards?’

The two detectives produced their warrant cards. ‘That’s who we are,’ said McGuire, as Skinner leaned back and stared coldly across the table. ‘And this is about you being done for the murder of two men, one of them a police officer.’

‘You’re crazy!’ Barnes screamed. ‘I never murdered anyone in my life.’

‘Of course you did,’ the chief superintendent told him. ‘You were in the army, a sergeant on duty with KFOR in Kosovo, about seven years ago. You were part of an interrogation team that interpreted its orders very broadly. You killed three prisoners under questioning in separate incidents, but the third one went public and you became an embarrassment. Consequently your death in action was reported, and you were quietly made to disappear, with the help of Mr Davor Boras, a facilitator with links to the CIA. You went to work for him as his chauffeur-cum-bodyguard. Your duties also included piloting the company’s light aircraft on occasion.

‘A few years ago, Mr Boras and his son decided that it would be a good idea if they appeared to be at odds, and so Dražen was seen to leave his old man’s business, set up on his own and take an English name. . David Barnes, on the basis that it might be handy to have two of you around.’

McGuire leaned forward. ‘Are you going to dispute any of that?’ he hissed. ‘Because my boss and I would love to interrogate you, just like you used to in Kosovo, only we’re better at it than you were. We won’t kill you, we won’t mark you, but we will fucking well waste you, in memory of our dead colleague.’

Barnes looked, and believed. ‘You’ve got all that right,’ he murmured, ‘but I never killed no copper.’

‘No,’ said Skinner. ‘This is what you did. On Saturday morning Davor Boras called you to see him. He gave you a return e-ticket for the Edinburgh shuttle out of Heathrow at twelve fifteen. He also gave you clothes, specifically jeans, a T-shirt, a very garish denim jacket and cap, and a pair of Oakleys. He ordered you to fly north, in that gear, and to meet the other David Barnes at a location in Edinburgh.

’You did just that. You met Dražen, you changed clothes, and you gave him the return ticket. Then you rode his motorbike back to Walkdean Airfield, near Newcastle, where Dražen had parked the company Beechcraft, and flew it back to the depot in London, returning to London in transport he had left there.