Quintin Jardine - Stay of Execution

‘Bloody hell!’

‘That’s more or less what I said, but when you think about it, who else would pick a New York copper off the street, and drown him in the bath?’

‘There aren’t many other candidates, I’ll admit,’ said Steele, just as the door opened behind him and DS George Regan’s head appeared.

‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ he said to Chambers, then looked at Steele. ‘Got a minute, Stevie?’

‘If it’s important, yes. What is it?’

‘That car, the one you told us to trace?’

‘Yup. Mitsubishi Pajero, number SQ02ZZL, registered to Jose-Maria Alsina.’

‘We’ve found it.’

‘Where?’

‘In the long-stay car park at Edinburgh airport.’

‘Outstanding. Any idea how long it had been there?’

‘Can’t give you that, sir, I’m afraid. You know how crowded that place is.’

‘Anything from the airlines?’ asked Chambers.

‘We’re working on that, ma’am.’

‘No, you’re not, George,’ the superintendent replied amiably. ‘You’re standing in my doorway, waiting for someone to pat you on the head. Consider that done; now please go back and help Tarvil. We need to know which flight those two caught, and whether they had an ultimate destination beyond that.’

If Bob Skinner had ever been asked to nominate, as a frequent flyer, his least favourite European airport, Brussels would have come a close second to Heathrow. For all its turn-of-the-century improvements, he still found it annoying, claustrophobic and difficult to get around. Professionally he felt that its lay-out must make it a nightmare to police.

His flight from Edinburgh had been late, after an air-traffic-control departure delay had thrown it off schedule, so it was just past seven o’clock as he approached the British Airways information desk.

Adam Arrow was nowhere to be seen.

He walked up to the counter, where a richly dressed black woman was querying something on a flight ticket, then turned and looked around. Suddenly he felt something being pressed into the small of his back, something small and round.

‘Turn around very slowly,’ a voice growled.

Skinner began to do as he had been told, moving to his left. Then suddenly, he pivoted on his right foot, dropping his bag as he did so, knocking an arm aside and grabbing it by the wrist.

‘Careful, Bob,’ said Adam Arrow, ‘or you’ll break my fookin’ banana.’

The Scot laughed out loud and released him. ‘You daft wee bugger,’ he exclaimed. ‘How did I do anyway?’

‘Not too bad,’ Arrow answered, as he slipped the fruit back into his blazer pocket, ‘but at best you’d have had a big flesh wound; at worst you’d have been minus your left kidney. Come on, let’s get out of here, there’s a couple of coppers over there giving us funny looks. I should have known better than to pull a stunt like that in an airport these days.’

Adam Arrow was a short man, with massive shoulders and a slim waist that gave him the overall appearance of a spinning top. His hair seemed to be cut shorter every time that Skinner saw him; the DCC suspected this was because there was less of it to cut. The two men had known each other for years. . professionally at least, since Arrow only ever discussed business. . and an absolute trust had developed between them.

They had met after Arrow had moved from undercover SAS work in Northern Ireland and other hotspots into a role in Ministry of Defence security that did not appear in any published documents and was defined only in vague terms to outsiders, even to those as close to him as Skinner. This was fine by the DCC; all he needed to know was that Arrow reported to very few people and that when something secret and serious needed doing, he was the man who could make it happen.

‘Where are we going?’ the Scot asked.

‘There’s a car waiting for us outside.’

Skinner picked up his bag, and the two men walked through the terminal building’s arrivals exit. Less than twenty yards away, a black Citroën waited; its driver was in military uniform and stood beside it. He nodded briefly to Arrow and opened the back door.

‘So now,’ the Scot asked, ‘where are we going?’

‘We’re booked into the Royal Windsor Hotel, on rue Duquesnoy. It’s just about the best hotel in Brussels.’

‘That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t worry about it. They’re looking after us, just as we look after them when they come to London. We don’t piss about with two-star accommodation, mate: no fookin’ security. The man we’ve come to see is meeting us there for dinner at eight thirty. One thing about your Belgian. . he does like ’is food.’

‘You’re no feart, are ye?’ said Malky Gladsmuir.

‘Of you?’ laughed Mario McGuire, amiably. ‘There’s a very small list of people and things that scare me, pal, and you’re definitely not on it. I thought I’d convinced you of that. I don’t like those big spiders you find in the bath sometimes, and my granny can still get to me, but not you, son, not you.’

‘Maybe no’, but meeting me here might not have been the smartest thing to do, if I’d brought a whole team wi’ me.’

‘I suggested this place, remember, when you asked for somewhere quiet. Anyway, give me credit, man. I watched you arrive from across the street. Only you and him came in here. If anyone else tries to join us, they’ll find obstacles put in their way. It’s you that’s in bother, Malky, not me. . if it turns out your man here’s going to waste my time.’

The detective and the pub manager were in a half-built house on a site not far from Salamander Street, where investment by developers was turning acres of redundant warehousing into a residential district. There was a third person there too, a weedy man of medium height, in a woollen hat, a well-worn leather jacket and dark trousers.

‘This is Spoons,’ said Gladsmuir, ‘the bloke I wanted you to meet. He’s got something you might like to hear.’

The man looked at the superintendent with cunning eyes. ‘Is it going tae be worth my while, like?’

McGuire glared at his escort. ‘Is he serious?’ he asked.

‘It’s no’ like that, Spoons,’ the publican barked at him. ‘I told you. Now talk.’

The man shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Aye, okay.’ He looked down at the detective’s feet, as he readied himself to tell his story. ‘Malky said ye wis asking about Sunday night. Ah mibbe saw somethin’.’

‘What time?’

‘After ten.’

‘Where?’

‘Doon the shore. Ah’d come oot the Pheasant. . Ah kent whit the time was ’cos the Spanish fitba’ had finished on the telly, like. . and Ah wis just comin’ tae the bridge ower the watter, when Ah saw this on the ither side. There wis a man. .’

‘Describe him.’

‘Quite a big bloke. No’ as big as you, but quite big. He wis wearin’ this donkey-jacket thing. That’s a’ Ah kin remember; it was dark, ken. Onyway, he’s walking doon the shore, towards Commercial Street, when this motor pulls up alongside him; naw, a few yards in front of him. Jist as he got to it the passenger’s door in the front opened, and the fella stopped.’

‘How many people did you see get out?’

Spoons shook his head. ‘Nane. There was naebody got out. The boy on the pavement just stood, as if he was starin’ at it.’

‘Could you hear anything?’

‘Naw, Ah wis still only hauf-wey across the bridge; Ah wisnae near enough.’

‘So what happened next?’

‘The back door opened like, and the boy got in.’

‘Of his own accord?’

‘Whit?’

‘Nobody forced him?’

‘Naw. He jist got in, and the motor drove off.’