Quintin Jardine - Stay of Execution

‘Do you remember what sort of car it was?’

‘Aye, it was a Land Rover.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Course Ah’m sure. Ah ken whit a fuckin’ Land Rover looks like.’

‘Registration number?’ McGuire asked in hope, not in expectation.

‘Ah wisnae close enough. Ah think it wis wan o’ the new sort.’

‘Did you see anybody else around?’

‘Naw, no’ a soul. It’s quiet doon there on a Sunday.’

McGuire looked at him, sizing him up, trying to gauge his honesty. . questionable, going by his name. . and what he would have to gain by making up a story. . nothing, unless Gladsmuir had wanted CID off his back.

‘Did you put him up to this, Malky?’ he asked.

‘No. I promise you I didn’t. The manager of the Pheasant’s a pal of mine. I asked him if he’d heard anything, and he remembered that Spoons had left his place around the time you were asking about.’

‘Okay. I think I believe you both. I’ll need a formal statement from you.’

‘Aw, naw, come on,’ the man pleaded. ‘The word’s oot that this was a hit; Ah don’t want any o’ that.’

‘Have you ever heard of Bilbo Baggins?’ Spoons stared at him as if he had been asked to recite Einstein’s theory of relativity. ‘No, maybe you haven’t. What he said was true, though. Every time you step out your own front door you never know the trouble that might be waiting for you on the road. Come on, pal; you and I are going to Queen Charlotte Street, and you’re going to tell all that to a tape-recorder.’

For a hotel in the centre of Brussels, even a five-star, Royal Windsor was a very strange name, Bob Skinner told himself as he blew his grey hair dry with the device in his bathroom. However, there was nothing strange about the establishment itself; its facilities, its furnishings and its fittings were all of the highest quality.

His musing was interrupted when a sudden thought elbowed its way in and hit him. He picked up the phone, found an outside line and dialled home. He was pleased when Sarah answered, rather than Trish. ‘Hi, honey,’ he said. ‘I’m going to be a bit late tonight.’

‘How late?’

‘Maybe twenty-four hours, maybe forty-eight; I don’t know for sure. I’m in Brussels.’

‘Brussels!’

‘Yeah, the Royal Windsor Hotel. The Belgian thing’s grown some wrinkles, and I’m trying to smooth them out.’

‘Now you tell me!’

‘Yes, I’m sorry. It’s been a trying day.’

‘Bob, this is not good.’

‘Please, love, don’t give me hassle. I have an important meeting very soon, and I need to focus on it.’

‘Yes, and you have an important family, and you need to focus on it too.’ He slammed the phone down, but she had beaten him to it.

When Adam Arrow knocked on his door, Skinner was ready, shaven for the second time that day, and wearing a fresh shirt. ‘Smart,’ said the major. ‘It’s as well, for this is posh.’

He led the way down to Les Quatre Saisons, the hotel’s premier restaurant, and through its wide-open doors. The head waiter seemed to glide over to them. ‘Yes, gentlemen?’

‘We’re dining with Lieutenant Colonel Winters,’ Arrow told him, in the formal accent that he could don like a well-fitting jacket.

‘Ah yes, he is here.’

They were led across to a booth in the furthest corner of the restaurant, set well apart from the nearest table. As they approached, a tall man rose to greet them. ‘Adam,’ he exclaimed, ‘it’s good to see you.’

‘I’ll bet it is,’ the Englishman replied. ‘You always like an excuse to entertain here.’

‘It’s the nearest thing we have to one of your London clubs.’

‘This is a bit upmarket from the best of them. Pierre, this is my friend Bob Skinner.’

The two shook hands, as the waiter fussed around, anxious to help if any of them had difficulty pulling his chair into the table. Lieutenant Colonel Winters frowned at him and he withdrew, returning a moment later with three menus and a thick wine list, which he handed to the Belgian.

‘We eat, then we talk business, agreed?’ Skinner and Arrow nodded in unison.

The restaurant, the Scot had to admit as they finished, was pretty damn good, although he had a niggling worry about the garlic in the pâté. The older he grew, the less tolerant of it he was becoming. ‘And so,’ said Winters finally, as the wine waiter removed the Armagnac decanter, ‘what brings you to Belgium?’

‘Death,’ Skinner told him.

‘Hanno and Lebeau?’ asked the Belgian.

‘You know about them?’

‘I read the newspapers. Two of the Bastogne Drummers die in unfortunate accidents and it makes the press here. The military notice too.’

‘I thought the Drummers were a civilian group.’

‘They are, but since Colonel Malou took them over, they have been operating under a degree of army patronage. We provide their uniforms and their equipment, and we give them a very small grant. We didn’t before, but old Auguste pulled a couple of strings.’

‘I see,’ said Skinner. ‘I notice that you described the deaths as accidents. Is that how they were reported here?’

‘Yes, it was. The first one, Hanno, certainly. Lebeau’s death was said to have been the work of some madman poisoning toothpaste.’

‘We don’t think he was that mad. My colleagues in England don’t think Hanno was killed by accident either, and I tend to agree with them.’

‘So how can I help you?’

‘I’ve spoken to Colonel Malou; I understand that the two dead men served under him in the Belgian Army, that they were all members of the band of the First Guides Regiment.’

Winters laughed. ‘That is something of an exaggeration. The band is very important, world famous we like to think; it is more of an orchestra, actually. If you have the idea that it is anything like the Bastogne Drummers, forget it. And as for Malou, Hanno and Lebeau being members, forget that also. I pulled their files when I knew you were coming. The band has an administration and a support team. . I think the word in modern music is “roadies”. . who are serving soldiers. That’s where those three spent their careers.’

‘All of their careers?’

‘We all do basic training, even those who are non-combatants, but they all spent the best part of thirty years with the band. When Malou retired, he was its senior administrator.’

‘When they were serving, were there any suspicions about any of them; of improper behaviour in any way?’

‘Absolutely not. The band is pristine; its reputation is above reproach and the same is true of anyone involved with it.’

‘If there was anything in civilian life that might have got them into trouble, would you know about it?’

Winters smiled. ‘Not necessarily, but I could find out. As Major Arrow is your friend, so I have contacts in our civil police. I will do so. If you come and see me tomorrow, at my office, I will tell you anything there is to tell. Eleven should be time enough, if Adam will bring you.’

‘Thanks,’ said Skinner. ‘There’s something else I need to pin down, about Malou. You know why the Drummers are in Edinburgh, I take it?’

‘Yes, to play for the Pope. We Belgians regard it as a great honour, I don’t mind telling you; it goes back to his time as a young curate in the Cathedral of St Michael, or Saint-Gudule, as we call it.’

‘It may be more personal than that. Did you know that Auguste Malou and the young Gilbert White were close friends?’

Winters’s eyes seemed to narrow, very slightly. ‘You must not believe everything Malou tells you, Bob.’

‘I believe this, though. It’s true and I know it. But I don’t know how that friendship began, and I need to. Two men have been killed; they form a line of acquaintance and personal history that leads to the colonel. Now I find that the line extends to connect with the Pope himself. Malou didn’t boast of this; he wouldn’t have told me of it at all, but for a slip of the tongue. Once he had, he refused to discuss it. You can see, can’t you, that if he’s keeping a secret and Hanno and Lebeau were a part of it, then I need to know about it?’