Quintin Jardine - Gallery Whispers

The barman turned his attention to Andy, who shouted his order over the hubbub. 'And a pint of Guinness, on top of that,' he added, then gave the little reporter his most dazzling smile. 'What's your name?' he asked.

'Estelle. Estelle Lawrence.'

'I'm Andy. You stick with me, Estelle,' he murmured, 'and you never know what you might come up with.'

Bob Skinner worked hard, played hard and exercised hard. He liked to go to bed tired and ready for a sound, peaceful sleep, for he was wary of dreams; there had been too many bad ones in the past.

There had been the weeks after Myra's death, when he had wakened every night after an hour or so, lathered in sweat from a nightmare of vague darkness and corruption. There had been the hours after his life-threatening stabbing when he had drifted in a fog of recalled glimpses of days so awful that his mind had taken refuge in amnesia.

There had been other moments too, secret times in his career, from which people would still return on occasion to visit him.

Then there was her. He was almost certain that he would never see her again, and he did his best not to think of her during his waking hours, yet at night, even with Sarah by his side, she had crept through his defences once or twice into his dreams. And in those dreams he was afraid other; for he knew that she had the advantage of him in the pure implacable hatred that she felt for him.

Now, as he lay in the early hours of the morning, a watcher would have seen him toss and turn, yet it was none of his old foes who troubled his sleep. Instead he saw repeated flashes of the face of Wayne Ventnor: visions of him lifting his friend Crombie into bed, with K-aren Neville, suffocating in her unfeasibly large breasts, swinging from a ladder, oily and perspiring, on his off-shore rig, standing in a jungle clearing holding in each hand, by the hair, a severed human head…

He sat bolt upright in bed in the same instant that he awoke, eyes wide, cold sweat on his forehead. Hawkins? he thought. But no, Hawkins was dead; and anyway, when he had seen the Australian in the auditorium, there had been no trace left of the limp which had caught Karen Neville's eye at the outset of their relationship.

Calming himself, he put himself back into his dream, a form of self-hypnosis which he had learned from an expert, and he realised at once what it had shown him. No, it was unfeasible, he told himself at once. He liked Karen Neville; his mind was probably projecting subliminal jealousy of the Australian. But then he looked at his sleeping wife and dismissed that notion. In times of crisis. Bob Skinner lived by his instincts: indeed they had saved his life. This was something that had to be checked.

In the dark, he glanced at the luminous clock by his side. It showed five minutes before seven, too early to call Mcllhenney.

Silently he slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Sarah, and stepped into the bathroom. He shaved and showered slowly and deliberately, remembering the pressure under which he, Andy and the rest of the team were operating, looking after the world's leaders, with their rival phalanxes of armed guards, telling himself that such circumstances play tricks with the mind, but failing utterly to drive away his concern.

Sarah was awake when he came out of the bathroom. 'You're early,' she mumbled, hazily, tousled hair hanging over her left eye, reminding him of… no, she was Sarah, God's gift to him, no one else. 'Couldn't you sleep? Were you worrying about the conference today?'

'No,' he laughed, trying to make himself sound light-hearted. 'I slept like a log. Too well, that's the problem.'

'That's good, that's good,' she said, nodding to herself as he began to dress, and swinging quickly out of bed. 'Be a love, will you, when you're dressed, and make me some brown bread toast and piccalilli.'

'You what?'

'I fancy it, that's all,' she answered, matter-of-fact. 'But first, since it's morning, I think I might as well be sick.' She headed quickly for the bathroom door.

He was used to the ritual, and although the sudden craving had him mildly surprised, he did as she asked. Just as he replaced the piccalilli jar in the fridge, she came into the kitchen, carrying a bleary-eyed Jazz. She looked at what was waiting for her on the plate. 'Oahh!' she moaned. 'I don't think I fancy that now. But thanks anyway.'

Bob looked at the kitchen clock; it was twenty to eight. He picked up the phone and dialled his assistant. Mcllhenney sounded weary as he answered. 'Neil, hello. 'S'me. Sorry to dig you up so early, but how are you placed to go into the office? There's something needs handling, quick.'

The sergeant hesitated. 'The thing is, boss, Olive's not too well this morning. She's had a bit of a reaction to those platelets they gave her.'

'No problem,' said Skinner at once. 'I'll just leave a bit earlier, and do it myself, before I go up to the EICC. If I put the foot down I could probably be there as fast as you anyway. You look after Olive. I'll swear Ruthie in as a deputy; she can hold the fort in everyone's absence.'

'Thanks,' the sergeant grunted. 'Listen, boss, there's something else. Last night, I got a result. But I want to play it out myself. Is that okay?'

'Right now, Neil,' the DCC replied, 'anything would be okay. Do what you think best. If you need any help, just let me know.'

He hung up, finished his coffee, kissed Sarah and Jazz goodbye, then rushed towards the door, ruffling Mark's hair on the way as his older son put in his first appearance of the morning.

Normally, he drove sedately in to Fettes, but when he had to, he could make the BMW fly. He overtook at least a dozen cars on the single carriageway between Gullane and Longniddry, tore down the Al at close on a hundred miles per hour, then took every shortcut and rat-run across town that he could think of, until he arrived at headquarters. 'Eight twenty-five,' he muttered, glancing at the car clock just before he switched off. 'Not bad.' He strode purposefully into the building, nodding only briefly to the men on the door, then ran upstairs.

In the corner of his office behind his chair, bolted to the floor, there stood a small safe. The combination was his mother's birthday. He spun the dial three times, listening for the clicks, then opened it, and took out a slim folder, with one word written on the outside.

'Hawkins.'

Impatiently he flicked through the photographs and photofits, until he found the awful image ofHencke Van Roost with his trophies, one in each hand. He had been right; Wayne Ventnor looked nothing like the South African assassin. He breathed a sigh of relief.

But there were other men in the shot, behind their leader. There were six of them, in fact. Two were black, one stood no more than five feet three, two were balding; but the sixth was tall, and dark-haired.

He was clean-shaven, and looked to be around the same age as Van Roost. Only the central figure in the photograph was fully in focus; all of the figures were blurred. The sixth man could have been Ventnor, but even with his sharp eyesight. Skinner was uncertain.

He took a magnifying glass from his drawer, held it over the scene and studied the figure as closely as he could. 'Look at the eyes,' he whispered to himself. 'It's the eyes that give them away.' As he said the words he thought of Hawkins burned to a crisp in tangled wreckage in a Polish field. 'No it's not,' he corrected himself. 'It's the teeth.'

Suddenly a kaleidoscope of images and possibilities whirled in his brain. He picked up the secure telephone on his desk, and dialled a number. The duty telephonist at the offices ofMI5 answered circumspectly, with a voice which the policeman did not recognise.

'This is Skinner in Scotland,' he said. 'I need to speak to the Director General, urgently.'