Quintin Jardine - Gallery Whispers

The argument that he was better off dead cuts no ice with me: he was done on my patch. I swore then that such a thing would never happen again. It won't.

'I've been told that we don't need to worry about protection in this case; that will be the job of the military, advised by Sir John Govan.

I don't envy Jock his task. The army's security approach is usually based on deterrence. Hawkins won't be scared off by any number of soldiers. He's clever, he's resourceful and as far as anyone knows he has never failed. All he needs is one opening and the President of the United States, or Russia, or our Prime Minister… Christ, maybe more than one of them… can kiss their arse goodbye.'

The DCC smiled, calmly. 'Lady and gentlemen,' he said, 'we are going to prevent that. If Michael van Roost Hawkins is in Scotland, we are going to find him. If he has yet to arrive we are going to try to nab him at his port of entry. You and your officers all have no other task but this. Each of you will report progress to me, through Detective Sergeant Mcllhenney, on a daily basis. Any instructions Neil may give you, will be with my full authority.

'Watch the airports, of course, but let's proceed on the assumption that he's here already. Your starting point will be to check all landing cards completed by non-EU nationals on entry to the UK. You will receive full co-operation, if necessary, from your opposite numbers in police forces in England and Wales. Remember that they do not need to know what this is all about, nor should they.

'It's quite possible that Hawkins will be travelling on a false EU passport, and in that case there will be no landing card. So hotel checks are important too. He may have rented accommodation; speak to all the letting agencies in your areas. Of course, when you go to check the properties, indeed whenever there's a chance you could come face to face with this bloke, you will be armed. That's not a suggestion; it's an order.'

Skinner picked up a number of sealed envelopes which he had brought with him into the room and handed them round. 'These are some photofit treatments of Hawkins prepared by the people in Ml 5.

They're based on the last photograph you saw and they show how he might look in a variety of disguises.

'One thing he can't hide though. Van Roost took a bullet in the right leg towards the end of his army days, and he's walked with a limp ever since.

'As well as the prints you'll also find in those envelopes, DS Mcllhenney's office and home phone numbers, plus my own and Mr Martin's.'

'Why would he come here so far ahead of the meeting, sir?' asked DI Burns, from Fife.

'Planning, Inspector. Planning. This man is meticulous in everything he does. If someone attending this conference is his target then his track record says that he'll come here weeks in advance, to check out the cityscape, to work out the best positions for an attempt and to prepare his means of escape. This man is not a martyr; his aim will be to complete his contract and fade into the background.'

'What do we do if we find him, boss?' McGuire spoke quietly, but his voice was loaded with meaning.

'Keep him under observation if you can,' said Skinner, 'and send for me. Try not to confront him, but if you have to, and he as much as looks at you the wrong way, put a bullet in him.'

'What, you mean in his good leg, sir?' said DI Impey, from Dumfries and Galloway, srriling along the table.

Poker-faced, the DCC turned and looked at the man, freezing his grin. 'No, Inspector.' He ground the words out, slowly. 'I mean right between the bloody eyes. If he has to, this man will kill you stone dead, then take your head as a trophy.' With a nod around the table, and a final glare at Impey, he stood up, bringing the briefing to a close, and strode out of the room, followed by Mcllhenney, leaving Martin to see the visitors on their way.

'I don't fancy that Dumfries bloke, boss,' said the sergeant as they walked along the Command Corridor.

The neither, Neil. Give him a hard time when he makes his daily reports. Question him; keep him on his toes. Make sure he's checking the ferry terminals on his patch. Hawkins could come in from Ireland.'

'I'll do that, sir.' As the two men stepped into the Chief Constable's office. Skinner looked at his assistant.

'Neil,' he asked, abruptly, 'what's up?'

'What do you mean, sir?'

'You know bloody well what I mean. First Andy, now you. You've got something on your mind. I know this job can be boring at times.

Do you want a move back to the action?'

Mcllhenney's great shoulders sagged, and he seemed to slump into himself. 'I'm sorry if I've been letting anything show, boss,' he said.

'That's not my way.

'Aye,' he admitted, 'something's up. But it's got nothing to do with the job. It's Olive. She's ill and she knows it, yet she won't do anything about it. She's scared, boss, and oh by Christ, so am I.'

'I see,' said Skinner quietly. 'Sit down man, and tell me about it.

Maybe there's something I can do to help.'.

Although Brian Mackie's patch took in a big rural area, the divisional CID Commander's office was in the St Leonard's Police Station, on the east of Edinburgh. The detective superintendent did not care for the modern brick building, and would have preferred to have been based in Haddington, beside his deputy. Detective Chief Inspector Maggie Rose, but he kept these feelings to himself, understanding the thinking behind Andy Martin's deployment of his CID resources.

He was at his desk, in mid-aftemoon, reading his way through faxed witness statements taken from the neighbours ofGaynor Weston in Oldbarns, when there was a light knock on the door.

'Come in,' called Mackie. He had expected a uniformed officer with more statements from Maggie Rose, and so he looked up in surprise as Dr Sarah Grace Skinner stepped into the room.

'Hello, Doc,' the thin, bald detective exclaimed, standing, with his unfailing courtesy. 'An office consultation; this is an honour.'

Sarah grinned at him. Suddenly it struck him that the drab, wet day outside was just a little brighter. 'All part of the service in this new era of forensic pathology,' she said, as the took a seat at Mackie's conference table.

'Coffee?' he offered.

'No thanks, and you shouldn't either. I'm trying to cut down Bob's consumption just now too. You desk jockeys drink far too much of that damn stuff.'

'Desk jockeys indeed,' Mackie grunted, but with a smile. 'You'll wind the boss up if you call him that to his face. 'S not true anyway; where was I at six o'clock this morning?'

'Yeah, I know. I was only kidding with you… not about the coffee, though. To be serious, I've just finished the autopsy on Mrs Weston. My report is being produced right now and should be with you before five o'clock, but I thought I'd call in and talk it through with you inDamn.' She broke off as her mobile telephone warbled its call signal, frowning slightly as she produced it from the pocket of her jacket.

'I'm sorry, Brian. I forgot to switch it off.' She took the call nonetheless, pressing the 'Receive' button.

'Bob, hi. Look I'm in a meeting right now. Yes. Okay.' Mackie watched her as she listened, for almost a minute. 'Yes,' she said eventually; she was hesitant, and wore worried frown on her face. 'I can do that. I'll need to be careful to avoid ethical problems, but…

Yes, okay. I'll do it after this. Give me the address.' She switched the phone to her left hand, took a notebook and pen from her bag and scribbled a few words, quickly. 'Got that; I know where it is too. See you tonight. Bye.'

She ended the call, switched off the phone and put it away.

'Problem?' asked Mackie.

'I hope not,' Sarah replied, the worried look lingering on her face.