Quintin Jardine - Skinner's rules

But he retained sufficient presence of mind to react as soon as the grey eyes swung towards the door.

His left foot arced up in a kick, more powerful than any he had ever made. His life hung on the race between his strike and Maitland’s gun, as it swung up towards the firing position.

It was almost a tie. As the outside edge of the heavy black shoe smashed into his elbow, dislocating it and smashing the ball of the joint, Maitland squeezed off a shot. Even as he followed through, and as the silenced Walther flew across the room to crash against the wall, Skinner felt the bullet rip through his right thigh and burst out in a tangle of flesh.

But when death threatens, pain is a distraction to be ignored. Skinner knew that, even with one arm, this man was lethal. He threw himself to his right, carried by the momentum of his kick. He snatched the Brownin from the coffee table and levelled it at Maitland.

‘Stop!’

Maitland, too, was ignoring his pain. He was halfway across the room, reaching for his lost gun with his left hand, when he heard Skinner’s command, and felt the tangible force of his aim upon him. He stopped in mid-stride, and turned slowly, his right arm hanging smashed by his side, and a look of terrible exultation on his face.

‘So, old boy.’ The voice was steel-hard and controlled. ‘It’s stalemate. What do we do now? They won’t let you try me, you know.’

Skinner looked at the man. His thigh burned as it pumped blood, but his mind was cold as ice. He thought of Mortimer, his head lying on the pathway; he thought of Rachel Jameson, of PC Iain MacVicar, and of the others. And then he thought of Sarah, burned to a crisp in her car.

‘No, Maitland, they won’t, will they? This game’s got to be played by your rules — to the very end.

‘Rule One: adapt and survive. Goodbye.’

No fear, only surprise, registered on Maitland’s face as Skinner pulled the trigger. The bullet went through his heart.

There was no real need for the second shot, but Skinner took no chances. After all, this man was very special. It was wise to ensure that he was very dead. And so as Maitland’s legs buckled and he slumped to his knees, he took careful aim, and fired again, taking him in the SAS death spot, in the middle of the forehead. The body crashed backwards on to the pale green Wilton.

Skinner stood over the dead pile of flesh and bone that had bee Maitland. He stared at the body, stunned, until the pain in his leg forced itself into his consciousness, pulling him back into the world.

He threw his gun on to the couch beside Allingham’s sprawled corpse, noting for the first time, that the room smelled foully of shit.

He yanked his black leather belt from its loops and buckled it around his thigh, above the wound. Then he took the poker from an ornamental fireside set, a wedding present from many years before, and used it to form an efficient tourniquet.

He hobbled over to the hi-fi stack and picked up the one-piece telephone which lay there in its cradle. Its cord stretched as far as the two-seater couch. He sat down, carefully, holding the tourniquet tight, and patched in Hatch One, his short code for Fettes Avenue. The switchboard took longer than usual to answer, but eventually Skinner heard the friendly businesslike voice of the night-duty operator. ‘Police Headquarters.’

‘This is Skinner. Give me the Chief, wherever he is.’

More than two minutes went by before Proud’s anxious voice echoed down the line. ‘Bob. Where are you? The Foreign Office has made an announcement, and the press are breaking down the doors here looking for more.’

‘Give them the minimum. Tell them that there were two assassins, and that they were both killed by police. Tell them about McKnight — if we’re clear with next of kin. But tell them that anything else will have to be channelled through the Foreign Office.’

‘I’ll do all that, but you still haven’t told me where you are, or what’s up.’

‘No, and I don’t think I’m going to. Just do one more thing for me. You have a contact number for Hughie Fulton. Use it. Tell him to be in my office in one hour. Don’t ask him, Chief. Tell him. Tell him that Skinner said so.’

‘All right, Bob. I’ll do that. I’ll see you there too.’

‘No!’ Skinner’s sudden yell down the telephone startled Proud. ‘This is between that fat cunt Fulton and me. I know it all now, Jimmy. You must not be involved. Believe me.’

Proud could hear the pain in Skinner’s voice. ‘Okay, Bob. Do what you have to do. Are you all right, though?’

‘Yes, Chief, I’m okay. Now is Sarah still there?’

‘No. She finished up and went home about ten minutes ago.’

‘Okay. Thanks, Chief. For everything.’

He laid the telephone face-down and loosened the tourniquet. The bleeding had virtually stopped. ‘Good. No arterial damage. And no broken bones, by the feel of it.’ He made a conscious effort to stay matter-of-fact as he examined his wound.

He then called Sarah.

‘Bob. Are you back at your office? All Brian would say was that you had gone off somewhere with Mr Allingham.’

‘No, love, I’m in Gullane. There’s no one else here. Listen, Sarah, I’ve had a wee accident. Just a scratch, but I want you to have a look at it for me. I just need a bit of first aid. Meet me in my office in about forty minutes. I’ve got a very important date, and I want to be properly patched up for it. Oh, and bring along a pair of slacks for me, there’s a girl.’

He hopped and limped through to the bathroom and took a pack of cotton wool, a roll of tape, and a pair of scissors from the cabinet. With the scissors he cut through the right leg of his trousers, exposing the area around the bullet-hole. The entry wound was small and neat. But the area where the bullet had exited was shredded. Each was crusted with dried blood, and the mess at the back of his thigh still leaked a little. He packed each hole with cotton wool, securing it roughly with tape.

He eased his way back to the living room, and through to the kitchen. The floor was a mess of shattered crockery, from the collapse of the life-saving shelf. He smiled through the pain. ‘Thank God I’m not a DIY freak.’

Leaning on any available support, he hauled himself back into the living room. He picked up his Browning and returned it to its holster. He thought of taking Maitland’s Walther, but left it lying on the floor. Instead he picked up the video cartridge and replaced it in the pocket from which he had taken it a lifetime earlier. He turned off the gas fire and started towards the door — before remembering the tape-deck. The cassette had run out. He removed it, slipped it into an inside pocket of his jacket, and left the house in darkness.

There were no lights in any of the surrounding houses. The double glazing provided an efficient sound-insulator, and no one had heard the shots.

He eased himself behind the wheel of the Sierra, and found that he could work the pedals without too much pain, and without having to put weight on the wound.

He had not gone far when he was hit by a sudden, desperate need to speak to Alex. Luckily, the car had a phone.

Alex sounded wide-awake when she came on line, her voice echoing on the car speaker.

‘Hi, Pops. Why the hell are you calling at this time of night? I’m just in. Jenny and I were up at the Rusty Pelican.’

‘You haven’t heard any news then?’

‘No. Why?’ Alarm sounded in her voice.

‘Don’t get them in a twist. There’s been an incident tonight, and some people have been shot. But I’m fine, and so’s Andy.’

She was unconvinced. ‘You don’t sound fine.’

‘Well I am. Now listen, are you coming through tomorrow?’