Quintin Jardine - Funeral Note

The chief hit him, not with his fist, but with the heel of his hand, right in the middle of the forehead, as hard a blow as I’ve ever seen. It halted Freddy Welsh, big and all as he was, in mid-stride, lifted him off his feet and sent him crashing on to his back, spark out.

‘Jesus!’ I exclaimed. My first thought was that he’d killed the guy.

‘I used to do karate,’ he offered, almost apologetically. ‘I’m out of practice. A few years back, he’d never have got that close to me.’

I didn’t bother to ask him what belt he’d attained; that was obvious.

Stretched out on the cement floor, Welsh proved that he was still alive by making a snorting noise. The chief leaned over him, seized the waistband of his trousers and started to drag him into the other chamber, from which he had come. ‘There’s a tap over there,’ he grunted. ‘Fill a bucket, or anything like it you can find. Then close the outer door and come in here.’

I reclaimed my pistol and did as he had said. As it happened there was a bucket just beside the tap.

‘Close that door too,’ he told me, as I joined him and handed him the bucket. I did. ‘This might get a bit noisy,’ he added, as if in explanation. I looked around me as he spoke. The room was bigger than the other; it wasn’t full, or near it, but there were four crates in the middle of the floor, tea chests, the sort that furniture removers use, and a box with the lid removed.

Welsh was beginning to regain consciousness; Mr Skinner helped him by pouring half of the bucket’s contents over his face, slowly.

‘Moving the stock, are we, Freddy?’ he asked, as the man came to, spluttering and choking.

As he did that I was looking through the chests; they were full of boxes, and most of them bore a manufacturer’s name; I recognised them all, Colt, Smith and Wesson, household names, many of them, albeit in the sort of household that watches combat movies, and some more obscure. ‘Hey,’ I exclaimed, ‘he’s got a Beowulf in here.’

‘Indeed?’ he replied. ‘What’s a Beowulf?’

‘A specialist, high-quality rifle; American.’

‘Is that what you supplied to Smit and Botha?’ the chief asked.

‘Fuck off,’ Welsh snarled, and started to rise, but a foot in the centre of his chest slammed him back down.

‘No, you stay there. You can answer my questions just as easily from the floor. And those are: number one, did Kenny Bass know what was in the box he brought here hidden among the cache of bootleg fags? My guess is no. Our Kenny might be up for a driving job, but he does not have the bottle for being part of the weapons supply chain in an assassination. Number two, what type of weapon did you supply Cohen? Number three, did he describe his operation to you? Number four, did Varley know anything about the operation you were running from underneath his house, or did he know everything about it? Number five, why the hell did you have to kill him, and your cousin? Number six, who was careless enough to leave Jock’s wallet in his pocket, and dumb enough not to realise that even if you can wedge off the engine number, every vehicle can be traced through a unique chassis identifier that’s hidden way out of sight?’ He paused, smiling down at the man on the ground.

‘I’m saying nothing,’ Welsh hissed. ‘I want a lawyer.’

Mr Skinner shook his head. ‘It isn’t that sort of situation, Freddy. It’s the kind that calls for advanced interrogation techniques, of which officially I do not approve, unless we need information quickly about a potential terrorist assassination, in a venue where my wife and the wife of a friend will be present. Now that I’ve explained that, let’s deal with my questions.’

Welsh stared up at him. He was afraid by then, but there was still resistance in him.

The chief held up the bucket. ‘Ever heard of waterboarding?’ he asked.

‘You’re kidding,’ our captive grunted.

‘Yeah, you’re right. We don’t have time for that.’ He put it down and squatted beside him, leaning close. ‘Have you ever seen that Liam Neeson film,’ he murmured, ‘where he plays a CIA man whose daughter’s been kidnapped? There’s a bit in it where old Liam. . if anyone ever makes a movie of my life,’ he said conversationally, ‘I want that man to play me. . where he’s on the phone to the bad guy and he says something along the lines of, “I have a particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a long career.” My young colleague here hasn’t had all that long a career, but he has those skills. If you don’t talk to me, I’m going to leave the room and let him practise them.’

‘I know who you are,’ Welsh hissed. ‘You’re Skinner, the cop. You wouldn’t fucking dare.’

The chief stood up again. ‘Oh no?’ He turned to me. ‘The floor is yours.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, sir; but you really must leave the room. I’ll call you when our friend has something to say.’

‘Okay.’ He did, and closed the door.

As he left, Welsh tried to rise, but I kicked his legs out from under him. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked.

‘That’s irrelevant. All you need to know is that I’m the man with the gun. Are you going to talk to us?’

‘No fucking chance.’

The truth is, I don’t have any advanced interrogation skills. I was planning on making them up as I went along, as once or twice we had to in Iraq. Holding my gun on the man on the floor, I took the Beowulf from the chest with my free hand. ‘Lovely weapon,’ I said, ‘fifty calibre.’ I checked the magazine; it held seven rounds and it was loaded; I slipped my pistol into my pocket then hefted the rifle. ‘If I shot you in the kneecap with this,’ I asked, ‘do you think you’d ever walk properly again? Personally I’d doubt that.’

‘You can’t do that,’ he sneered. ‘This is Scotland.’

I shook my head. ‘No,’ I countered. ‘This is the cellar of a police officer you’ve just murdered in the course of an act of terrorism. No rules apply here, and I’m an agent of the state. I can make you disappear. It will be the easiest thing in the world for a third cremated body to be recovered from your van.’

In such situations, there is only one imperative; you must make them believe you. I was getting there with Freddy Welsh, but I could still see scepticism in his eyes. So I shot him.

The bullet creased the back of his right hand, ricocheted off the floor and buried itself in the plastered wall. He screamed, from pain and fright, and crawled backwards, away from me, as I raised the rifle again and aimed at his knee.

‘Enough!’ he yelled. ‘I’ll talk to him.’ He paused. ‘If I do, what’s in it for me?’

‘I won’t kill you. That’s all that’s in it.’ I kicked one of the tea chests. ‘As for your arsenal here, what happens about that depends on the man outside. So my advice to you is, hold nothing back.’ I stepped across and opened the door.

Mr Skinner came back into the room. ‘I can leave again,’ he promised, ‘just as easily.’ Welsh nodded; he believed. ‘So tell me about it.’

‘Bass had no idea,’ the arms dealer began; he had pulled himself up to a sitting position, leaning against the wall. ‘As far as he was concerned, he was only going for the cigarettes.’

‘Why did you set it up that way?’

‘I didn’t. My Spanish suppliers did. It was part of the deal. These people, they’ll fence anything. They can source me specific weapons, usually stolen from the police or military, maybe even bought from them, for all I know. But it’s knock for knock, and sometimes they want me to take other stuff off their hands. Handy in a way; you were right about Kenny; he’d never have gone just for the guns.’

‘Guns plural?’