Quintin Jardine: Lethal Intent

As he thought it through, he recognised that, in his own loyalty, Adam Arrow had been absolute. He had believed in and had suffered in the defence of the institutions that had shaped his country and made it the place for which, ultimately, he had laid down his life. When he had come to believe, truly and completely, that they were facing destruction, he had been prepared to go to any lengths to protect them. People would say that he had been wrong, but he had trusted utterly in his own instincts and in the necessity of what he and his allies were doing.

Ultimately, Skinner recognised, he himself had been loyal to Adam. He had borne no duty or obligation to him: it was love that had given him the merciful bullet. In that moment of blinding clarity, he realised a simple truth that had escaped him for all of his blinkered life: however pure and admirable loyalty was, it could also be destructive.

And, finally, he accepted a second inescapable fact: in his own loyalty to his wife, he had been at best simplistic, and at worst a hypocrite. Throughout their marriage he had professed it, but he had not always been faithful to her, any more than she had to him. Truthfully, he no longer loved her; indeed, he doubted whether he ever had. They had been sustained as a couple only by the sworn duty of marriage, parenthood and the obligations that came with them.

He glanced sideways at Aileen, and as he did, something beautiful happened, something strange and all the more unexpected since it had come in the midst of that awful night. A moonbeam hit the car from the side, and in its light he saw her profile… only it was not hers alone. He saw Myra's also, his first wife, Alex's mother, his soul-mate, as if the two had blended together.

'I love you,' he whispered in the darkness.

She turned to him and smiled, briefly, before focusing once more on the M90. 'I love you too,' she murmured, 'but let's not tell the two in the back.'

Bob Skinner grinned, and glanced over his shoulder: Mackenzie and McElhone were either asleep, or pretending to be. In Mackenzie's case, at least, he assumed the former; there was little or no diplomacy in his colleague's make-up.

He turned back, facing the road, to see the lights of the Forth Bridge looming up ahead. Twenty minutes later, Aileen swung the Fiat into the rear car park of the Fettes headquarters. As the four climbed out, Skinner took Mackenzie aside. 'Bandit,' he said, 'as soon as you've checked in your firearm, go straight home. I know you called your wife to let her know you're okay, but she'll want to see you, to make sure there are no holes in you that you didn't tell her about.'

'Thanks, boss,' the chief inspector replied, as they stepped inside the building. Then he stopped, looking awkwardly at the floor, anywhere but at the DCC. 'About tonight: I'm sorry.'

'For what, man?'

'I bottled it in there. It wasn't like that night in the club: I was scared.'

'No more than the rest of us were, son. I like healthily scared guys around me in a crisis: they're sharp. The important thing was that, whatever you felt, you kept moving forward. I gave you the chance to back off, and you as good as told me to get stuffed.' He put a hand on his colleague's shoulder. 'You never know, somebody might want to hand out medals for this. If they do, you're getting one, and you'll have earned it. Now go on, lose that Glock and get the hell out of here.'

As Mackenzie left, the DCC led Aileen and her private secretary upstairs and past the reception desk. When they arrived at the command floor, Sir James Proud was waiting in the corridor to greet them. He stepped up to Skinner and shook his hand. 'Well,' he murmured, 'even by your standards, you've had a hell of a night.'

'More than you'll ever know, Jimmy,' he thought. Suddenly he found himself close to tears, but he held them back.

The chief constable turned to the minister. 'Ms de Marco, welcome, and thanks for bringing him back. All of you, come into my room.'

They followed him in through the small antechamber. In the office several people were waiting. As the group entered, they burst into applause. Surprised and embarrassed, Skinner took in the faces of Willie Haggerty, Jack McGurk, Ruth Pye, Alan Royston, several other fellow officers and, among them, two people, a woman and a man, whom he did not know. He looked around for Neil McIlhenney and felt a strange pang of relief and reassurance when he stepped out from behind the skyscraper form of McGurk.

The chief thrust a slim glass into his hand, then waved McIlhenney over to join them. 'Gentlemen,' he announced, 'I want you to know that this gathering is entirely spontaneous. When your colleagues heard that something big was afoot, they stayed here, and when they heard the outcome, they all insisted on waiting for your return. I've only got one thing to say, but it's on behalf of a lot more people than are here. Thanks, boys, you've done us proud.'

Skinner looked at McIlhenney; his mouth went tight, and he read the same thing in his friend's heart that he felt in his own. 'Thank you, sir,' he replied, formally. 'We, and Bandit, who's gone home to his wife…'

'No, I haven't,' came a tired voice from behind him. 'I got hauled up here.'

'In that case, all three of us thank you for your concern and for your welcome.' He laid his glass down on the chief's table. 'Thanks for that too, Jimmy,' he said, 'but honestly, I can't drink it. Give me a beer and then several more and I'll slaughter them all, but not that stuff. Champagne's for celebrations, and this isn't. The three of us saw people dead on the ground tonight, brother officers, comrades, and kids who just got in the way. Their families will be grieving, and so am I. Thank you for staying, and thank you for caring so much about us. Now, we would like you all to go home.'

He took McIlhenney by the elbow and led him into a corner. 'Where is he?' he whispered.

'Safe. An SAS detachment arrived half an hour ago; they took him out the back way. There was a plane waiting at Turnhouse. He'll be on his way to London by now.'

'An SAS detachment that was supposed to be deployed elsewhere,' thought Skinner. 'Thank Christ for that,' he said.

'Back in St Andrews,' the chief inspector asked, 'who was that other man?'

'Nobody. He wasn't there, he never existed. If you have any theories, keep them to yourself, pal, please, for my sake.'

'What man?' McIlhenney murmured.

'Excuse me, Bob.'

Skinner turned to see the force press officer standing before him. 'Alan, what can I do for you?'

'I've got an army of media outside, all wanting to talk to you. Do you want me to set something up? I could use the gym.'

'No way,' the DCC replied, firmly. 'We're not talking to any journalists, not even old John Hunter. Get rid of them. I don't care whether you're polite about it or not. And tell them also that if anyone is thinking about camping outside my house, or Neil's or Bandit's, they should reject it as a very bad idea indeed.'

'Maybe I shouldn't say this, but do you have any idea how much the media would pay for your stories?' asked Royston. 'You could live on it.'

'We couldn't live with ourselves, though,' said McIlhenney. 'So please, Alan, do as you're told.'

As the press officer left, Skinner pointed to the two strangers. 'Who are they?'

'She's Martina Easterland; she's the Scottish representative of the Royal Household. He's from MI6; he says he wants to debrief us. He says that you and Bandit and I have got to stay here when everyone else leaves.'

'Indeed?' The DCC looked at the man until he caught his eye, then summoned him like a schoolboy, with a crooked finger. 'Are you the director general of MI5?' he asked him.

'No,' he replied, startled.

'In that case, you can go away. He's the only person I'm talking to.'