Skinner's Rules (27 page)

‘You’re not wrong there, Bob. If the Israelis find this guy, he’s dead. And probably if other people find him too.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as the CIA. They’d love to take out the big guy in Iraq. If they could pot his right-hand man, it’d be the next best thing. Remember the supergun. Your pal Ali was right in the middle of that business. He’s supposed to have signed the purchase orders for the parts, using different names, but the same pen and ink.

‘Maybe the project is still active. Maybe he’s away trying to buy more steel pipes!’

‘If he’s trying to buy steel tubes, he’s not in Scotland! Look, thanks Robbie; your pals have been very helpful. Tell them that if I find Rashoun Ali Tarfaz Hadid, I’ll kick his arse and send him home!’

Superintendent David McKinstery was twenty-five years older than Andrew Martin. Many officers of his age and stage are sticklers for form, but he was one of the exceptions. His years in Strathclyde Special Branch work had taught him that dividends can be earned from cooperation. If a brother from another force called him with an odd request, he would never ask why.

‘Hello, young Andy. Good New Year to you.’ The voice on the telephone was soft and friendly. ‘How are you getting on in the job?’

‘It’s hectic, Mr McKinstery, but I’m enjoying it. You’ll be busy yourself, with these bloody student occupations. How many targets have you got on your patch?’

‘Six, I reckon. The two universities, Glasgow Poly, Queen’s College, Notre Dame and Paisley Tech. They’ve all made arrangements. Of course if it leaks back to the Trots they may switch their attack to the FE colleges, and there aren’t enough security guys to cover all of them. We’ll just have to see how it goes. What can I do for you anyway, young man? You havena’ just called to compare notes on Bolsheviks.’

‘No, you’re right,’ said Martin. ‘I wonder if you could check your back files, say between 1979 and 1984, and see if you have anything on a girl called Joy Granger, Strathclyde University. Associates, politics, anything odd.’

‘No problem, I’ll get a DC to look her up. That’s G-R-A-N-G-E-R is it?’

‘Yes, there’s probably nothing there. We’re doing a vetting job on her husband and we just want to cross-check her.’

‘I’ll call you back within an hour.’ Martin thanked him, hung up, and called Skinner’s secretary to see if the ACC was free.

‘Yes, Mr Martin. He’s waiting for you, in fact. Come right along.’

Two mugs of coffee stood on coasters on Skinner’s desk.

‘Sit down, Andy. How was the other New Town?’

‘Interesting, sir. For a start the Great Joiner Harvey is a boring wee fart. He knows about maths and computers and bugger all else. Or at least that’s the impression he tries to give. His wife, on the other hand, is a power lady. She runs his company and his life. I’ve asked Strathclyde to check out her background. She was a student at the same time as Harvey, at Strathclyde, though. They say they met after university.’

‘Any possible connection?’

‘Could be. I claimed to have been bonking Marjorie Porteous, Rachel’s pal, at university, and I threw some names of people at him. He denied knowing Marjorie Porteous, but I got a strong reaction when I mentioned an Arab bloke, without putting a name to him. He and his wife both seemed to be on the edge of their seats. But as soon as I mentioned the name Ali Tarfaz they both relaxed.’

‘Did they, by Christ! He’s not a man to relax people.’ Skinner recounted obbie’s legend.

Martin stared at him. ‘So what have we got here?’

‘Two Middle Eastern students of different nationalities, each in Rachel Jameson’s university circle; each one goes on to become an intelligence operative. One of them, it seems, makes payments to our two dead advocates then vanishes, the other one just vanishes.

‘We’ve got to believe that Fuzzy is involved in some way in the murders, or he’s joined the head count himself. The coincidence factor says that Ali Tarfaz could be somewhere involved too.

‘Boss, how long can we keep this thing to ourselves?’

‘I don’t know, Andy. But let’s try, for as long as we can. I want a tail on Harvey, and his wife, since you thought that they were sensitive to the mention of an Arab. Although it’s off our patch, you can handle it from your own resources. I’ll tell Strathclyde what we’re doing, not why. And I’ll go and see someone else.’

‘Who’s that, boss?’

‘A man in New St Andrews House. You’ll have heard of him.’ Martin nodded, his face serious.

‘By the way, Andy, I’ve got some more stirring news for you. Remember our friend the Syrian President? He’s said “yes”, and so has the Foreign Office.’

‘Magic, just bloody magic. When?’

‘January the eighteenth. Apparently it’s a special debate, sponsored by the Palestinian lobby, on international brotherhood! Allingham’s coming up tomorrow with a Lebanese, at least that’s what they say he is. I want the two of you to agree all the security arrangements. The “Lebanese” will report back to Syria.’

There was a knock on the door. ‘Yes.’

Skinner’s secretary appeared. ‘Mr Martin, your office buzzed to say that Superintendent McKinstery called on your private line.’

Skinner pointed to his secure telephone. ‘Call him back.’

Martin punched in the Strathclyde number. ‘Mr McKinstery? Andy Martin.’

‘I’ve found your lassie, Joy Granger. I don’t know what she’s like now, but she was a busy wee girl at the Uni. She was in the Socialist Workers’ Party, that’s how we’ve got her on record. She didna’ half get around. Saw more pricks than Jocky Wilson’s dartboard, according to this file. She was chairperson of a pro-Palestinian, anti-Israeli outfit, and linked up with like-minded idiots in other universities. Some of her listed contacts were in Edinburgh, others in Aberdeen.’

‘Can you read me the Edinburgh names please?’

‘Sure. There’s three of them. Andrew Harvey, Fazal Mahmoud, that’s spelled F-A-Z-A-L. M-A-H-M-O-U-D, and Rachel Jameson. Is one of them your target?’

‘Yes,’ said Martin, ending the call with thanks.

‘So what have they got?’ Skinner asked.

‘They lied to me today. Told me that they didn’t meet till after they left university. According to Davie McKinstery’s files, Joy helped to run an inter-university pro-Palestinian league of some sort. Fuzzy Mahmoud and Rachel are both listed among her contacts.’

‘Then get that tail in place, now, Andy. From the sound of things they didn’t suss you, but don’t take any chances.’

‘Okay, boss, I’m on my way. Will you square it with Strathclyde for me?’ Skinner nodded as Martin left the room.

There is a small anonymous room in New St Andrews House, a monstrous office block perched on top of a seventies shopping mall.

Skinner entered the grey concrete building through its inadequate revolving door. His warrant card took him past the security guards. ‘Know where you’re going, sir?’ one enquired. Skinner nodded.

Hugh Fulton’s door bore no number. It was not listed in any office directory, nor was its occupant. Officially, neither existed. The real Hugh Fulton was a tall, broad man in his mid-fifties. Streaks of ginger still mixed strongly with the white of his hair. There was no sign of thinning on top. As he stepped from behind his desk and extended his hand, Skinner recognised the questioning gaze in the big, brown eyes.

He had met Fulton for the first time on a Senior Command Course at the Scottish Police College at Tulliallan, when the big Aberdonian, then an Assistant Chief Constable in the Grampian force, had been one of his toughest inquisitors. A few weeks after that encounter, Fulton’s resignation from the force had been announced. No explanation was offered other than the bald statement that he was ‘taking up another post’.

Only a handful of civil servants, and senior officers, Skinner among them, were allowed to know what Hugh Fulton’s ‘other post’ was. Within his tiny circle his title was ’Security Adviser to the Secretary of State for Scotland.‘ In fact his role was much broader than this, involving all matters that were the subject of ’D’ Notices, and many other situations too sensitive even for that category. Fulton was not seen in public, and reported in Scotland only to the Secretary of State and to the Permanent Under Secretary, the head of the Civil Service in the Scottish Office. Nationally, he reported only to the Prime Minister, the Cabinet Secretary, and to the Director General of the security service, MI5.

‘It’s been a year or two, Bob,’ Fulton’s voice boomed out. ‘I’ve followed your career with a personal interest since that time at Tulliallan.

‘That’s very flattering, and surprising. I thought I blew bits of it.’

‘Everyone did. we set some unsolvable problems to see who came up with the most pragmatic solutions, and kept the damage to a minimum.

‘Now, why do you want to see me? It’s only our college connection that got you through that door you know. You’re the first serving policeman who’s ever been in this room.’

Skinner looked around the small grey office. It was shabbily furnished; its two windows, treated on the outside with a reflective coating, overlooked the conference suite and food hall in the central courtyard of the huge circular block. Skinner sat down in the uncomfortable low-backed tubular chair to which Fulton pointed.

He matched the directness of the man’s approach.

‘I’m probably the first serving Scottish policeman to have the President of bloody Syria land on his patch at only a few days’ notice. I want to talk to you about his security. I want to know from the start that if I need outside help, then I’ll get it. Also, the FO is sending up a clown called Allingham to liaise with my Special Branch. I want it made clear to them and him that we are not running this operation on a committee basis, and that my force is in overall charge of the situation.’

Fulton nodded. ‘The last point has already been made. I know about Allingham. He’s a wanker. He has no connection with the system I work in. His job is to escort diplomats around, and carry messages. I know he got up Proud Jimmy’s nose last time he was here. He’s been warned not to do it again.

‘As far as outside help goes, I’ve already made arrangements for SAS personnel to be made available to you. You’ll want them, I imagine, at the airport, the debating hall and the hotel.’

‘I should think that’s right. It’s an evening debate, or I’d have him flown out straight away. Since we’re going to be stuck with him overnight, I’ll use a small hotel that’ll be easy to protect. The Norton, maybe.’

‘Yes, that’s a sound choice. The soldier boys will contact you within the next few days. Anything you need, you’ve got.’

Skinner stood up. ‘You’ve told me everything I wanted to hear, Hugh. I’ve no need to take up any more of your time.’

But the big Aberdonian did not rise from his chair. He placed both hands palms down on the table.

‘All right, I give in. I’ll ask. What the fuck is going on with this secret investigation of yours?’

Skinner had wanted to find out how far Fulton’s network stretched. That question was answered. Now he wondered how much he knew. He played the game for a little longer.

‘Which investigation do you mean?’

‘Come off it, Bob. You know bloody well. I mean the people you’ve got digging into the affairs of Mortimer and Jameson, and that girl you’ve had under cover in the Advocates’ Library. What’s it all about?’

‘Look, Hugh, as far as I’m concerned those two people you’ve mentioned are the victims in unsolved murder cases. Too fucking right I’ll go through their papers if I think it relevant.’

‘The Crown Office doesn’t agree with you about Jameson. They’ve got her on the books as a suicide.’

‘Bugger the Crown Office. I know bloody well that she was pushed under that train, and so, I’ll bet, do you.’

‘Come on, Bob. You got your Jap, but the politicians wouldn’t let you keep him. What are you trying to do now, flush it out into the open?’

‘I was fed my Jap, but I can’t swallow him as the killer any more. I know he didn’t do it. D’you hear me? I know it. So what I’m doing now is following up unsolved murders on the basis of new evidence.’

‘Then why are you using your head of Special Branch as coordinator?’

‘Confidentiality. Yobatu - the late Yobatu, by the way, if you didn’t know - was framed. My enquiries are being conducted as discreetly as possible because I don’t want the person who did the framing to know that I don’t buy his version any more. Quite frankly, Hugh, I’ve come to you now - and yes, this is the other reason for my visit - because I am now at a stage at which I may need your help in certain areas. There are indications that the international intelligence community may be involved. Is that plain enough for you?’

Fulton lifted his hands from his desk, clasped them across his stomach, and leaned back in his chair.

‘Bob, I knew most of what you were up to before you walked in here. I’ve listened to what you’ve said. Now you listen to me, and take my advice. Drop this thing. You’ve had a result, even if the punters don’t know it. You traced Yobatu, and the killings stopped. What more do you want?’

Skinner leaned across the desk.

‘Hugh, you might have listened, but you didn’t bloody hear me. Yobatu didn’t do it. I have new evidence that points in another direction.’

‘Yes, the money.’ Fulton caught the flicker of Skinner’s eyebrows. ‘Yes, know about that. A retainer, that’s all. Paid by the Syrian government through an intermediary in the Lebanese Embassy to secure the advice of two excellent advocates in Scotland, and in Europe. Paid in secret because that’s the way the Syrians do all their business.’

Skinner decided to test the depth of Fulton’s knowledge. ‘But why those two?’

‘I have no idea, but why not? Two bright young people, ambitious with marriage plans and so maybe prepared to accept an instruction that was a bit unorthodox, even slightly against the rules of the Faculty, for hard, untraceable cash.’