Gallery Whispers

49

The day was almost gone when the surprise visitor arrived.

Very few people, other than his personal staff, could walk into Bob Skinner's office unannounced; Sir James Proud, Jim Elder, Andy Martin, Sarah, Alex… and one other. The digital clock on the wall opposite the window showed forty minutes after five when Chief Constable Sir John Govan, security adviser to the Secretary of State for Scotland, peered round the door.

'Got a minute, Bob?'

Skinner smiled, and stood up. 'As many as you like, Jock,' he answered, walking round the desk to greet the newcomer. 'Would you like a coffee… or something else?' He pointed to his drinks cabinet.

'Well, since I've got a driver outside… if you've got a Macallan…'

Skinner nodded, opened the cupboard and poured some of the smooth malt into a heavy glass. Since he had no chauffeur, he poured himself a ginger ale, then sat facing his guest on one of the room's low, soft chairs.

The veteran Strathclyde Chief sipped his whisky and nodded approval. 'So,' he said. 'How's your poisoned chalice then?'

'Pure fucking hemlock. Jock. How's yours? And I'm not talking about that glass.'

'As if I thought so.' The older man smiled. 'Yes, I can understand why you turned Anderson down when he asked you to stay on in the security job. I have long experience of ignoring politicians at a local level. Reporting to one nationally is something new to me, and I can't say I like it.'

'I only learned one thing in that job. Jock, and that was never to trust any of the bastards. It doesn't matter what colour of rosette they wear, they're all the bloody same. Still, maybe it'll be easier when you retire from Glasgow and do the job full-time. How long have you left?'

'Six months. D'you fancy succeeding me?'

'Is that why you came here? To ask me that?'

'Partly.'

'Then the answer's no. I'm awaiting Jimmy's return with mounting excitement.'

'How's he coming along?'

'Very well, I'm glad to say.'

'That's good.' Govan produced a pipe and put it in his mouth, but made no attempt to reach for his matches. 'Sorry you don't fancy my chair, though. You being a Lanarkshire man and all, I hoped I could talk you into it; the Secretary of State asked me to try, as well.'

Skinner felt anger rising within him. 'That bastard's taken too great an interest in my career in the past; he can piss off now. Be sure you tell him that. Jock; those exact words mind.'

'My pleasure. Bob, my pleasure. But if you change your mind in the next couple of months, give me a call. Mr Committee Chair has told me privately that the Labour Group will support my nominee without question.'

'Thanks, Jock, but I won't. Go for Haggerty; that's my advice.'

'Ach, I can't do that. Willie's too much of a rough diamond; not politically aware. You know what I mean.'

'Aye, and that's exactly why you should appoint him.'

Sir John Govan sighed. 'In an ideal world, my young friend; in an ideal world. Now, about this hemlock of yours; I've got some good news for you.' Skinner looked up, intrigued at once.

'I was in London this morning,' the veteran Chief Constable continued, 'and I was asked to call in on our associates at Ml 5, where I was received by the Director General, no less.

'He told me that he had just come from a joint briefing with Ml 6, given by an envoy of sorts from the Central Intelligence Agency.'

'That sounds lethal,' the DCC interposed.

'You're right, in this case. The subject under discussion was our friend Michael. Hawkins. At the beginning of last week, there was a fatal air accident in Poland; a light plane, came down in a field. The pilot, the only person on board, was a Kenyan passport holder, a white man named Matthew Reid.

'The trouble was that when the Poles tried to trace the next of kin, they discovered that, according to the Kenyan passport office, there was no such person. It took them a few days to think of a connection with Hawkins, but eventually, the possibility dawned on them. The body was badly burned so they had to send for dental records. When they arrived… guess what?'

'I don't believe it,' Skinner gasped.

'Neither did the CIA, at first, when the South Africans told them.

Neither did our SIS people. They each sent their own people to confirm the identification, before they were convinced. Hawkins had a ruby set in one of his lower teeth and several gold fillings at the back; they all matched.

'There's no doubt it seems. Everybody's satisfied that Hawkins is dead.'

'In Poland, of all places. What the hell could he have been doing there?'

Govan smiled, grimly, without humour. 'There was a briefcase in the plane, and its contents survived the blaze. There was nothing in it but the phoney passport, plus a series of maps and scribbles: notes written over a period on the movements of a celebrated individual.

'Hawkins had been stalking Lech Walesa. God alone knows where the contract came from, but he seems to have been the target.'

The big DCC let out a whistle. 'So, for the past week, guys like us have been crawling all over Europe, looking for a target who, all that time has been a cinder in a freezer drawer in Warsaw?'

'You've got it, my son.' Govan paused. 'So now, the panic's over.

The details of the global economic summit will be announced next week, and we can all relax… in your case, until it happens and you have to police the bloody thing.'

Skinner looked at him, steadily. 'And what about you. Jock?' he asked. 'Are you relaxed? Do you believe it?'

'I've been convinced,' the older man said. 'More important than that, I've had my orders from the top, and I'm passing them on to you as the man in charge of the operation in Scotland. The game is over: you can stand down your team.'