Gallery Whispers

90

'I'm on reasonably good terms with the Chief Executive of the hospital NHS Trust, Neil. I suppose he's got the authority to let you look at the notes on Nicola Marston, although you might have to go along to the Western to do it. I'll call him when I get back from the EICC, I promise.'

'Thanks, sir,' said Mcllhenney, sincerely. 'I doubt very much whether there'll be anything in it, but it's something to do, truth be told; easier than going out and re-interviewing all of Gay Weston's neighbours.'

'Mmm. I don't think I want you to do that, unless you've got something specific in mind. I'm not going to tie your hands, but I want you to tell me before you talk to witnesses.'

'Fair enough, boss.'

'Right; I'll speak to you later, but now I'd better put in an appearance up at the EICC.' Skinner glanced out of his office window. 'That looks like my driver.' He pushed himself from his chair and headed for the door.

The city centre morning traffic was minimal, most drivers having been directed to temporary Park and Ride areas under ACC Jim Elder's policing plan, and so a fifteen-minute journey took five.

Andy Martin was in the foyer area which was brightly lit by the high glass front of the building, when he arrived just before ten o'clock. 'All well?' the DCC asked.

'If you fancy the Tower of Babel as a working environment,' his friend chuckled, 'it's fine. All the security people are happy with our arrangements: that's the main thing as far as I'm concerned.'

'This is the last preliminary session, yes?'

'That's right: all the procedural stuff should be agreed this morning.

The Heads of Government and finance ministers start to check into their accommodation this afternoon, ready for the formal opening by the Prime Minister and Bruce Anderson tomorrow at nine sharp. You want to see the setup?'

'Yes, let's take a look at it.'

As they walked past the barrier one of the private sector security guards stepped forward to intercept the DCC, but Martin stopped him in his tracks with a quick shake of his head. 'Have all these blokes been vetted?' Skinner asked.

'Thoroughly. Twice in fact; by their employer before they were hired, then again by us.'

'That's good. I remember once turning up at a function in Glasgow and finding on the door a guy in uniform that I'd lifted for assault and robbery a few years before.'

The two police officers stepped out into the auditorium. The staging was complete, state-of-the art and impressive; the Union, UN and Council of Europe flags were set, vertically on a background of very pale blue, with, to their right, a giant video screen, on which was displayed the delegate who at that moment, occupied the speaker's rostrum. It, and a small Chairman's table, were the only furnishings on the stage.

'So the presidents and the prime ministers won't be up there,' the DCC murmured.

'No. There are too many. Our PM's in the chair for the main sessions, but the others will be seated with their delegations, unless they're performing.'

'Who'll get to speak?'

'All the big guns, in the course of the conference. The Russian and Chinese Presidents are the main speakers tomorrow, on Thursday the new German Chancellor and the head of the European Commission are the headliners, and on Friday, it's the US president and our guy.

He's winding it up.'

Skinner looked around the hall. 'Let's hope they achieve something, otherwise the cost of this would have been better spent feeding the poor. Look at it all, the bloody window-dressing, our cost, the travel and hotel bills. Bloody frightening when you add it up.

'Hello sergeant,' he said suddenly as Karen Neville stepped past him, escorting a woman delegate into the hall.

'Good morning, sir,' she replied, carrying on down the centre aisle and directing her charge to the seating area allocated to New Zealand.

'Everything okay?' Skinner asked, amiably, as she returned.

'No problems at all, sir.'

The DCC grinned. 'Is the boyfriend here then?'

'That's him there, sir.' She pointed to a tall, brown-haired bearded man who was walking back towards the main doorway from the direction of the left hand aisle. 'I'm not supposed to talk to him on duty, though.'

'I'll make an exception. Introduce us, why don't you.'

'Okay.' She waved at the Australian, beckoning him across. 'Wayne, come here. Someone wants to meet you. DCC Skinner,' she said as he approached, 'this is Wayne Ventnor.'

'How do you do, sir,' said the newcomer as the two shook hands.

'I've heard a lot about you just lately.'

'About this man too,' Karen added. 'This is my immediate boss, DCS Martin.'

'Hi Wayne,' exclaimed the Head ofCID. 'Good to put a face to the name at last. Maybe we'll see you at the office Christmas piss-up if you're still here.'

'It's a deal, mate,' Ventnor replied, enthusiastically. 'I'm a real national stereotype; piss-ups are my speciality.'

'You're going to love it here, then. Have you been dropping off your friend?'

'Yeah. That's me free till lunchtime. I think I'll spend the time taking a look at this new museum of yours. Karen's turning me into a real Scotophile.' He nodded. 'So long, gentlemen; nice to meet you both. So long, gal, I'll see you tonight, yeah?'

'All things being equal,' she answered. 'About nine, as usual, once SB's turned in.'

Skinner frowned as the Australian walked away. 'SB, Karen?' he said, sternly. 'We don't talk about that to outsiders.'

'No, sir,' she replied, hurriedly. 'I didn't mean Special Branch.

SB's short for Sleeping Beauty. It's what we call Dennis. Wayne helps him to bed around nine, and then we go out.'

The DCC smiled. 'Ah, I see. For a minute there I thought you were turning into a security risk. On you go, then.'

She looked at him, relief written on her face, and headed back towards the foyer. Skinner's smile vanished as quickly as it had arrived.

'What's up with you?' asked Martin.

'I'm not sure she might not be a security risk after all,' he growled.

'There's something about that Aussie that's giving me a niggle. Maybe it's just the voice, maybe it's just that all these surf burns tend to look the same.

'It's probably nothing at all, and yet… I can't help feeling that I've seen that one somewhere before.'