Lethal Intent

Eleven

Like most people, Bob Skinner tolerated flying, regarding it as a twenty-first century necessity; he believed firmly that those who said they actually enjoyed being in a heavier-than-air machine thirty-five thousand feet above the ground were either liars or idiots.

The part of the whole process that he disliked most was the pre-boarding wait in the departure lounge. The small airport that served Key West, where Sarah had dropped him fifteen minutes before, was reasonably comfortable, and the monitor screens told him that his aircraft was on the ground and was scheduled to leave on time, but still he fretted.

He tried to read a book, a private-detective yarn called Alarm Call that he had brought with him from Scotland, but found that he could not give it the concentration it deserved. The small cafeteria was open: he bought himself coffee, and a bagel with cream cheese, but even as he chewed he found himself reaching unconsciously inside his jacket for the cell-phone which, on a whim, he had left at home, so that he could be truly out of contact to all except Neil McIlhenney, Trish, the children's nanny, and Aileen de Marco.

He had given her his contact number because, he had told himself and her, he had promised to be there for her whenever she needed advice, but in truth, he wondered if his motive had been more personal. Whatever was in his head, and his heart, he felt an urgent need to speak to her, to make sure that she had kept the promise she had made to him the evening before.

He gave in. He drained the coffee but left half of the bagel, then walked over to a payphone against the wall, and used a credit card to activate it. He punched in her number and waited. Lena McElhone answered. 'Justice Minister's office.'

'Lena, it's Bob Skinner here. Can I speak to Aileen, or is she at lunch?'

'She's in her office, Mr Skinner. Hold on.' He waited for a minute, watching the cost of the call tick higher and higher. 'I'm sorry,' said the private secretary, when finally she came back on line, 'Aileen's very busy and can't be disturbed.'

He grunted in frustration. 'Okay. Tell her I'll call her from Miami once I get there.'

'She expects to be busy all day, sir.'

'She's not clearing her desk, is she?'

'Pardon?'

'Obviously not. Just give her a message, please: tell her I'm glad she's done the right thing, and that I'll be back in Scotland tomorrow morning. I'll call her then, and if her lunch-hour's free maybe she can keep it that way.'

'I'll pass that on, sir. Goodbye.'

Skinner pulled down the cradle, released it again, and dialled the secure Special Branch number. 'Neil,' he said, as his friend picked up the call. 'What's happening? How are the papers handling the terrorists?'

'As you expected,' he replied. 'They're kicking the crap out of the PM and Murtagh. The Nats and the Tories are having a field day.'

'It won't help the terrorists, though. They'll be touching down pretty soon not all that far from where I am right now. I don't fancy their chances of ever leaving.'

'Are you bothered?'

'About what happens to them? In truth, no, I'm not. But I assured Aileen de Marco that they'd be tried in Scotland. I was wrong, and she's been dropped in it. That's what annoys me.'

'You'll both get over it.'

'You sound harassed, Chief Inspector. What's been happening?'

'Plenty, but I can't talk about much of it over the phone. I can tell you one thing, though. Bandit Mackenzie and Andy Martin were playing cowboys last night.'

'Andy was involved?' Then, 'Tayside must be as boring as I told him it would be. Did they get a result?'

'Big time. Bandit's been like a dog with two cocks all morning. He should enjoy it while he can, poor lad: he's about to be given a high-level vasectomy.' The DCC heard McIlhenney pause, as if someone had come into his office. 'Boss, I have to go. See you tomorrow morning.'