Skinner's festival

19

'Macdairmid? That bampot? Surely he's all wind and piss, sir.'

'That was my impression too, Willie, till Five told me different.'

The last of the Chief Constables had driven or been driven away from St Andrew's House, and the Secretary of State had departed for Charlotte Square. Skinner and Detective Superintendent Willie Haggerty, the new head of Special Branch in Glasgow, were sitting alone in the big conference room, which still reeked of the smoke from Sir John Govan's pipe. The Glasgow Chief, two months from retirement, had smiled cheerfully through the coughs and splutters of his colleagues.

The big table was still littered with the debris of the buffet lunch which the Secretary of State had provided. Haggerty munched on the last of the sandwiches as he considered Skinner's story.

'Christ, that's amazin'. We listen in taste the guy's phone and he never as much as breaks wind. Down in the Smoke and he's off taste a Murder Incorporated smoker! And taste Libya fur his holidays!

Looks like he could be our man, right enough.'

'Not our man, Willie. One of them, perhaps, but not the only one. He was home in Glasgow when the bomb went off, and when the first letter was delivered, and when that biker took a shot at me.'

'How d'you know that?'

'Because I've read the transcripts. The tap picked up three calls during that time. One at 11:20 to his wife – they're separated.

One at 11:30, to his girlfriend. One right on the stroke of midday, to the Chief Reporter of the Sunday Mail. It's the third one that interests me. Twelve noon on the dot, the same moment that the bomb goes off, and he phones a mate on a newspaper.'

'What did they talk about?'

'That's the strange thing. He calls the bloke up to ask what time the Rangers game kicks off. Says he thought it could have been one o'clock rather than three, but that his Daily Record hasn't been delivered that morning, so he can't check. Says he realises the

newspaper guy isn't a football fan, but could he find out and call him back on his home number. What does that say to you?'

That he could have been trying taste fix himself up with an alibi for twelve noon?'

'Most juries I've known would call that a reasonable conclusion. Especially if you tell them that Rangers weren't playing at all yesterday. Their game's today.'

Haggerty washed down the last of his sandwich with lukewarm coffee. 'So what d'you want me taste do, Mr S?'

'I want you to be like sticking plaster to him, Willie.

Everywhere he goes, everything he does, everyone he talks to, I want to know. I'll detail a couple of guys to work with you. If he goes for a shit, I want to know how many sheets of paper he uses.

If he goes to Confession, I want to know how many Hail Marys he gets as his penance.'

Haggerty's eyebrows rose. 'If he's a Rangers supporter, he's hardly going taste Confession!

Skinner laughed. 'That's the other funny thing about the phone call. Grant Macdairmid's a Catholic. Not too many Tims at the Rangers end!'

'No' for long, at any rate!' said Haggerty with a snort. 'Right, sir. Leave it taste Haggerty's heroes. Every contact he makes will be reported back to you daily. What about other checks? Can you get us the authority to look into his bank accounts?'

'You've got it. Anybody gives you problems, call me. Use this number.'

He picked up a paper napkin and a rollerball pen, and wrote down the number of his mobile. As he did so, as if on cue, the phone itself, which was lying on the table, sang into life. He picked it up and pressed the 'receive' button.

'Hello.'

'Boss, it's Andy.' At once. Skinner sensed the tension in Martin's voice. 'I need to see you at the Sheraton – now. Suite 207.'

'What's the problem?'

'Ballantyne's bravery. Someone's bled for it – to the death.'