Skinner's festival

51

Neil Mcllhenney was impressed by Macdainnid's choice of meeting-place. Edinburgh born and bred, he had never heard of the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, far less visited it. So when he ambled up the red sandstone steps and into the cathedrallike central hall, with its massive pipe organ at the far end, he was taken by surprise by its elegance and its scale. Neil had always liked organ music, and the fact that he had arrived in the middle of the Friday afternoon recital made the job the highlight of his week in Glasgow.

The tap had picked up Grant Macdairmid on the pub telephone as he set up his assignation at Kelvingrove. His call had been brief and to the point. 'Cassie? Grant here. Look I need you to run another message for me. Meet me this afternoon. Four-thirty, Kelvingrove Art Gallery.'

Haggerty had instructed Barry Macgregor to tail the MP from his office to the meeting-place, while Mcllhenney had been sent on ahead.

Wooden seats were set out in rows across the hall. Those near the front were well filled, but in the row second from the back a girl sat alone, round-shouldered but relaxed in a pale blue T-shirt.

Mcllhenney looked at the back other head and wondered. Rather than take a seat he wandered across to one of the display cases in an area off the hall. It was filled with an assortment of Cromwellian armour, out-of-place somehow in a Glasgow setting.

He could observe the main door from the far side of the glass case, and so Macdairmid did not see him as he glanced all around the hall on his arrival. Satisfied, the MP moved swiftly down the hall and made his way calmly between the seats towards the girl.

Mcllhenney noticed that he was carrying a black briefcase.

Macgregor entered a few seconds later, and sat down in the back row, a comfortable distance away from the couple. He had untied his pony-tail, and his long hair, with its white-beaded Plaits, fell around his shoulders. He wore a crew-necked, short191 sleeved shirt over faded jeans, split at the knee. Mcllhenney looked at him and smiled. 'Crime Squad throws up some sights, right enough,' he whispered to himself.

The meeting lasted only a few minutes. Neither detective dared edge close enough to hear the conversation, but from what they could see it was one-sided, Macdairmid doing all the talking. Less than five minutes after he had entered, the MP stood up and made his way out of the Gallery – without the black briefcase. Neither detective made a move to follow him. They knew that Glasgow officers were waiting outside at each exit from the Gallery, ready to pick up Macdairmid's trail. Instead they stayed, as ordered, with the girl.

She had little taste either, it seemed, for the fine organ music, for three minutes later she too rose to go. The briefcase looked heavy in her right hand. Outside, she made quickly for the car park, where she unlocked the door of a battered green Metro. She heaved the case on to the passenger seat, before jumping in and driving off.

Braided hair flying behind him, Macgregor sprinted over to Mcllhenney's Astra and jumped in, as the older man revved the engine and set off after the girl.

'Registration D436 QQS,' barked Mcllhenney. 'Call it in.'

Using the car telephone rather than radio, Macgregor waited on the line while the number was checked. Eventually he said, 'Got that,' and put the phone back in its magnetic cradle. 'It's his sister, Neil. The bugger's using his own sister on a pick-up. The Metro's registered to Cassandra Macdairmid, date of birth 29 June 1969, listed address 124 Dundonald Road, Partickhill.' " 'In that case, she's going home,' said Mcllhenney, turning the Astra into Dundonald Road. a