Skinner's festival

89

Brian Mackie hefted the sniper's rifle, with its telescopic sight, to his shoulder, and settled it against him like a new lover, adjusting himself to its shape, making himself comfortable with its feel, and with the lines of its long body.

Skinner looked at the two of them, man and mistress, silhouettes in the little light which invaded the dark of the office.

He took in the slender shape of the hand-built gun, and was struck by the contrast with the ugliness of the long silencer which extended its barrel.

Mackie nuzzled his cheek against the walnut stock and waited.

It was 10:58 pm. Outside, the Gyle Centre car park, cleared completely of vehicles as instructed, was illuminated brightly by its floodlights on their pillars, in contrast with the bulky darkness of the two superstores and the other, smaller shops which bounded it on two sides.

'It's nearly time, Brian,' said Skinner. 'Any second now.

Remember, our car is a white Mondeo. Theirs might be a Vauxhall Senator.'

He felt the rush of adrenaline pumping him up, readying him for action. Though he was still fearful for Alex, he was glad that the moment had almost come. The last thirty, sleepless hours had been the longest of his life.

The rest of the farmhouse had offered them few new leads.

They had found Mary Little Horse's things, in a rucksack in the wardrobe in the bedroom. The only other signs of the house's occupants had been their refuse – the tins and discarded food wrappers which someone had thrown into a green wheelie-bin outside the back door – and the coffee pot and stained mugs which had been left on the kitchen table.

Eventually Skinner had returned to look again, more professionally and dispassionately this time, at the body of Mary Little Horse.

'Alex wasn't kidding about Mr Ingo, Andy. The man must be good. Our Mary here was a pro herself.'

'Yes,' said Martin, 'and she was strong as well, according to poor old Frank Adams. Ingo must have taken her completely by surprise. Pillow-case over her head and bang, before she had time to react. Poetic justice, I suppose.'

'Or dog eat bitch!'

Beside the Vitara in the yard, they found, and photographed a second set of tyre tracks in the setting mud. A tyre-centre manager, called out in the early hours of the morning, had identified them as belonging to the type normally fitted to a 24valve Vauxhall Senator, the flagship saloon of the range.,; 'Vauxhall,' Skinner had grunted. 'Not exactly a rare model.

Still, put the word out to all of our traffic cars, and to all traffic wardens, to look out for Senators. Anybody who sees one carrying a group of two men and two women is to call it in right away. But no one is to approach it. I don't want them getting nervy while Alex is still in that car. I want these bastards out in the open.'

The memory of his own instructions snapped him back to the present, just as the white Mondeo swept into the deserted car park, heading towards the centre of the pool of light. He had time to spot Maggie Rose in the driver's seat, before she swung the car around so that its near-side faced the office where Skinner and Mackie were hidden.

As soon as it had drawn to a halt, Neil Mcllhenney jumped from the front passenger seat, and raced round to the boot. He pushed the release button and, as the lid swung up, reached inside and withdrew the two hold-alls, one long, the other squarish, which Skinner had seen before in another place. He wonder whether anyone had bothered to clean off the blood streaks, then found himself hoping that they had not.

Without even glancing around, Mcllhenney – obeying to tin? letter Skinner's orders at his briefing earlier that evening – put the hold-alls down close together on the ground, right in the centre of the car park. He took three long strides back to the passenj door and jumped in. The door had barely closed behind h before Maggie Rose slammed the car into gear and raced off ir the night, heading out of the Centre and turning in the direction the city.

Skinner peered at his watch, holding it up towards the little li that crept in through the open window. It showed almost 11:00 pm. He looked at the second hand as it swept up towards the hour, and waited, hardly daring to breathe.

The Senator was forty-three seconds late.

They heard it just before they saw it roaring through the car park entrance and into view. The high floodlights reflected strongly from its brilliant white bodywork, and gave the heavily smoked glass of its windows a mirror-like sheen.

Skinner, in his hide, read the number-plate from afar through powerful field-glasses. He struggled to catch a glimpse of the occupants, but the glass was impenetrable under the floodlights, and he was unable even to make out their shadows.

Driven very fast and very smoothly, the car zigzagged for a second or two as it entered the park, before straightening up and making directly for the two hold-alls sitting in the centre. Just as it drew close, the driver slammed on the brakes hard, and swung it round and to a halt, tail-first. At it spun. Skinner thought that he could just make out four heads inside, but it was the most fleeting of glimpses, and he could not be certain.

'Ok, Brian. Stay ready.' In the dark, renewed tension, almost overwhelming, gripped Skinner.

'Sir.' Mackie's reply was whispered, but certain.

The Vauxhall was positioned now between their office stakeout and the hold-alls. A few seconds passed with no sign of movement. Skinner guessed that the Senator's occupants were looking around for any sign of an ambush. Involuntarily he pressed himself back into the shadows.

At first he was unable to catch a clear view of the person who climbed out of the car. The only indication of any movement was a very slight drop in the suspension. Then, from his distant viewpoint, through the glasses he saw, under the Vauxhall's body, a shadow moving on the ground beyond, as the passenger door was opened. Left, then right; two feet in trainers appeared. He swung the field-glasses upward and caught the back of a blond head and broad shoulders, rising well above the level of the car roof.

'It's Ingo, I think,' he said to Mackie.

The powerful figure moved over swiftly to the hold-alls. For a second or two there was more of him in view, across the bonnet of the Senator – then none at all, as he crouched down, disappearing from Skinner's sight completely. Even his feet were hidden by the front wheels.

Some time passed.

'He must be giving those bags a good going over,' mutter Skinner. 'Just as well we didn't chance putting a tracking device i there.'

Mackie, who was concentrating all his attention on his vie through the telescopic sight, offered no reply.

Only the shadow on the ground told Skinner that the search was on the move. Then suddenly he was in his clear view again, l, he came round to the rear of the vehicle, still crouching, with aA hold-all in each hand – but in the right hand also, a small blacldtt object not much larger than a walkie-talkie radio handset. Without putting down his burden he pressed the boot release button with his left thumb. The lid swung up. He placed the bags and the black object carefully inside, and quickly slammed it shut.

As it closed, the man stood up straight, and Skinner caught his first clear sight of him. Even if the view was only in profile, and af a distance, the power of the field-glasses left him in no doubt.

'Ingo, right enough.'

His mind swept back to their last meeting, in his own home, with Ingo as his guest – as his daughter's guest; as her lover. He remembered the man's cool arrogance, and Skinner's own certain belief that he was being sized up by someone with much more to I him that met the eye.

As Skinner watched, Ingo swung round, scanning the surrounding buildings one more time, and he was able to look straight into his face. It was cold, intent, ruthless; a face he had seen before, yet never seen in this way. Even without the evidence of Mary Little Horse's corpse, he would have known at once why Alex had stressed this man's menace.

For a moment the Swede seemed to halt in the sweep of his gaze.

It was as if his and Skinner's eyes had met. Skinner thought for that second, his heart dropping, that Ingo had spotted him, even from that far away. Then, with relief, he remembered that he was looking through field-glasses.

The gaze of inspection continued on past their place of concealment, and round the rest of the adjoining buildings. Then he spun on his heel and ran back to the passenger door, disappearing from sight.

The car started to move. Skinner stared after it, numbed by hatred for the man who had abused his daughter and now threatening her life.

Beside him, Brian Mackie pulled the trigger without waiting for any order to be given. The soft thud of the silenced rifle broke Skinner's trance. He trained his binoculars on the Senator as it started to gather pace, and picked out, on the offside rear wing, something that had been not been there before. It was barely distinguishable against the white body-work, but there it was, a big whitish-grey stain, looking for all the world like a seagull dropping.

'Nailed it, Brian. Good shot, son.'

'No problem, sir.'

Mackie looked over at Skinner as he stood in the shadows, staring after the car as it disappeared into the night.

'So that was Ingo himself, boss.'

'That was Ingo all right. No one else. He didn't spot us there, but he's going to see me again before this night is over. Oh by Christ he is!'