Skinner's Mission

52

‘I have to tell you, lads,’ said Andy Martin, ‘that I’m not finding all this very funny.’

The Head of CID was renowned as the least flappable man on the force. His qualities complemented those of Bob Skinner and made them into what contemporaries in their constabulary and in others regarded as the perfect team. Where Skinner was mercurial, and volatile, Martin was even-tempered and invariably cool-headed. No-one with whom he worked could recall ever hearing him raise his voice.

With that in mind, Brian Mackie and Mario McGuire, sat at the conference table in the DCS’s office, each read his remark as a savage reproof.

‘Your tip about the Birmingham team was reliable, all right,’ he said, quietly. ‘Too bad it wasn’t exclusive.’ He looked at McGuire. ‘I take it that you’ve been raising hell with your oppo in Birmingham, Mario.’

The swarthy Inspector nodded. ‘All kinds of hell and damnation, sir.’

‘Have they given you any excuses, or theories?’

McGuire shrugged his wide shoulders. ‘They think that there must be a second informant in the team, working either for Charles or for one of his criminal pals in London.’

‘That’s pretty bloody obvious.’ Martin shook his head and laughed softly. ‘Christ, can you imagine if we’d all turned up in the same place at the same time, all of us armed! It would have been like Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show.’

‘Little chance of that,’ said Brian Mackie. ‘Jackie wouldn’t have wanted them taken out right in his driveway.’

‘I don’t know, we were within sight of the buggers. Still, I suppose that was as far away as they could risk.’ Martin sighed. ‘I wish I’d thought to charge straight up to Jackie’s door last night. I’ll bet he had a back-up team in the house, just in case the roadblock didn’t work.’

He glanced at Mackie. ‘No word, I take it, on the missing men?’

The DCI shook his shiny head.

‘Maybe they’ll just give them a good talking to and send them home on the bus,’ said Martin, his voice even, but heavy with irony.

Dave Donaldson’s chuckle was silenced by a glance from the Chief Superintendent. ‘Don’t think that I’m amused by you two either.’ Neil McIlhenny shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘It’s been four days since Carole Charles went up in flames, our only lead’s been butchered under our noses, our prime suspect for that murder is alibi-ed by two of our own patrolmen - and incidentally, Dave, if you do press assault charges against Heenan, you’re going to look a right fucking Charlie if he pleads Not Guilty and the case goes to trial - and it takes the Boss’s new PA to find out that Carole might have had a bit on the side.’

He paused. ‘Could do better, gentlemen, or am I being . . .’ the telephone on his desk rang, ‘. . . unkind?’ He stepped across the room and picked up the receiver.

‘Martin. Yes? Excellent.’ The four detectives saw a smile spread across his face. ‘Yes, hold them there, please. I’ll be down to pick them up myself.’ He put the phone down.

‘Game on, lads, at last. Ricky McCartney’s been arrested in Northumberland. He’s being held at Alnwick police station. His car was spotted by a patrol coming out of Haggerston Castle Caravan Park. He did a runner when he saw the blue light, but the chasers radioed in and there was a roadblock waiting a few miles down the road. They ran right into it. We got a bonus prize too. McCartney had a pal with him, one Willie Kirkbride, one of the three that Maggie told me about when she called from Peterhead.

‘At least one line of investigation is going well. With any luck, we’ll be able to arrest Dougie Terry within the next couple of days.’ He waved his four colleagues to their feet.

‘Let’s get moving. Neil, you come with me down to Alnwick, to pick up McCartney. Dave, you work on picking up the other two Willies. Brian, Mario, you concentrate on plugging the hole in your network.’

Donaldson, Mackie and McGuire each nodded and left the room, without a word.

‘Give me a second, Neil,’ said the Chief Superintendent, as they went. ‘I’d better give Alex a call. D’you want to phone Olive, and tell her you’ll be late again?’

McIlhenney smiled, grimly. ‘I think not, sir. You can, if you like.’

‘Hah!’ Martin picked up the phone again and dialled Alex’s number. He waited for a dozen rings, before hanging up.

‘Not in,’ he said, as he slipped on his jacket. ‘Let’s get going. I’m looking forward to a chat with Mr McCartney.’