Skinner's rules

33

Andy and Joanne, his lady of the past six months, had just settled into their table in the plush, red-upholstered Asian restaurant in Frederick Street, when Andy bleeped.

‘Pardon me?’ said Joanne.

‘Sorry,’ he said, his blond hair emphasising his sudden blush. ‘It’s this new job. I’ve got to carry one of these pager things with me everywhere.’

‘Everywhere?’

‘Everywhere!’ He reached behind his back. Clipped into his belt was a box smaller than a cigarette packet. ‘Can’t be out of touch, you see, in case the balloon goes up, or whatever. Alec Smith is still in post, officially, but the first thing the sod did in our handover was to give me this gizmo here.’ The little box bleeped again. ‘Okay, I’m coming!’

Martin looked at the small screen. His expression grew serious. ‘You’re back at work,’ said Joanne accusingly.

‘Look, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to make a phone call. Not from here, but from the car. Will you excuse me for five minutes?’

‘Once more, Andy, just once more!’

‘Thanks. Sorry. Back soon.’ He rushed out of the restaurant and across the street to his car.

The message on his pager told him to call a London 071-number. Martin had a photographic memory for such details and he recognised it as one of a series which Alec Smith had given him during the handover, unlisted numbers connecting to people in and around Whitehall who were not listed in any directory. Some were security-related. This was diplomatic. He switched on the car telephone and dialled the number.

Three minutes later he was back in the restaurant. The elegantly dressed waiter was hovering over Joanne, who was making a show of studying the menu.

‘Give us a minute,’ Andy told the man, who nodded and backed away. ‘Listen, Jo, I have to go back. I’ll take you home for now, and pick you up later.’

He made their excuses to the waiter, pressing two crumpled Royal Bank of Scotland pound notes into the man’s hand.

‘Thank you, sir,’ the waiter said with an understanding smile.

He dropped Joanne in Marchmont Road. ‘About later, Andy. Just forget it!’ She slammed the door and stormed into the dimly lit close of the tall grey tenement.

‘Fuck it!’ He snarled through narrowed lips. ‘Never changes, does it.’

Before moving off he dialled the Fettes Avenue number. As he swung the Astra away from the kerb, he pressed the send button.

The ringing tone boomed out of the system’s speaker. After three rings, a clear male voice answered: ‘Police Headquarters.’

‘This is Chief Inspector Martin. Please connect me with Chief Superintendent Skinner, right away.’