Authors: Quintin Jardine
He felt it call him onwards and he obeyed, although he did not want to go. This was a
dream from which, he knew, there was no escape. In it he knew who he was. He
remembered his run through the streets. He remembered the three men. He remembered
the unnoticed girl. And he remembered the blow, and the pain; the sinking, the feeling of
drowning, and at last his passage through the blackness that had delivered him to this
place.
`Perhaps I am dead and in Hell,' he thought. 'Perhaps this is what Hell is: to be trapped
for ever in your worst nightmare?'
He was drawn towards the grinning shape in the distance; his movements seemed to
gather pace. He fought against it, but it was until suddenly he stumbled over something
which had no use…until suddenly he stumbled over something which had gone unnoticed
as he looked ahead.
Managing to hold himself upright he looked down at his feet. There, collapsed on its back,
lay the body of a man, a look of utter surprise on his face. He was in his early thirties,
neatly dressed and clean-cut, with two small exceptions. Just right of centre in his chest,
and through the centre of his forehead there were dark, ragged bullet-holes.
It was a face Skinner knew, from life and from a score and more of earlier dreams. As he
stared down at it, the look of surprise faded, to be replaced by one of recognition. Slowly
and stiffly the apparition began to rise from the ground with a mixed smile of welcome
and anticipation. 'Well, hello again,' it began.
He recoiled from it in horror, feeling his hands clench with tension .. .
. . . and suddenly, upon his left hand he felt an answering pressure, something that was not
of the dream. He held to it tightly, afraid to let go in case he was holding on to life itself,
and as he did the apparition faded. He remained trapped in the dream . . . there was no
escape from there . . . but he was held still and motionless, held back from the horrible
grinning shape.
Other sensations came to him. In the distance he heard whispery voices. On the back of
his hands he felt the softest of moist touches. A scent reached him, not one of the blood
and oil and burning which filled the dream, but something fragrant, a scent that he knew.
There he lay, in his own private darkness, grasping the unseen fingers which had rescued
him from the spectre, and another that had come to take his right hand. There he lay,
suspended from life, dead but undead. There he lay, and held on.
FIFTY-EIGHT
‘D'you ever notice how slow the pace of change is in London?'
Mackie looked at the acting Inspector, puzzled. 'What d'you mean?' he said. Ì'd have thought the opposite.'
McGuire paused on the pavement and shook his head. `When I was a lad, I came down to Wembley once, with my dad and my uncle.' He raised an arm and pointed along Wardour Street. 'We had a pint in that pub there, and that one, and that one. They're all just as I remember them. You pick out three pubs in a row in the middle of Edinburgh, and if just one of them has the same name and paint-job that it had fifteen years ago, you'll be lucky.'
The DCI laughed. 'There's more to life than boozers, big fella.'
`So there is, and over the last ten years Edinburgh's had a new Conference Centre, a new Opera House, new cinemas, four big new retail parks, a new civil-service building, and umpteen big new office developments, in the city centre and out by the bypass. Not bad for a city of under half a million folk.'
`Maybe so, Mario, but it could be that London is so big that change just isn't as obvious.'
Cyril Kercheval's nice little Italian place was opposite two of McGuire's fondly remembered ale-houses. Mackie gazed through the window and was pleased to note that it was much quieter than their Chinese meeting place. Kercheval was waiting for them inside, with a raffia-bound bottle of Chianti uncorked on the table.
`Hello again,' he began, rising to greet them. What have you been up to since yesterday . .
. or can't you say?'
Ìt's all right. Special Branch isn't nearly as cloak and dagger these days. We leave most of that to your outfit. Mario's new to the section, so I've taken the opportunity to introduce him to some of our opposite numbers down here.'
Kercheval nodded in what seemed to be approval. `Good, good. Not a wasted moment, eh?'
He looked at the menu, with a knowledgeable eye. Ìnspector,' he said, putting it down and filling their glasses with the dark red Chianti, 'you're a touch Italian, I think. How about choosing for us. On the MI5 tab, of course.' He sipped at his wine. 'Good stuff, this.'
Ìf you insist,' said McGuire, a good enough detective to know when he was being patronised. He spoke rapidly to the waiter in Italian. The man scribbled on his pad, reddening in the face at one point, and disappeared down a narrow staircase set in a corner of the dining room.
`Well? What did you order?'
`Scotch broth — that's soup of the day — and three Aberdeen Angus sirloins, medium rare, in a whisky sauce, with chips and peas. Sherry trifle to follow. My nose tells me that's all they're capable of cooking here. Oh yes, and I said to him that even without tasting it I could tell that the Chianti was shite, and could he please bring us a real bottle and uncork it at the table, otherwise there'd be hell to pay on account of us being coppers.'
He smiled showing all of his gleaming front teeth. 'That's only a rough translation, of course.'
Kercheval was as red as the waiter. 'Oh, I see. Glad to have you along in that case.' He turned quickly to Mackie. `What a, new s from the North? About Skinner, I mean.'
`None, either way. Mario phoned his wife an hour ago. They say that today will be crucial.'
`Mmm. Must be a worrying time for you both. Of course, you may not know him that well, what with him being Deputy Chief and all that.'
Mackie looked at him coolly, wondering at the sea change in, his manner from the day before. 'Doesn't matter what rank he is. He's a copper and he's one of us. As it happens, Mario and I have both seen action with the boss. I was his PA before Maggie took over the post.'
Òh,' said Kercheval, 'when you used the term PA yesterday, I assumed that Mario had married the boss's secretary.'
McGuire grinned meaningfully at the bachelor Mackie. 'A man could do worse,' he said,
'but my wife's a Detective Inspector. She outranked me until a couple of days ago.'
The waiter reappeared with a fresh bottle of Chianti, and opened it ostentatiously, handing the cork to McGuire as he poured a tasting sample into a clean glass. McGuire sniffed the cork, sipped the wine and nodded. The waiter filled three new glasses. As he withdrew, McGuire handed him the original bottle and spoke again in Italian. The waiter took the bottle with a thin, ungracious smile.
`What did you say then?' asked Mackie.
Ì told him to take the first stuff home, put it in his car radiator and wait for a really cold winter.'
The DCI shook his balding head in mock despair. `So Cyril,' he said to the MI5 man.
'What have you got for us?'
Kercheval sipped the replacement Chianti, eyes widening at the difference. Slowly he replaced his glass, then looked solemnly up at Mackie. 'Nothing, dear boy, I'm afraid.
The two Scots stared at him, astonished. 'What?' said McGuire, his black eyebrows coming together in a heavy frown.
'As I told you, I went to see the DG, and asked if I could release the file on Davey to your investigation. He told me to give him a couple of hours. He called me back in last night, and said that we couldn't do that.'
'Why the hell not?' demanded Mackie.
Ì don't question my DG, dear boy. Especially not when he's been to the PM about it.'
`You sure he did that?'
Òh yes. I shouldn't tell you this, but it was the PM who stopped it. I'd have let the file go, especially since Davey's dead, and the DG always trusts my judgement.'
`So it seems that our fearless leader, the bastard, must have a short memory when it comes to people saving his life,' Mackie snarled.
Èither that,' said McGuire, who had stood behind the man as a human shield on that same rain-soaked evening, 'or he has a bloody good reason for keeping that file closed!'
FIFTY-NINE
‘This husband of yours definitely wants to waken up, Dr Grace. It's a bit ahead of my schedule, but if you agree, then I think I'm going to let him.
From her seat by the right-hand side of Bob's bed, Sarah looked up at Mr Braeburn. 'As far as I can see, he'd be less stressed off sedation. So yes, I agree. Take him off the drip.'
The tall, lugubrious consultant, dressed on this occasion in a white coat, beckoned to a waiting nurse. 'Disconnect Mr Skinner's IV sedative, please. Continue with the nutrients, but take him off the grog.'
The young woman did as she had been instructed, disconnecting the tube through which the drug had been flowing into Bob's arm.
`Given the dose he was on, I'd expect it to be about three hours before he's ready to come round, but with this fellow, God alone knows. Normally I'd take him off the ventilator in about an hour, but if we're both satisfied that he's ready to breathe on his own, I'll take the tube out now.'
Sarah almost blurted out her, 'Yes,' but stopped, forcing herself to think like a doctor, rather than a distraught, exhausted wife desperate to hear her husband speak. She thought back to his reactions over the last few hours, and looked at the steady, positive signs showing on the monitors. She glanced across at Alex, who sat on the other side of the bed, holding her father's left hand tight and watching her anxiously.
‘I’m happy with that. Let's take the tube out before he wakens and chokes on the bloody thing.'
`Right,' said Braeburn. 'Would you like to assist me?' She nodded and moved round behind him. Gently, she raised Bob's shoulders slightly and tilted his head back, allowing the surgeon to ease the wet, mucus-strung ventilator tube from his throat. In spite of herself, she glanced at the monitor again, and saw happily that his breathing was continuing at the same steady pace. She held him up as the nurse, from the other side of the bed, pushed pillows under him to support his weight in a more normal position.
Alex's eyes glistened as she watched the beginning of her father's return to life.
`You stay with him,' Sarah said, 'and I'll get us some coffee. We could still have a wait until he's back with us.'
They finished two coffees as they sat by the bedside, watching and waiting. Alex continued to hold his hand as if both of their lives depended upon it. Occasionally, Sarah would stroke his forehead, to confirm that his body temperature was coming back to normal.
Gradually, as they studied him for signs of wakefulness, Skinner seemed to become less inert. Once or twice, his legs moved slightly beneath the cover, and his toes flicked and twitched.
`You want to shake him, don't you,' said Alex, 'to waken him.'
`That's the one thing we mustn't do,' said Sarah. 'He has to recover consciousness gradually.'
`Not that it was ever easy to shake Pops awake. I remember when I was a wee girl, I always wanted to go to the beach on Sunday morning, sun, rain, hail or snow — but that was the one day when he used to sleep late if he had a chance.
Ì was always up and about early, waiting for him to surface, If he was taking too long I'd go into his room to waken him up. I used to shake him as hard as a seven-year-old could, but I couldn't budge him. He just lay there like a log. I knew he was pretending, but he could always wait me out.' She grinned. Èventually, though, I found the answer.'
`What was that?'
Ì used to tickle the soles of his feet.' She reached down towards the foot of the bed, and slipped her free hand under the cover.
`Don't you bloody dare!'
It was a fuzzy, indistinct mumble, but it was intelligible. Alex and Sarah gasped in unison, rising to their feet. Bob's eyelashes flickered, ten, perhaps fifteen times, but at last his eyes opened. The women gazed down at him, struck dumb by their relief, until at last, Sarah leaned over him and kissed his forehead.
`Welcome back, my darling,' she whispered, her eyes swimming.
Alex sat back in her chair, hard, held his hand to her face and cried big, salt tears of relief.
`What happened?' Bob croaked. 'Heart attack?'
Sarah looked down at him in surprise. 'Heart attack? You? No way.'
Wh' was it then? Don' remember.'
`You were jogging, darling, and you were attacked. You were stabbed. We've been worried about you for a while, but you're going to be all right.'
He smiled up at her and shook his head, weakly. 'Not jogging. Never jog. Running.'
She laughed. 'I stand corrected.'
He tried to speak again, but coughed, wincing in sudden pain.
‘Easy, easy,’ Sarah.
‘throats sore’
`That's because you've had a tube down it for a day and a half. It'll ease. Want to try a sip of water?'
He nodded. She filled a glass from the jug at the bedside and held it to his mouth. He drank greedily, flicking his tongue over his lips to moisten them.
'A day and a half,' he whispered. 'That's how long I've been out of it?'
Sarah nodded. 'You've been under sedation since your operation. Standard recovery procedure.'
`What was the damage?'
'A pierced lung and a nicked artery. Other than that you're fine’
He laughed faintly. 'Aye, I feel just great. Stabbed, eh. Of the two, I think I prefer being shot.'
Alex looked up at Sarah in astonishment. Like her father's colleagues, she had been told the alternative version of that chapter from his past. 'Let's hope you never have to make the comparison for real,' said his wife, trying to cover his gaffe.
Bob squeezed his daughter's hand. 'Hi, Babe. How're you doing?'
She smiled at him, her face still streaked with tears. 'Fine, now,' she said. 'Oh God, we were so worried about you.' She lifted his hand off the bed and pressed it to her moist cheek. As she did so, the diamonds on her finger sparkled with reflected light.