Lethal Intent (33 page)

Bandit was quieter than usual on the drive through. Although legal constraints had prevented the press from using Spencer's name, the incident had been reported, and word had spread rapidly through the police ranks that he was the child involved. However, the link to the two earlier deaths had not been picked up.

'Is your kid all right?' Mackenzie had asked, as they left Edinburgh.

'Yes, thanks, but I don't want to talk about it. I want to stay focused on tonight's job.'

'Have they got any leads?'

'Yes. Now shut it, please.'

They listened to music for the rest of the journey, until finally they arrived in Partick. McIlhenney parked under a light in the next street to the Johnny Groat, and they walked the short distance. The pub was quiet as they arrived: Dolly was either occupied, working elsewhere or taking a night off for her corner of the bar was empty.

They ordered their drinks and settled down for a night in front of the television. Adept though he was at nursing a pint, Mackenzie was on to his second before the door swung open and the Jakes brothers appeared. Bobby looked as edgy as ever, but Frankie smiled as he walked across to them. 'Hello, boyz. Night shift again?'

'Afraid so,' McIlhenney grunted.

'You have a chance to think about that thing we talk about the other night?' he asked.

'Give us time. It might be possible, but we'll need to be sure that no fingers get pointed at us. We'll let you know in a few days whether we're up for it or not.'

'Okay, I stay patient. You wanna drink?'

'No, thanks,' said Mackenzie, 'we've just got them in.'

'Ah,' grunted Frankie, accepting a pint from his brother. He glanced up at the television set above the bar. 'Anything on?'

'The usual Sunday-night shite.'

The Macedonian laughed. 'Could be worse. You could be working already.' He turned as the door opened again, and his ugly face split into a huge grin. 'Sammy!' he exclaimed.

Samir Bajram looked just like his photograph. Even without the crescent earring the two detectives would have recognised him. It was his eyes that were compelling: they were a deep brown colour and they seemed to sparkle, radiating danger and an eagerness to do harm. The beard they had been told about was still there, but it was so fair that it was almost invisible.

He embraced the Jakes brothers. Frankie turned towards them. 'Boyz, this is my cousin Sammy. He's visiting for a while. Sammy, this is Mac and David, I might do some bizniz with them.'

The dark eyes fell upon them in a silent challenge. McIlhenney guessed that this was how he greeted all strangers. He longed to hold his gaze, to send him a message, but he resisted the temptation. 'Hello,' he murmured, picking up his glass.

'Pleased meecha,' the Albanian replied.

Frankie took him by the arm. 'Boyz,' he told them, 'Sammy and us got to talk bizniz. See youse later.'

The two brothers and their cousin turned their backs on them and walked to the far side of the bar, taking a table behind Dolly's empty corner, where Bobby ordered another pint of beer. McIlhenney and Mackenzie turned their eyes back to the television, but listened elsewhere. From time to time, a buzz of conversation drifted across to them in a strange language. They waited: their cover story would allow them to stay until ten thirty at the latest. If necessary, they agreed, they would go back to the car and wait close enough to observe Samir leaving, then follow him.

They were almost ready to go when the three stood up. The bar had filled up by that time, and they eased their way through the drinkers, Frankie greeting those he knew and shouldering past the rest. 'So long, boyz,' he called out to them, as the trio left.

'Count to twenty,' said McIlhenney. 'Let's give ourselves long enough to make it look as if we drank up before we went, rather than that we followed them straight out. We'll cop where they're going and take it from there.'

Mackenzie counted off the numbers slowly and quietly. Finally he whispered, 'twenty' and they rose.

Once outside the pub, they glanced left and then right. Fifty yards away, three figures slouched along, backs towards them. 'You wait here; I'll bring the car.' Mackenzie nodded agreement, and stepped back into a close, making himself invisible to their targets, but keeping them in sight.

As he watched, they stopped beside a car. Frankie bent over beside the driver's door, as if to fit the key into the lock, then the doors were opened and all three stepped inside.

'Get a move on, N—' Mackenzie began, and then the street erupted in a great orange glow, engulfing the car and the three men. The noise of the blast assaulted his ears a millisecond later.

Instinctively, forgetting McIlhenney, he jumped from his cover and pounded down the street. Flames were erupting from the mangled vehicle; as he drew near, there was a second, smaller explosion, which radiated searing heat, stopping him in his tracks. He stared in horror, until McIlhenney's shout, from just behind, interrupted him.

'Get in.'

Without thinking about it, he obeyed. He jumped into the Vectra; even before his door had closed, it was roaring away from the scene.

Sixty-seven

It was a quiet night in Delight, inevitably, because it was Sunday, and because the snow was still thick on the ground. Nevertheless, there was still a full staff complement, and Sukur the chef was still ranting and raving in his kitchen, terrorising his underlings.

Sean Green was on time as usual: he had passed his audition with flying colours, so much so that he had been designated head waiter by Peter Bassam, and presented with a black dinner jacket that almost fitted him. 'It's a job I've been wanting to fill, John,' the owner told him. 'I didn't want to advertise it as such, that's all.'

To his surprise, he had actually been pleased, not just to be so solidly embedded in the restaurant but that his skills had been recognised. There was an extra bounce to his step in the restaurant that night; he knew it, and he made no attempt to hide it. If the other waiters resented him, they gave no sign; he guessed that they were simply glad to be in a job.

The evening started out as if it would be busy; by seven o'clock, there were seven tables occupied. However, as time went on, no new customers appeared, and Bassam appeared to grow more and more edgy. Finally, just after eight, he beckoned Green across. 'John,' he said, 'I'm going to go out for a while, maybe have a meal in someone else's place for a change. You're in charge: look after the till, keep it smooth out front, don't let that crazy chef kill the dishwashers, and I'll see you later.'

Green nodded, thinking that he might take up this line of work permanently.

His sudden elevation did nothing to attract business. At nine thirty the restaurant was empty; just after ten three couples appeared, taking a table for six. At ten forty-five two men entered, but one was so blatantly drunk that Sean told him, quietly but firmly, that the kitchen was closed.

The sextet lingered on: each had three courses, and they drank four bottles of wine. As they sipped their coffee, the new head waiter and acting manager told the kitchen staff and one of the waiters that they could go home.

Finally, at eleven forty, the six paid their bill and left: Sean told the last remaining waiter, who had been looking after their table, that his night was over. He was alone, an opportunity that he had not expected.

Quickly, he went through to Bassam's office. He was still convinced that the restaurateur was clean, but he had a job to do. He fanned quickly over his boss's desk, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. A quick check of the drawers told the same story. He was on his way back to the restaurant, through the tiny bar, when his eye was caught by something that had actually been there all night.

The corner of a piece of paper protruded from under the till, as if it had been shoved in there hastily. Taking care that it would not catch and tear, he withdrew it. He frowned: it was a street map of St Andrews, golfing capital of the world. He struggled to think whether he had ever heard of a Turkish golfer, but could not come up with a single name. But St Andrews was not built on golf alone, he reminded himself. It was a holiday resort, he was sure. In all probability Bassam had been planning a weekend break for his wife back in the summer; the thing could have been there since then for all he knew. Idly, he folded the map and shoved it into his trouser pocket.

He stood there, the man in charge, surveying his empty empire. He had begun to doubt long before that his boss was coming back at all that night, and wondered whether he should leave himself, until he realised that that would leave him with the keys in his possession. Of course, he could always come in early in the morning…

As he weighed his choices, the door opened: there stood Bassam, behind him the flash of something white moving away from the pavement outside.

'John,' he called out. it's like a grave in here.'

'It was like a funeral for most of the night,' Green replied. 'Not many punters.'

'Is everybody gone?' The owner stepped over to the bar.

'Yes, long gone. Time I was off too: I've got a bus to catch.'

'Ahh, have a drink with me before you go. I'll give you a lift. Gin and tonic?'

'I'd prefer Bushmills, straight, no rocks,' Sean told him honestly.

Bassam poured him a double and took a Cognac for himself. 'So how do you like my restaurant?' he asked.

'Very much, Mr Bassam; it's a good place to work.'

'Call me Peter, man. I'm pleased with you too. It's good to have someone here at last that I can trust to take the weight off my shoulders.' He finished his drink. 'In fact, I'll show you how much: I'm going to give you a bonus, cash, so you don't need to declare it.' He headed for his office. 'Come on through,' he said, over his shoulder. 'I keep some money in my safe.'

He stepped into his office. Amused, and wondering whether he would declare his windfall to Mandy Dennis, Sean followed.

Before he had taken two steps into the room, two men appeared from either side of the door. His arms were seized and pinned to his sides, a hood was pulled over his head, and everything went dark.

Sixty-eight

'We must stop talking like this,' Bob Skinner chuckled, as he answered the phone just after midnight, 'Trish will get suspicious.' There was no laugh from the other end of the line. 'What's up?' he asked suddenly serious.

'Samir Bajram is,' McIlhenney replied, tersely. 'Him and the Jakes brothers; I'd reckon they're about three miles up by now and heading for orbit.'

'They're what?'

'As far as we could see it was car bomb. Sammy showed up in the pub. Frankie introduced him to us as his cousin, then the three of them went to the other end of the pub. They had a drink, went outside, got into a motor and were blown to smithereens.'

'Were you close?'

'Not close enough to get hurt, although the Bandit nearly got his eyebrows singed.'

'What did you do?'

'We got the hell out, as fast as we could. Since we weren't supposed to be there in the first place, I didn't reckon you'd want us giving witness statements.'

'Too damn right. We'll leave it to Strathclyde, and maybe the SDEA to clear up. You are sure it was Samir?'

McIlhenney growled. 'I won't dignify that with an answer, boss.'

'Okay, sorry. Did you get any idea what he might have been up to?'

'Frankie said that they were doing some business… or bizniz, to use his word. I guess it was that other thing he was talking about.'

Skinner frowned. 'Given his background that must mean drugs. Could that be all there is to these guys' presence here after all, a drugs shipment?'

'Maybe, but if so, where were the other three? No, I don't think so.'

'No, that's true.' He sighed. 'It's a bugger, though: I was counting on Samir to lead us to the rest; now we're back to scratch. Plus, it leaves us with another question. Who did the three of them in, and why?'

'The way I see it, Sammy was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It looks like a Glasgow gang hit, with the Jakes boys as the target. I could understand Frankie pissing somebody off badly enough.' He laughed, softly. 'He was an annoying so-and-so.'

'You sound as if you'll miss him.'

'Strangely enough, I will. I actually liked the ugly wee bastard. Whoever did him just joined the long list of people I'd like to meet.'

'Chances are you never will, Neil. Good night.'

Skinner replaced his bedside phone in its cradle, and picked up his book. He looked at the page, but the letters were blurred. The day was coming, he knew, when he was going to need help for night-time reading. But it was not his late-forties vision alone that made him unable to focus. At the back of his mind, a disconcerting scenario was taking shape.

He thought about it for a few minutes, then reached a decision. He climbed out of bed, picked up his personal directory from the dressing-table and, holding it directly under the light so that he could see clearly, looked through it until he found Amanda Dennis's mobile number.

She was fuzzy with sleep when she answered. 'Yes?' The word was slow and heavy.

'Amanda,' he snapped, urgently. 'It's Bob. I want you to pull Sean Green out of his waiter job, right away. I'm probably being alarmist, but he could be in danger.'

Sixty-nine

Andy Martin worked assiduously in his Dundee office for two hours. When he was finished he had read through all the papers in his in-tray, scribbling notes on those that required action on his part, and he had dictated six letters. Satisfied, he took the tray and his electronic notepad through to his secretary and left her to do her part.

Back in his office, he switched on the 'engaged' light above his door, hung his jacket over the back of his chair, settled down and switched on his laptop computer. He could have used the terminal on his desk, but that would have left a record of his activity, and that was something he did not want.

He waited for the machine to power up, then went on line, using his private account with AOL. Opening the powerful search engine, he entered three words, 'Herbert Groves Construction', then sat back, gazing at the screen, until a range of options appeared.