"Within reason."
"When we saw you on the video tapes, and when we began our talk yesterday, you looked… different. Why was that?"
She took a deep breath. "Because I'd stopped taking my medication. When I got that call last Friday, it just did my head in. You know what I mean? I just screamed inside; I thought that it had all been a sham, that I wasn't cured, or under control at all, and that the medicine was all useless. So I stopped taking it. What you saw was what happened as a result."
Andrea looked across at him. "How does that make you feel, Steven?" she asked. "It makes me feel like a bit of a cripple still."
He felt himself frown. "It makes me angry, Andrea, that's how it makes me feel. For the guy who called you did so knowing what it could do to you. That's one of the most evil things I've ever come across. He won't be doing it again. Not if I can help it."
"Nor if I can. I'll try to make myself remember from now on; God does not use the phone."
Forty
Walking back into his office in the Fettes headquarters building as a serving officer should have been one of the most satisfying moments of Bob Skinner's life, let alone his career. He had been faced with a threat and he had crushed it; normally he would have taken a moment to savour his triumph, but he had no moments to spare.
Instead he went straight to his desk and switched on his computer; he fidgeted impatiently in his seat as it booted up, but eventually he was able to log on using his private password… Michael. He opened the file on which he had stored a number of highly sensitive direct-line telephone numbers. When he had found the one for which he was looking, he picked up one of his telephones, a black, old-fashioned handset, and keyed it in.
A flat emotionless voice answered. "Yes?"
"Adam, it's Bob."
"Hello, mate, how the fook are you?" The man's tone had changed in an instant. "I'd heard you were ill. Not that I believed it, mind."
"I've never been better. Things get exaggerated along the way."
"Must have been, or you wouldn't be calling me on this line. What can I do for you?"
"A small favour." He paused. Major Adam Arrow was one of his most trusted friends, although the story of their relationship would never be written down. Arrow was a serving army officer, but he worked in the sector of the national security machine that the public do not see.
He had served undercover in many trouble spots, and had seen and done things that would have turned a weaker man into a lifelong insomniac, yet he still slept well, every night, and had risen in the Ministry of Defence to a position so sensitive that he was responsible only to the Secretary of State himself, and in extreme circumstances, when things had to be politically deniable, not even to him.
"Remember," Skinner continued, 'that time you looked into my father's MoD file?"
"Of course."
"Well, there's another one I'd like you to look at, one that you'll find isn't nearly as distinguished as my dad's. He's my family secret, my brother."
"Michael," said Arrow, quietly.
As it had been with Alex, Bob's surprise was pure reflex. "How did you know about him?"
A soft laugh came down the secure line. "Are you forgetting who you're talking to, mate? Come to that, are you forgetting who you are? The first time you ever got involved with the security services, you were subjected to top level vetting. There's nothing about you that isn't known and on file; at my level I have instant access to all of it. This line you called me on has a clever little device, at my end at least; it's linked through my computer, and whenever there's an incoming call it identifies the person on the other end through the number and pops his file up on screen. I'm looking at it right now."
"Is it up-to-date, though?"
"Pretty much. I know what you were doing in the States a couple of months back. I know that your brother was found dead at the weekend, and looking at the most recent entry, I can guess why you sound in a bit of a rush right now. Is that current enough for you?"
"It's so current that it's worrying."
"You're top rated, mate."
Skinner snorted, "Uhh? Am I a threat then?"
"No. You're important, and you know things ordinary people don't. You're a national fookin' treasure, Robert. So we have to know everything about you."
"Fuck. Don't tell me any more. Will you look into Michael's Ministry file for me?"
"Sure, not a problem. What do you want to know?"
"I want to know the truth about what happened in Honduras; the incident that led to him getting kicked out."
"I'll see what it says. How soon?"
"The usual. Soon as you can."
"When can I get back to you on this line?"
"I don't know. I'm off to the States; since you're that clued up, you'll understand why. I'd like you to courier a report to Neil Mcllhenney in my Special Branch office, marked for my eyes only, on return. I don't want this going through my assistant. He's too new. I don't know him yet."
"Okay," said Arrow. "Good luck in Buffalo."
"Thanks, Adam." Skinner gave a small shudder as he hung up the phone.
He operated on the fringes of, and on occasion deeper inside, the secret society, but even he could still be surprised by the length of its arm. He checked his watch and stood up; he thought about stepping along the corridor to say hello to the chief, and to Jack McGurk, his new executive assistant, but that would have cost him time he did not have.
He was glad that the Special Branch outer office was empty when he stepped through the door. Normally he would have been happy to spend time with a bright young copper like Alice Cowan, but at that moment in his life, all he wanted to do was to pick up his bag and papers from Neil Mcllhenney and catch his plane.
The big inspector was waiting for him in his office. There was a small suitcase, cabin-sized, standing beside his desk.
"Thanks, pal," said Bob quietly. "This is above and beyond the call of duty."
"But not friendship. Don't sit down; you're on the five-fifteen shuttle connecting to the seven forty-five flight to New York. That gets you in about eleven, US time. You have an airport hotel reservation then an early morning flight to Buffalo. You'll be there for half-nine. The tickets are ready for collection at the airport."
He picked up the case, and an envelope from his desk. "Come on, we're obscenely tight for time, so let's shift. You can tell me on the way what this is about."
Mcllhenney led the way out of his office and down the stairs to the car park behind the Fettes headquarters building. He drove quickly out on to Carrington Drive; a few turns later they were on Queensferry Road, heading for the Barnton Roundabout at substantially more than the permitted speed limit. "Right," he said, as they hit a stretch of straight road.
His face became more and more solemn, and more and more pale, as Skinner told him the story. He was a detective too; he knew the conclusion to which the bare facts pointed.
"Oh, man," he whispered, as his friend finished. "Oh, man. The dead man, Ron Neidholm, have you met him?"
"No. Until that little bitch Babs Walker rubbed my nose in his picture I'd never heard of him. I'm told I should have, but gridiron football's not my game. Does he mean anything to you?"
"Yes, he does. I follow it a bit on television. He's not Joe Montana, John Ellway or Dan Marino, but he's pretty close. He's outlasted all of them too."
"Until now," Skinner grunted.
"Mmm." He paused. "Our Spencer's a great American football fan; Neidholm's one of his favourites."
"God knows how he's going to take it then, when he finds out that Auntie Sarah's topped his hero."
"Bob, for fuck's sake," Mcllhenney shouted. "You cannot afford even to think like that, far less say it out loud."
Skinner flushed at the rebuke, and chewed his lip. "I know, pal. I'm sorry. But… It's just that I've had a few hours to think about this now, and I'm going to have a few more until I shuffle into fucking Buffalo. And from what Oakdale told me, it looks pretty bleak."