Proud sipped his drink, the ice almost melted. 'Quite a pair.
Quite a story. I'm just glad you were able to stop them. So how are Sarah and Alex? Are they getting over it? How are you. for that matter?'
'The girls are OK. A bit shaky still. So are we all, but we're leaning on each other. We're a family. We'll be fine.'
'And Andy? What about him, d'you think?'
'That's something else again. What a thing he had to do! I told him to take a month off. But all he said was that if I did, then he would, too. I'll keep an eye on him for a few weeks. Make him take counselling at least. Then, once he's justified himself to himself, and shown everyone he can carry on regardless, I'll sort out a sabbatical for him. Maybe we could send him off to do some research on security policing in another country, with another force. Somewhere far away.'
'That's a good idea,' said Proud Jimmy. 'I'll look into some possibilities. Oh, by the way, there'll be no FAI on Ingo or Ariel.
I've fixed that with the Crown Office. They did a postmortem on him last night. The old pathologist told me he couldn't believe his eyes. He said the last injury he'd seen like that was thirty-seven years ago, and that bloke had been hanged. How bloody strong are you. Bob?'
'Strong enough to look after my nearest and dearest. That's all the strength I'll ever need.'
'Well, my friend, I hope you never have to call on it again!'
Skinner smiled. 'Go on. Jimmy. Get the girls, and Andy and Adam. Those steaks'll be barbied by now!' a Proud Jimmy turned to walk into the house, then stopped.
'Interpol haven't a -clue about the client, have they?'; 'No, not a sniff. You know, I'm beginning to think they might' have done it on spec., and that they might not even have had a client. If they were risking their own money, that could explain why they pursued it to the very end. They'd have had cash enough from their earlier jobs to fund the whole operation, and there are enough wealthy weirdos around the world for them to have set up an auction for the Regalia, and pulled an incredible price. That could have been what it was all about. But, chances are. we'll never know!'
Epilogue
Everard Balliol sat in his den. He was a ten per-cent shareholder in TNI, and as such received daily transcripts of the station's output, as a matter of course. His jaw was working fiercely as he read the account of the foiling of the Edinburgh Castle raid, and of the failure of the follow-up attempt on the Crown Jewels of Scotland.
'Just as well for those two, they didn't make it,' he growled. •Wouldn't have been no mountain high enough for them Everard Balliol was a vengeful man. It ran in his family. He was also one of the richest in the world, and so had the resources to indulge his whims, in whatever form they developed.
It was that crazy book he had picked up on a hotel stop-over a few years back, when there was nothing else to read. The Lion in the North it was called, by some guy named John Prebble, and that had started him on his crusade. Until then, he'd no idea that he was the descendant of kings. The names had jumped out at him, early in the book, and he had read all night. John Balliol, and then Edward Balliol, Kings of Scotland and allies of the mighty Plantagenets of England, their throne usurped by the brigand Bruce, and so robbed of their birthright. His family's birthright. His birthright. For the finest genealogists his money could buy had confirmed his instant assumption. He did spring in direct line from the seed of those ancient kings. Royal Scottish blood did flow through his veins.
Everard Balliol's crusade to restore what he saw as his family's good name had been his driving force from that time on. He had paid frequent trips to Scotland. He had studied its later history, its laws, its institutions. He could have bought up much of it, but had decided early on that he wanted no part of contemporary Scotland. It had been corrupted, softened, Anglified, and its People had been spread around the globe. So instead, he had considered how to have his personal entitlement of Scotland, and eventually he had decided. If he could not have his kingdom, he would have its crown.
From a hugely wealthy and very unorthodox art collector friend, he had heard already about 'Mr Black', and the anonymous box number in Geneva. Very special assignments: you want it, you give him enough money, he'll get it for you. 'His team is good,' the friend had said..'I know. Look at that painting they got for me. Even if I had been able to buy it at auction, it would have cost fifteen million dollars. Through Mr Black, I got it for eight.'
And so Balliol had contacted the Geneva box number, and Black had sent his messengers: that little woman and her blond brother. He had given them enough money, given it to them two years back, and he had waited. And now it was gone, and nothing to show for it. He slammed his fist on the desk, in his den, in his bungalow, in his fortified compound, in the deeps of Texas. As he read the report again, he fixed on one name – a memorable name.
Assistant Chief Constable Bob Skinner. – 'Some day, my friend. Some day,' Everard Balliol said aloud.