Thursday Legends

by Quintin Jardine

  you should think about it. You've given more to the police service in

  little over half a career than almost any other man has in a whole

  lifetime. But it's taken you over. Nothing and no one gets in its

  way, not even your marriage. I want to see you fulfilled and happy as

  you grow older, not lonely, bitter and driven."

  "You're telling me to chuck it too?"

  "No, I'm telling you to be broad minded enough to embrace the

  possibility."

  "Alex, I've got things to do yet."

  "Like being chief constable, you mean? Pops, you couldn't sit in Uncle

  Jimmy's chair for more than six months, and you know it."

  "Yes, I do, but there are other things, other avenues."

  "You mean like the Inspectorate?"

  "Maybe."

  "I don't know if I can imagine you as Her Majesty's Inspector of

  Constabulary."

  "Fortunately, my darling, you're not the Queen." He laughed. "Not

  yet, at any rate."

  He made to go on, but Ronald arrived with a bottle of Chablis; he

  opened it and poured a little for Bob to taste. He nodded, and the

  waiter filled both glasses. "Ready to order?" he asked.

  "Another five minutes?"

  "Sure."

  "What were you going to say?" Alex asked, as he left.

  "That I'll make you a deal. I'll retire in twelve years, maximum;

  sooner if I feel that I'm burned out. And I will think more about the

  university idea, I promise. But first, I have to get through this

  medical and I have to crush these bastards who are trying to get me out

  of my job. Now let's eat."

  He nodded to the hovering Ronald, who made a smooth landing at their

  table. They ordered starters of haggis parcels, then baked sea bass.

  "You realise," said Bob as he left, 'that we've talked about nothing

  but me ... and my poor, dead, disowned brother.. . since you got off

  that plane this morning. What about you? What about this actor?"

  "Another time, "Alex answered, abruptly. "We'll keep on talking about

  you for now."

  "Why? Have you got something to hide? Is this guy someone I'd know?

  Or is he someone I'd disapprove of?"

  She picked up her napkin and bunched it as if she was going to throw it

  at him. "Pops, there is no actor; there is no one. That was just a

  story I made up to stop being endlessly quizzed about my sex life."

  "Who's been quizzing you? Not me."

  "Sarah for a start, and various friends; I got fed up with it after a

  while, so I came up with an imaginary lover, just to keep them at

  bay.

  I'm trying celibacy for a while, as a way of life; it's fun too.

  There's something nice about being unattainable. You can really get

  involved in the conversation at dinner parties for a start without

  smouldering across the table at some bloke. Been there, done that,

  thrown away the tee-shirt." She spread her napkin on her lap and

  leaned back as Ronald served the starter.

  "So," she went on, as she picked up her first knife and fork, 'to get

  back to this afternoon, are you still planning to go through to Mother

  well tomorrow?"

  "Yup."

  "Should you be doing that?"

  "What harm am I doing? I called Rod Greatorix before we came out and

  told him everything we learned from Brother Aidan this afternoon, and

  I'll do the same if I get anything tomorrow. I'm not keeping anyone

  out of the loop. If any formal statements need to be taken, the

  Tayside boys can follow up and take care of it. I haven't heard any

  howls of protest so far. This is shaping up to be a complex

  investigation, and they don't have the biggest CID in Scotland."

  "Lucky Tayside, eh. Having Bob Skinner helping them out? How does it

  feel to be reporting to Andy?"

  "I'm not, exactly. But listen, kid, just about everybody'll be

  reporting to Andy one day."

  He was into the second of his haggis parcels when his cellphone rang.

  An elderly diner frowned at him across the restaurant; he shrugged a

  half-apology and took the call. "Bob." Sarah's voice was so clear

  that she could have been calling from the phone in the Roseberry's

  cloakroom.

  "Hi," he said, cautiously, even a little curtly, remembering their last

  conversation. "How are you?"

  "Fine," she replied. He focused on her tone; there was no trace of

  anger there, but there was something, nonetheless, a distance between

  them that had nothing to do with geography. "We're going to the lake

  for a while, but Jazz wanted to say hello first. Here he is."

  There was a pause, a couple of seconds no more, before a young, bright

  and heartbreakingly familiar voice came on line. "Dad!" James Andrew

  shouted. "Hello, Dad."

  "Hello, son," Bob said, grinning inanely as Alex looked at him across

  the table. "Are you still enjoying America?"

  "I'm going to the lake."

  "So your mum told me. Have you been behaving yourself?"

  "No," said Jazz, cheerfully.

  "What?"

  "Punched Matthew Walker; made his nose bleed. He kicked me first,

  though."

  Bob stifled a laugh. "Still, son, that's no excuse. Christ, he's the

  minister's son. Did you say sorry?"

  "Yes. Mom made me." The Americanism registered with Skinner,

  disturbing him.

  "Well, don't do it again or you'll have me to deal with. You be a good

  boy from now on. Now put your mother back on."

  "He's just made it to the lake by the skin of his teeth," said Sarah as

  she reclaimed the phone. "Mark says hello too; he'll send you an

  e-mail." He heard her take a breath. "Bob, we need to talk."

  "Yes," he agreed, 'we do. There's something I have to tell you."

  "Yeah, I have something to say to you too. Without shouting at each

  other, yes?"

  "That would be nice, for a change."

  "Where are you?" He told her. "That won't do," she said.

  "No, hardly. I'll call you from home, when I can."

  "Soon?"

  "It can't be before tomorrow night. I have things to do tomorrow,

  through till seven."

  "Okay. Call me when you're ready; I'll make sure I'm here all

  afternoon."

  "Fine."

  He was about to end the call when he heard her speak again. "Sorry?"

  he said, putting the phone back to his ear.

  "I asked how your pacemaker's doing, that was all."

  "Fine. The wound itches every so often, but otherwise I don't know

  it's there."

  "That's good. That's the way it should be. When do you see the

  doctors?"

  "Tomorrow."

  "You'll sail through, I know you will."

  "So do I."

  "Bob," she asked, 'do you miss me even a little?"

  Her tone was even, matter-of-fact. Suddenly, he felt as if the glass

  wall between them had become steel. "Honey," he replied, 'that's a

  question I force myself not to dwell on. If I did, there's no telling

  where it would end. Let's speak tomorrow."

  As he put the phone back in his pocket, he became aware of his daughter

  frowning at him across the table. "What was wrong with that

  conversation?" she asked.

  "I don't know. What do you mean?"

&nbs
p; "I mean three words I didn't hear. I. Love. You."

  twenty-Six.

  If pressed, Neil Mcllhenney would admit that he had preferred his

  former job as Bob Skinner's executive assistant to his new role in

  Special Branch. But he knew that nothing was forever and so when the

  move had come about, following Mario McGuire's promotion to head the

  Borders CID division, he had taken it in his stride.

  The death of Olive, his first wife, still hung over him like a black

  cloud. It was his constant companion, and he knew he would never shake

  it off, but to offset it he had his totally unexpected romance, and his

  second marriage, still new, fresh, and, to him, astonishing.

  He knew from personal experience, bitter and sweet, that nothing in

  life was to be taken for granted, and when he thought about it he

  realised that he was better at his job as a result.

  Alice Cowan was behind her desk as usual when he swept into his office

  suite. She was a keen one, that girl; however early Neil came to work,

  he never seemed to beat her to the punch. "Morning, constable," he

  said, brightly.

  "Morning, inspector," she replied, returning his friendly smile.

  "How did your wee bit of overtime go yesterday, then?"

  "Money for old rope, boss. We found a face, we got a name, and she's

  got nothing to do with us."

  "No? But is she someone we should have known about?"

  "I wouldn't say so. She seems to be a sad lass, with a screw loose

  when it comes to religion, but not someone who represents any threat to

  the fabric of the state."

  "Is that right?" he exclaimed, with raised eyebrows. "Does the name

  al-Qaeda mean anything to you?"

  Cowan smiled. "This girl's strictly a lone operator, sir."

  "If she has the skill to make and plant a device like the one that

  torched the Vargas painting, she could manage to stuff her trainers

  with explosives and get on a jet."

  "Not at Edinburgh she couldn't. Not since we started them examining

  the soles of their shoes at the barrier check."

  "Maybe not, Alice, but just as all knowledge is power, every small gap

  in knowledge is a potential weakness. Just you keep an eye on the

  progress of Ms Rose's investigation, and if this woman turns out to be

  the one, let's have a file on her. In fact... does she have form for

  this sort of thing?"

  "Attempted, yes."

  "Then open a file anyway."

  "Very good, sir."

  He walked over to the coffee machine, which, like Alice, was always

  fired up and waiting whenever he came into the office, and poured

  himself a mug. "Before you do that, though," he said, 'grab yourself a

  coffee and come into my room."

  The strapping young woman declined the coffee and followed him through

  into his private office, taking her usual seat beside his desk.

  "I've got a job for you," he told her. He reached into his jacket,

  drew out a sheet of paper, laid it face up on his desk and slid it

  across to her. "I want you to dig out the files we hold on all of

  these people."

  Cowan picked up the paper, and saw a list of eight names. She looked

  at the first and gasped, then scanned her way down the rest.

  "Councillor Maley," she began. "Boss, these people are all on the

  joint police authority. Should we be doing this?"

  Mcllhenney smiled at her again, but this time there was no humour in

  it. "We're Special Branch, kid. We can do what we bloody well

  like."

  "But these are politicians, and I'm not stupid. I know what they're

  about right now. Wouldn't we be abusing our position?"

  "That's just what I suspect these people have been doing. If they

  have, I'm going to find out. When I do, I'm going to rein them in."

  Twenty-Seven.

  Not being an adherent of any faith, Stevie Steele had admired the grey

  sandstone building that housed the Church of Scotland headquarters, but

  he had never before thought of stepping inside.

  Much of the ground floor was actually retail space selling a fairly

  broad range of products, appropriate to the nature of the Church.

  Walking past, Steele saw Cliff Richard's face smiling up at him from a

  rack of CDs.

  He found the reception desk and announced himself and the sergeant,

  using names rather than ranks. When he had made the appointment it had

  been agreed that its nature should be kept off the office grapevine if

  possible.

  Steele's police training had taught him to avoid preconceptions, and so

  he was less surprised than he might have been by the appearance of the

  Principal Clerk to the Moderator of Scotland's established church, or

  indeed by his name. The Reverend Cahal O'Reilly, an ordained minister

  of the Church of Scotland, looked to be in his early forties, or

  perhaps even a few years younger. He greeted the detectives at the

  door of his panelled office, dressed in tight black trousers and a

  short-sleeved Ralph Lauren polo shirt, open at the neck and tie-less.

  "Morning, chaps," he said. Steele tried to detect an accent, but could

  hear none.

  "Good morning, Mr. O'Reilly. I'm Steven Steele; we spoke earlier.

  This is my colleague George Regan."

  The Principal Clerk stood aside to usher them into his room. "Grab a

  seat," he told them, pointing towards a meeting table. "I'm afraid

  this is a smoke- and coffee-free zone, but I can offer you chilled

  water, still or sparkling."

  "I'm fine, thanks," the inspector replied. "You, George?" Regan who

  had a major caffeine habit, shook his head.

  "So," said O'Reilly, as he sat in a high-backed chair at the head of

  the table, 'what have we been up to? Which one of the fathers and

  brethren have strayed from the straight and narrow and how far is the

  stuff going to spread off the fan?"

  The sergeant's eyes widened slightly, but he held his poker-faced

  expression. In contrast, a broad grin spread across Stevie Steele's

  face. "Which of the shepherds has been getting among the sheep, do you

  mean?" he replied. "You can relax. It's nothing like that. Are you

  aware of the exhibition of religious art, which opened on Saturday?"

  "In a blaze, you might say? Sure, I know about it. I helped organise

  the damn thing."

  "You did?"

  "Yes. I wasn't alone, you understand; my opposite numbers in other

  Christian churches and in other faiths were involved too."

  "You don't make it sound like a labour of love."

  "Pain in the arse would be a better description," O'Reilly said, with a

  rueful frown. "And it's a particularly sore point with me. Actually,

  I'd assumed that's what you wanted to see me about, all joking apart.

  I'm just not clear why you wanted to keep your visit hush-hush, given

  the publicity the thing's had."

  "We'll get to that, Mr. O'Reilly."