The question took Martin aback; fortunately the arrival of his drink gave him time to react. 'It's not something I dwell on, and it's certainly not something I talk about.'
'I can see why you wouldn't. Still, you can't blame people for wondering about it. I can't imagine what it must be like to kill another man, or woman, as the case may be.'
'I'm happy for you in that case. It doesn't bear imagining.' Abruptly he changed the subject. 'You've spent all your life in Dundee, Rod tells me.'
'Apart from the year I spent doing my post-graduate qualification. These days you can do an MBA by correspondence; I had to go away for mine. Don't think too harshly of me, though: our city is a very interesting place, as you'll discover if you spend long enough among us.'
'I'm prepared to concede that already. It has to have something; after all, it's given Scotland its current First Minister.'
'Ah, Tommy,' he murmured, pausing. 'Yes,' he continued, 'give him long enough and he'll be regarded as our most famous son.'
'Who's the current holder of the title?'
'Oor Wullie, I believe.'
Martin smiled. 'Yes, it's a unique claim to fame, having a cartoon character as your top citizen. I can't knock it, though. I'm a Glaswegian and ours are all footballers… most of them dead footballers, at that.'
'We have something in common, then: we're both sons of cities that are music-hall jokes.'
'Don't tell too many Weegies that.' He sipped his orange squash, noticing that Groves was drinking what appeared to be cola. 'How long have you and Rod been in-laws?' he asked.
Groves frowned. 'Since God was a boy, it seems. Celia and I were married when I was still at university, and before you ask, our son was born six months later.'
'Is he a member here too?'
'No.' It was as if the question had thrown a switch, turning off the man's amiability. 'Rod,' he said, sharply. 'It's time to go, the snow's bad enough as it is, and from what I can see out there it's getting worse. Just as well I brought the Range Rover.' He pushed himself to his feet, looking down at the policeman. 'Good evening to you. We'll meet again, no doubt.' Turning on his heel, he walked out of the lounge.
The two golf addicts turned towards Martin. 'So, young man,' the one named Archie began, with an impish grin, 'what's your handicap?'
Fifty-one
It was happening too often for his liking: once again, Bob Skinner was taken by surprise. He had waited late in the office, after everyone else had gone for the night, but the visitor he had been expecting was not the Justice Minister.
Nevertheless, he was pleased. He had wanted to see Aileen again over the weekend, but his need to spend quality time with his children had ruled that out. 'Bring her up,' he told the security officer who called to announce her arrival, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice.
'Hi,' she said, quietly, as she stepped into the room.
He smiled and pointed to the low couch against the far wall, out of sight of the window. 'Hi to you,' he replied, as they sat together.
'I hope you don't mind me dropping in unannounced, Bob.'
'I should mind? You're a minister: it's an honour. Besides…' He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. 'I've found myself wanting to see you.'
'Me too; that's why I called in.'
'Where are you headed?'
'Through to Glasgow: there's a party meeting tomorrow, and before that I have a constituency surgery in the morning.'
'I wish I was a patient.' Bob chuckled.
'I wish you were too.' She looked into his eyes. 'I'm trying to fight what's happening to me, you know, before I put myself at risk with you.'
'I won't let that happen, I promise. To tell you the truth I'm not trying to fight anything. I'm concentrating on doing what's right, in the right order and at the right time.'
'Do you always manage to do that?'
'I have to confess to a conspicuous record of failure in that department,' he told her.
'Have you heard from your wife?' she asked, tentatively.
'Yes. She's still in the US, but she's coming home soon.'
'And what will happen then?'
'I haven't a bloody clue; all I hope is that whatever way it goes, it's best for the kids.'
'I'm sure you'll manage that. My one big fear is that if you did split, I'd be seen as the scarlet woman who caused it. Murtagh would have a field day if he chose and, knowing him, he would, especially as I'll have served my purpose by then.'
'I promise you, Aileen, you won't be involved if it goes that way. Things were going wrong between Sarah and me long before I met you. But I hear what you're saying and, yes, we need to be discreet. What we have at the moment is a strong friendship, and we mustn't give anybody the chance to misinterpret it… any more than we have already. For a while, when we meet, it's either official or it's in Glasgow.'
She nodded. 'We could call this official. As well as wanting to see you, I've got news for you about the bill.'
'Tell me he's going to drop it.'
'Fat chance. No, the First Minister has told me that he's giving me the honour of introducing it in the Parliament next Tuesday. The statutory three-week study period will be up on Monday and the Presiding Officer will clear it for presentation and publication. Tommy's decided that it isn't going to be his sponsored legislation but mine, even though I'm opposed to it and had no hand in its preparation. Do you still think I should stay in office?'
Bob whistled. 'He is boxing you in, and no mistake. If you introduce the legislation, then even if you do succeed him at some time in the future, you'll look an idiot if you try to repeal it. Should you quit? If your conscience demands it, I suppose you should.'
She reached out and laid a fingertip on his chest. 'If I do, Tommy's machine will leak the story that you and I are having an affair and that you talked me into it. He told me that, flat out, this afternoon. If I let that happen, how would your wife react to it? She'd be as humiliated as you and me.'
His face twisted into something close to a snarl. 'How the hell did a nasty little bastard like him ever come to lead this country?'
'Or lead my party for that matter,' Aileen added.
He reached out and cupped her face in his big hand. 'I'll make you a promise,' he said. 'I'm going to have him; maybe not before next Tuesday, but before too long. When I bring him down, they'll hear the crash all over Scotland.'
'You be careful,' she warned him.
'I am being careful, so much so that I'm going to chuck you out now. You've walked into the middle of something you're better not knowing about until after it's done.'
He rose, and led her to the door. When he opened it, she saw, waiting outside, a big, heavily built man with black hair and flashing eyes. 'My next meeting,' he said. 'Aileen, let me introduce Detective Superintendent Mario McGuire.'
Fifty-two
In his student days, when his world was young and he had dreamed of becoming a broadsheet journalist, uncovering hidden truths and holding them up for the world to see, Sean Green had bridged the gap between malnutrition and comfort by working as a waiter, five nights a week, in an Indian restaurant in Oxford.
There had been a customer, a regular, a bookish man with big thick-lens spectacles that from certain angles made him look like a frog. He had been a good tipper, always cash too, rather than credit card; naturally, the staff had paid him special attention. He was a visiting lecturer, or so the student waiter had come to understand, at Exeter College. Their paths had never crossed outside the restaurant, since Sean was enrolled at Balliol.
And so it came as a surprise when, in the week in which he had completed his final examinations, the man gave him a business card and an invitation to lunch in London a week later.
The 'lecturer' was Rudy Sewell, and two weeks later, to his complete amazement, Sean Green had found himself a member of the Security Service, MI5.
It had come full circle, he reflected, as he laid two bowls of iskembe before a man whose demeanour shouted '
police officer' and a woman who was clearly not his wife, wondering if they knew that they were about to consume a traditional Turkish hangover cure. Ten years on he was carrying plates once more, only this time the pay was much better and the job description much more interesting.
He was aware that Peter Bassam was watching him, but he felt relaxed in the knowledge that it was only his waiting technique that was under scrutiny. He had no worries about not completing his trial successfully, especially when he compared himself with his colleagues, who seemed barely competent. One was Asian, and the other looked like a reincarnation of his old student self.
Already he was able to judge that the Delight's reputation was built on the reliability of its kitchen, rather than front-of-house slickness. Diners did not go to Elbe Street to be astonished by the skills of the waiters: they went for the food, which was consistent if not spectacular. The chef was an evil-tempered man called Sukur, but unlike Bassam he was one hundred per cent Turkish, and seemed very proud of both his nation and his work. He ran his kitchen with a mouth that was as foul as his disposition, but he filled his orders on time.
Green nodded to his boss as he emerged from the kitchen with a plate of orkinos and mercimek, tuna with lentils, and another of sucuk and balka, sausage and beans; Bassam smiled back. 'No worries,' he thought.
He did not expect that his assignment would produce results. He regarded it as a long shot, no more than a line cast into a very large lake in the hope that its one and only fish might bite. So what if Bassam's origins were Albanian? The fact that he had anglicised his forename and chosen to serve Turkish food indicated, if anything, that he was trying very hard to distance himself from his homeland, and from its lawless reputation.
He knew that the man had a wife and family: their photograph was pinned to the wall, beside the till, and they lived in Northfield. He could tell, from one night's work, that the business was profitable. So, he asked himself, would he put it all at risk by harbouring a bunch of gangsters? Not that he had seen any sign of the Albanians during his first hours on the job.
However, he knew that Amanda Dennis would not be interested in his opinions, only in his findings. His thoughts were private and would be kept to himself until he was asked to voice them. In the meantime, he would keep his eyes open and try not to drop any plates.
Fifty-three
Thankfully, there was a television set in the Johnny Groat. Bandit Mackenzie smiled when he saw it, even though it was tuned to an English second-division football match.
'What gives me the idea that you would watch anything on the box?' asked McIlhenney.
'I wouldn't,' his colleague replied amiably. 'But it means that I won't have to talk to you all night.' He rapped on the bar and waved to the fat, middle-aged barman, who had seemed to be doing his best to ignore his two new customers as he leaned on the counter in conversation with a blowsy blonde woman. 'Pint of IPA and a pint of lime and soda, when you've a minute,' he called out.
The steward scowled at him, but picked up two glasses and began to pour. 'Four pound twenty,' he announced, curtly, as he placed the drinks in front of them, managing to spill a little of both.
'Jesus,' Mackenzie muttered. 'Bloody dear lime and soda that!'
'This is a pub, pal, no' a cafe,' he retorted, as he took the detective's ten-pound note.
'Are those pies hot?' McIlhenney asked, pointing to a food-display unit at the back of the bar.
'They will be after a few turns in the microwave.'
'Let's have a couple, then. Take them off his tenner.'
'The bridies is better,' the blonde called out. 'The pies is shite.'
'I was hoping they were mutton,' McIlhenney replied. 'Make it bridies instead,' he told the barman, 'and give the lady another of hers.'
'Gin and tonic, thanks.' She slid off her stool and made her way round towards them. 'Havenae seen you two in here before.'
Looking at her, Mackenzie decided that he preferred the view from a distance. 'If you had,' he told her, 'you'd be psychic. We've never been here before.'
'What brings you now here, then?'
'We like drinking in middens.'
She glanced around the shoddy bar. 'Aye,' she agreed, 'it could do with a lick of paint. Still, there's worse; try south of the river.'
'We're not that stupid,' said McIlhenney.
'Are yis workin', like?' she asked.
'Right now, no,' the detective lied. 'Later on, we will be.'
'Where?'
'The Western.'
Her painted eyebrows rose. 'Are yis doctors?'
Mackenzie laughed. 'Aye, brain surgeons.' He lifted his pint and took a drink. 'Cheers.'
'We're porters,' said McIlhenney, dourly.
'In that case, they'll be no use to you, Dolly,' a guttural voice exclaimed from behind them. 'Porters no' make enough to spend on gettin' their hole. You better look somewheres else.'
The two detectives turned, and looked into dark eyes, scowling from beneath a low forehead. A younger man stood behind him, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. 'Do you mind fucking off?' said Mackenzie, casually. 'We were talking to the lady.'
'Not any more.' The woman called Dolly had returned to her former position in the corner of the bar. 'Did you think you charmed her, man?' Frankie Jakes sneered. 'It's twenty quid in her place upstairs. If I'm wrong and you got twenty quid, go ahead. Your pint won't even be flat by the time you're back.'
'Are you guys her minders, then?' asked McIlhenney.
'I look after her, Mr Porter, if it's any fockin' bizniz of yours. I keep her safe from creeps. My wee brodder here, he have trouble mindin' his own cock.' He switched his scowl to the other detective. 'You new in here, so I make allowances, but next time you tell me to fock off, you in big trouble.' He hitched his shoulders, like a movie gun-fighter; one or two people looked in his direction, as if the scene had been played out before. 'Maybe you better fock off.'
Mackenzie smiled. 'What I'm going to do, pal,' he replied, evenly, 'is finish my drink, maybe have another couple, and then me and big Mac here are going to work. You enjoy your night and we'll enjoy ours.' He patted his colleague on the shoulder. 'Because, believe me, you wouldn't fancy trying to make him fuck off.'
'Leave it, Davie,' said McIlhenney, quietly. 'The guy's done nothing. Don't make him lose face in his own boozer.'
Jakes looked at him for a while, before coming to the conclusion that he might be on the verge of making a large mistake. 'Okay,' he muttered, eventually. 'You just remember what I tol' you.'
Fifty-four
It was just after midnight, but Bob Skinner was still awake. He was in his armchair in the conservatory, listening to REM in the background while trying to concentrate on a novel. He had finished Alarm Call, and gone back to Blackstone's Pursuits, having decided to read the series in chronological order.
He laid the book aside as the CD reached the almost unbearably sad live version of 'Country Feedback', which he regarded as Michael Stipe's finest hour. It was only halfway through when the phone rang. He had been expecting the call, but he swore nonetheless, before pausing the track and answering.
'Boss, it's Neil.'
He had known that it would be. 'How went it on your night out?'
He heard a chuckle. 'It was interesting. We started off by meeting a nice person called Dolly.'
'As in Dolly the sheep?'
'As in Dolly the hooker; Frankie runs her. You know, that Mackenzie is a bloody lunatic: we'd hardly got a foot in the door before he picked a fight with the subject.'
'For Christ's sake!'
'It worked out all right, though: we wound up drinking with Jakes and his brother, and they swallowed our porter story all the way. When you think about it, what undercover cop in his right mind is going to tell the guy he's supposed to be observing to go and fuck himself?'
'In his right mind, indeed,' Skinner growled.
'Sure, but it worked. Frankie's our pal now. Do you know, the cheeky bastard act
ually asked us if there was any prospect of us nicking some diazepam from the Western? He said he'd cut us in if we did.'
'What did you say?'
'We told him that we'd just been transferred from the Royal, so we were new there, but we said that we'd suss it out and let him know if there was any chance.'
'There was no sign of Samir Bajram, though?'
'No.'
'Did he mention him?'
'Not by name. When he asked us about the drugs, he did say that he had another deal going down, but that it wouldn't get in the way of anything we could do for him. He could have been talking about the Albanian, or all of them for that matter.'
'Let's see how it plays out,' said Skinner. 'Keep on with the operation, but watch it. Tell Mackenzie from me that he's taken his last risk in there.'
'I will, but he'll probably tell me to fuck off too; he's the same rank as me, remember.'
'That may change soon. Listen, I got that report you left me, and I shredded it afterwards, like you asked. Your contact is right, Murtagh hasn't broken any laws, but that trust income is very interesting. I'll mention it to Andy next time I see him.'
'You won't…'
'Of course not. I won't compromise your friend in any way.' He paused. 'There's something else that's happened since you left for Glasgow. I'm going to take down Greg Jay.'
'When?'
'Monday. I can't leave it any longer: the bastard went to see Paula Viareggio this afternoon, and threatened to bring in a team from outside the force to go through all her books and records. Mario was going to kill him there and then, but I calmed him down.'
'Have you got the means to bring him down?'
'I have now, but I want some extra insurance. There's something I want you to do for me tomorrow, before you head back to Glasgow. I want you to pay a call on our friend Joanne Virtue. She told us something off the record once; tell her that it's time for her to make it official.'
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