his armour the chief superintendent recognised him at once.
'Hello Matt,' he called out. 'You're a bit over-dressed for this one.'
That's the way I like them, son,' said the veteran Divisional Officer
Matthew Grogan. 'There's nothing nicer than turning up at a fire to find
that it's out.
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'No' that this one really was a fire, mind you.'
'What do you mean?'
'It was the smoke alarm in the room that went off. But there was nae
flame.'
'So what was it?'
'A pair of smoke canisters, hidden in a laundry basket, with a timer on it
that must have been set for two in the morning or thereabouts. Together
they'd have generated a hell of an amount of smoke. It was non-toxic, the
sort of stuff that we use in our training exercises, but you wouldn't know
that if you were in the middle of the stuff. It's bloody realistic and if you
inhale enough of it, you'll still have a right bad cough.
'The woman in this room must have had a hell of a fright. What was her
name, anyway?' Grogan nodded in the direction of Bronte, who was heading
towards the stairs. 'She had an oxygen mask on when the paramedics
wheeled her out of the room they transferred her into. That fella got all coy
when I asked him who she was. He said that he wisnae at liberty to say. Ah
nearly told him that I was at liberty to close his fucking hotel, but what the
hell.
'So who is she?'
'She's a friend of Bob Skinner,' Martin told him. 'I asked Guy to keep
the name quiet, because, to be frank, I didn't want any of your boys to be
tempted to make a few quid by phoning a tip to one of the tabloids. Don't
take it personally, though, Matt.'
'Don't worry, son,' the big fireman assured him. 'I live in the real world.
You were right.'
'Where's the device?'
'In here. I had a good look at it, but I didn't touch it. The ignition blew
the lid off the basket, so it got soaked like everything else.'
Martin looked into the suite. It was in fact a single large room, with a
seating area and a double bed against the far wall. Every item in it - carpets,
furniture, bedding - was drenched with water.
The basket's in the bathroom,' said Grogan. There was a towel in it,
over the canisters. Maybe the woman chucked it in herself, or maybe
someone put it in there so she wouldn't see them if she looked in.'
That's quite likely,' the detective concurred. 'We'll find out soon
enough.' He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket for his mobile.
'Meantime, I'd better get a CID team along here.'
'Twenty-five years on,' Bob Skinner grinned, 'and you still look just as
good in bed.'
'I promise you I don't feel as good,' Louise replied, in a hoarse whisper.
She lay in a blue-covered bed in a well-appointed private room. 'In fact,'
she said, 'I feel as if I've had something large, rough and hard down my
throat.'
'Just like old times then,' he muttered, wickedly.
She started to laugh, then broke into a coughing fit; quickly, he poured her a glass of water from a jug by the bedside and handed it to her.
'No more funnies, please,' she entreated him, when the paroxysm had
passed. 'I really am bloody sore.'
'No more, I promise. You fed me that one, though, you have to admit.
You always had an earthy sense of humour, Ms Bankier.'
He paused, and the smile left his face. 'The problem is that someone out
there isn't seeing the joke any more.'
'What do you mean?' she whispered, frowning back at him.
He sat on the edge of her bed and took her hand in his. 'I mean, my dear,
that what happened in your room tonight wasn't an accident.'
She gasped, and he felt her grip tighten. 'What...?' Her question tailed
off.
'Someone planted a smoke-bomb in the linen basket in your suite, timed
to go off during the night.'
She stared at him, astonished. 'You mean someone tried to kill me?'
'I don't think so. The smoke itself was harmless; there was just a hell
of a lot of it. Someone did want to give you a fright, though, at the very
least.'
He looked at her, as if he was choosing his words very carefully. 'Which
raises a clear and obvious probability, one that should have occurred to me
before, but didn't, maybe because I've fallen victim to my own legend.
Conversely, maybe it didn't occur to you because you haven't.
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'Last Friday night's incident might well have had nothing to do with me;
it might not have been random. Given what's just happened, I'm bloody
near certain that it was aimed at you.'
Her eyes widened; her mouth opened as if to speak, then her throat constricted and she started to cough. She sipped more water, until she was
settled.
'Lou,' he asked her quietly. 'Have you ever suspected that you might
have a stalker?'
She stared at him, then at the wall, then out of the window. Suddenly,
outside, a lion roared. She started, eyes widening still further.
Bob smiled at her surprise. 'Don't be alarmed. Edinburgh Zoo's right
next door.'
'What is this place?'
'It's a private hospital. I thought it would be better for you if you came
here. Listen, we can talk about this in the morning; I'll have the staff give
you a knock-out pill for tonight. But when you waken, I want you to think
about what I've just asked you.
'You' 11 be okay to leave here in the morning. But do you have to go back
to London?'
She shrugged her shoulders, wincing at the movement. 'My schedule
for next week was learning the script for my new movie, that's all; that
and packing for a longer stay up here. But other than that, no, I don't have
to.'
'You have an assistant, don't you?'
'I have a secretary. She's based at my agent's office.'
'Would you trust her to pack for you, and to courier the cases up
here?'
'Sure.'
'Good. In that case I want you to stay up here, under my protection. I
don't want you in a hotel, though; you can move into our spare room for a
while.'
'No.' She snapped the word out, with no little discomfort. 'If someone's
after me, Bob, I don't want to be anywhere near Sarah or your children.'
'Okay,' he conceded. 'We'll find another solution long-term, but for a
couple of days you'll be okay in Gullane. No one will know where you are,
other than you and us. That'll give us time to find you a safe house.'
'Bob,' she protested. 'I'm not living like a prisoner. I can't.'
'No, but we can take precautions.'
She smiled and gave in. 'Back to the old days, again.'
'Better than dealing with it after it's happened. You get some sleep,
now. Phone your secretary first thing in the morning; I'll be back to pick
you up around ten.'
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110
Dan Pringle opened one eye, experimentally. Exposure to light did not send
a shaft of pain shooting through his head, and so he opened the other. 'What
time did we get in last night?' he asked, huskily.
'About two thirty.' He turned round, to see his wife standing beside
their bed with a mug of tea in her hand. 'Dan,' she said, severely. 'You had
better be aware that 1 am not driving you back from Edinburgh to Galashiels
every Friday night in life. We have moved and that's that; get used to it.'
Like many police officers, Dan Pringle enjoyed a drink. He enjoyed also
to get away from the job at least once a week, among a group of friends
with whom he could discuss sport, sex, current affairs, and even politics,
on occasion, but never work. The biggest sacrifice which he had made in
revitalising his CID career was in wrenching himself away from his social
circle, to move on to his new Borders territory.
'I know, love,' he sighed. 'Last night was a one-off, I promise. It was
only our second Friday away; I had to have a fix.'
'Well if you want another,' countered Elma Pringle, 'you can get a patrol
car to run you home afterwards.'
Dan pulled himself up in bed. 'Oh no; I can't do that. Jim Elder was bad
enough about CID using Pandas as taxis, but this new ACC Ops, Chase,
he'd have my guts. There's a story about that Willie Michaels got a car to
take him back to Broxburn after a Masonic dinner in Edinburgh, and when
Chase found out about it, he sent him a bill for the equivalent taxi fare.
'The Ops Room Superintendent was telling me that he has his lackey,
Jack Good, spot-check the logged patrol movements every day, looking for
that very thing.'
'Why should you call Inspector Good a lackey? I've never heard you
speak like that about DI Mcllhenney, and he does the same job for Mr
Skinner. Or about Jack McGurk, for that matter.'
'Does he hell as like. Jack Good's a tea boy in uniform. Big Neil's a
first-class detective doing a valuable CID liaison job, and he's a hard man,
to boot. Good's next job will be to draw his pension; Neil's will be on up
the ladder, either to Special Branch or deputy divisional commander. I'd
have him down here, I'll tell you.
'As for Jack McGurk, he's a good lad too. I trust Jack; I like him close to
me.'
'That's good,' Elma remarked. 'Because he's downstairs.'
'He's what?! For Christ's sake, why didn't you tell me?'
'I just did. Anyway, didn't you hear the doorbell?'
'I heard fuck all,' Dan moaned, climbing out of bed and stumbling into
th en-suite shower room. 'Give him a coffee and tell him I'll be down in
ten minutes. What time is it?'
'Ten to ten.'
'Jesus! I'll bet I'm the only copper has his Saturday morning disrupted.'
'Better than you disrupting mine with your bloody snoring. I'll tell him,
but you hurry up.'
Jack McGurk had just finished the Scotsman Saturday sports section
when his boss appeared in his living room, unshaven, but showered and
dressed in jeans and a crew-necked sweater.
'What the hell brings you here?' The superintendent growled his greeting.
'Fish,' the sergeant growled back.
Pringle seemed to stop in mid-stride. 'Never! You mean we've found it.'
'No, sir,' McGurk replied. 'I mean we've lost another few tons.'
There were times when the young detective regretted being six feet four;
it meant that there was more of him to be glared at. 'Jesus Christ,' Pringle
barked, 'how the fuck did we manage that?'
'I don't know yet, sir.'
'Where was it?'
'Howdengate Trout Farm; that's the one just outside Jedburgh. I've called
DI Dorward's forensic team down; the owner and the manager should be
waiting for us when we get there.'
'Aye, okay,' the superintendent muttered, resigned to the loss of his
Saturday, but thankful that he had declined the last whisky on offer the
night before. 'Let me run my shaver over my chin and we'll be on our way.
You're driving, son.'
1
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112
'Are you sure he'll be here?' asked Andy Martin.
Skinner nodded. 'It's a clear morning, there was no reply when I called
the house and his mobile's switched off. There's nowhere else he'll be.' He
pointed across the playing fields. 'Look. There he is.'
Across three practice rugby fields in the training area behind Murrayfield
Stadium, half a dozen mini-pitches had been laid out. Neil Mcllhenney,
bulky in a North Face fleece, stood on the touchline of the third. Walking
towards him, Skinner and Martin saw him tense as a small figure in white
shorts and a red bib took a pass from the player inside, and accelerated
effortlessly towards the line leaving his immediate opponent floundering
in his wake.
As he touched the ball down, Mcllhenney punched the air with his right
hand. By his side, a rangy, dark-haired girl jumped up and down, clapping.
Then she caught sight of the two newcomers and tugged at her father's
shoulder.
'Lovely turn of speed, Neil,' said Martin. 'He's got the gift as he runs, of
making his marker think he's got a chance and getting him to commit himself
far too early. You just can't teach that; if his basic speed grows with him,
and he keeps that knack, I'd say he could be a bit special.'
Mcllhenney nodded, not trying to disguise his pride. 'That's what the
coaches here say, too.'
Martin glanced at the two adults on the field, who were rounding up
their sides, now that the final whistle had gone. 'I know these guys; I played
with them, and against them. They're top class.'
'So were you, pal,' Skinner murmured. 'You gave up the game far too
soon.'
'I know,' his friend conceded. 'But there's no point in dwelling on it. On
the other hand, I played ten years too soon; if I had carried on, and suppose
I had done all the things they said I was capable of- caps, British Lions, all
that stuff- where would I be now? Retired and sitting in the stands watching
guys who couldn't have laced my boots making silly money for playing the
game while I did it for love and travel expenses.'
'Now you, pal,' he said as Spencer Mcllhenney ran towards them, 'with
a fair wind, a run of luck, and given that you get to be the size of your old
man, you've got a future.'
'Hello Mr Skinner,' the boy called out. 'Did you come to watch me?'
'Spence!' Lauren chided her brother. 'Don't be silly.'
'Ah but I did ... and to talk to your dad.'
Mcllhenney ruffled his son's hair. 'Go and get changed, and have your
Iovril. I'll see you back at the car.' As the youngster ran off he handed the
keys to Lauren. 'Go on ahead of us, honey, while I talk to Mr Skinner and
Mr Martin.'
As she took them from him and turned to leave them, Bob watched her.
Tall for her age, almost ready to burst into womanhood, she was a younger
version of her mother, so much so that he wondered whether, on occasion,
it broke Neil's heart just to look at her.
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