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."
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