20
Dan Pringle sat behind his desk, like a bear in his lair, when there was a single sharp knock on the door. Before he could call out, 'Yes', it swung open and Alan Royston, the police force's Media Relations Manager burst into the room, clutching a newspaper. Royston was a mild-mannered man; the Superintendent had never seen him roused to anger before. Still, he reacted to being on the end of it.
'What the hell's this, Alan?' he demanded as the door closed. 'You might have fucking wakened me, bursting in like that.'
'I'm sorry about that, Dan,' the Press Officer retorted, 'but I do not like it when officers go behind my back, making unauthorised statements to the media. It undermines me and, frankly, it makes me look like a bloody Charlie.' He waved the tabloid in the air; Pringle could see from the mast-head that it was a copy of Edinburgh's 'other' daily, the Evening News.
He unrolled it and laid it on Pringle's desk. There, on the front page, was the e-fit likeness which the Superintendent had sent for publication a few hours before. 'They gave us a good show,' he grunted.
'Fine,' Royston snapped. 'But look at the heading, Do you know him? Police fear they never will. Look at the copy too, at this line in particular.' He picked up the paper. 'Listen! Senior officers investigating the case admitted privately that they are pessimistic over their chances of ever identifying the mystery man, far less finding his killers? And this. The victim 's face was battered to a pulp, he had multiple fractures and several toes and fingers had been cut off. None of that stuff came from me, Dan, none of it. I used only the statement that we agreed, saying that we were confident of a speedy identification and of further progress thereafter. I said that the man had died of serious head injuries, and no more than that. I didn't give any details, far less all that material. You've got a tip-off man on your team.'
Pringle nodded, his own anger simmering now. 'Aye,' he growled. He stepped over to the door opened it and crossed the corridor to the CID general office. He threw the door open. 'Sergeant McGurk,' he bellowed, 'My office!'
The tall young sergeant followed him, crossing the corridor in a single stride. Pringle grasped the News and thrust it at him. 'Read that crap,' he barked, 'and tell me if any of it came from you. Because if it did, the Head of CID and I have made a big mistake and you're in for the fastest demotion in the history of this fucking police force!'
McGurk went white as a sheet; he tore the paper from Pringle's grasp and began to read. 'None of it, gaffer,' he exclaimed when he had finished. 'Not a word of that came from me. I swear on a stack of Bibles.'
The Superintendent stared up at him, eyes narrowed. 'A big stack?' he growled.
'As big as you like.'
'Do you know the guy who wrote the story?' McGurk nodded. 'Paul Blacklock. He's my brother-in-law.' 'Then get him to phone me and swear the same thing. Do it right now, Jack: get going.'
The Sergeant nodded, and left the room on the double.
'Anyone else?' Royston asked.
'Only the divers and the ambulance crew, and they're hardly senior officers investigating. I'll check them all out though. Apart from them, as far as I can remember, the only people who got a close look at that body were the Head of CID and me. I'm really sorry about this, Alan.'
The Press Officer smiled. 'In that case, do something for me. Call Andy Martin and tell him about this; rather you than me.'
21
The Head of CID looked around the outer room of his office suite. Detective Sergeant Karen Neville and Detective Constable Sammy Pye looked back towards the doorway in which he stood. 'What's odd about this picture?' he asked.
'Tell us, sir,' Sammy Pye replied.
'You two are both back behind your bloody desks.' He laughed. 'Even if it is only for a short time. Come on in here, both of you and tell me about the vets.' Neville and Pye stood and followed him into the inner office.
'We've just finished writing up a summary for DCI Rose,' the Sergeant began as they all took seats at the meeting table. 'We've spoken to every bloody vet in Edinburgh and West Lothian. Most of them, nearly all of them keep supplies of this stuff, but they hardly ever use it. Not one of them was aware of any being missing. 'We've checked out their College too — The Royal Dick Vet.'
'Where do they learn about the other bits of the animals, though?' Pye asked, drawing a frown from Martin.
'Shut up, Sammy.' Neville carried on, quashing the interruption. 'We spoke to a professor there. He told us that they only teach the theory, not the practice, so they don't keep stocks at all. He told us all about the theory, though — for example the quantities you'd use to knock down a man would be the same as you'd use for a large chimpanzee.'
'As for administering it, that would depend on the animal,' said the DCS.
'Let's just assume that big Alec Smith would have been a pretty dangerous animal if you'd come at him with a hypodermic in your hand.'
'In that case, you'd have shot him with a tranquilliser dart, usually from a specially-adapted air rifle or air pistol. None of them was missing either, anywhere.'
'How about the zoo?'
Neville shot him a quick, private, chastening look. 'We checked that, of course — and the travelling circus that was pitched out in Livingston last weekend — and an ostrich farm down in the Borders. Nothing missing from any of them.'
'Only one other thing to do, then,' Martin muttered.
'We've just finished doing it. The names of all the vets, all the professional staff at the Royal Dick Vet, and all the zoo and circus people have been fed into the PNC, looking for anything that might connect them back to Alec Smith.
'A complete blank, I'm afraid, sir. Vets are straight-A people to the point of boredom. That really is as far as we can go. Like I've said, we've just finished our report for Ms Rose.'
The Head of CID nodded. 'Right; she's at the divisional HQ today, in Brian Mackie's office. Take it along to her, Karen, and run through what you've done, just in case there are any areas that you and her people might not have covered between you. After that, I want you both to report to Superintendent Pringle down atTorphichen Place. He's short-staffed and needs all the help he can get to put a name to the-Saturday-night floater.'
'How about Tony Manero?' Pye suggested. Martin and
Neville stared at him. 'You know, the guy in Saturday Night Fever?'
'Jesus, boy,' said the Head of CID, 'you need a spell as a Blue Meanie, out on the street persecuting motorists, to cure that sense of humour. For the record, this guy was not wearing a white suit when we fished him out, nor was he in any condition to go dancing.
'You get off to see Mr Pringle right now. Karen'll join you once she's been to St Leonard's.' Pye nodded and left the room with what looked like a quick disco shuffle. Neville turned to follow him, but Martin laid a hand on her sleeve. 'Hang on a minute, Karen.'
She sat down once more at the briefing table. 'You doing anything tomorrow night, after work?'
'Afraid so. I'm going down to Cockburnspath to see my mother; I'm staying over and driving back in the morning.'
'How about Thursday?'
She shook her head. 'Sorry again; I'm baby-sitting for Neil while he and the Boss kick each other around… not that I should be calling Lauren a baby. She's carrying the load amazingly well.' She paused. 'He'll be back before eleven, though. You could always come round to my place later.'
'Nan, that wouldn't do.'
'Andy,' she asked, 'what's up?'
He gave her a wry smile. 'My head, that's what's up. Completely fucked up. I need someone to talk to, someone close, someone who can help me get my priorities right.'
Karen looked back at him, not smiling; not at all. 'That's a coincidence. I need much the same myself. Yes, let's have a joint shoulder-soaking session. But not this week, eh?' She stood and kissed him, quickly. 'Sorry,' she said. 'Improper in the office and all that. 'Let's make a date for next week; if you still want to talk to me by then.' 'What d'you mean?'
'I mean that you're going out w
ith Ruth McConnell on Saturday night. She let it slip in the girlies' room this afternoon.'
'Damn!' he swore. 'That's part of the problem; but only part.'
'And what about me?' she asked him, quietly. 'Am I part of it too?'
'I thought you and I were like-minded,' he said, eyes narrowing. 'I thought you wanted us to be the way we are.'
'You can't always get what you want… Am I?'
He sighed and walked towards the window. The view was not as panoramic as Bob Skinner's, but he could still see the front door. Sammy Pye was leaving the building, his light sports jacket slung over his shoulder. 'Yeah,' he murmured, at last. 'Yes, I think you are.'
'In that case,' she replied, 'don't be so crass as to think you can use me like that. In that case, I only want to talk to you when you've got something to tell me — or ask me. There's no point in having a sounding board who has an axe to grind — or plant in your head, as the case may be.'
He looked back at her, seeing things in her eyes that he had never seen before. No more steady, reliable, good buddy Karen; no more hot nights and hot breakfasts, with no complications. Should have known better, Martin. It always gets complicated, sooner or later.
'I'm off to St Leonard's, sir,' she said, suddenly businesslike. 'Then to Torphichen. When do you want me back here?'
'Whenever Dan gets a result,' he answered. 'Karen, I'm sorry. I know I'm a fucking idiot where my private life's concerned. I'll talk to you, soon.'
'Maybe; just don't promise what you can't deliver. I'll call you from Torphichen, when I've seen what Mr Pringle has lined up for us.' She left the room; he was relieved when she closed the door quietly behind her.
He turned and threw a punch at the wall; pulling it less than an inch short of making a fist-sized dent in the plaster. Swearing quietly to himself, he sat behind his desk, trying to restore some semblance of order to his mind. At once, he knew the first thing that he had to do. He picked up the telephone and punched in an internal number.
'Ruth,' he said, as the call was answered, 'it's Andy Martin. Listen, about Saturday night…'
'You want to call it off,' she replied, at once.
'I think I should.'
He heard her chuckle. 'Why am I not surprised? When I mentioned it to Karen, it was as if a freezer door had opened next to me. It's okay, really; I hadn't read anything into Saturday.'
'Of course not, but still… Look, this has got nothing to do with Karen…' He stopped at once, recognising his lie. 'Well yes, it has, but it isn't all about her.'
'Then God help her, Andy. She's a really nice girl and, if you'll pardon my French, she doesn't need to be fucked around. It might not look it, but I'm a lot tougher than she is. I could have a one-night stand with you and think no more of it. Karen might put on a front, but that's all it is. Be kind to her, please.'
'I will, Ruthie, I will. Honest.' He replaced the phone in its cradle, and stared at it for long, silent seconds, willing it to ring and distract him. It did.
'Andy, Dan Pringle. Sorry to bother you, but I've had Alan
Royston here with his shirt-tail on fire. Someone's been talking to the papers about the Water of Leith investigation, giving away all sorts of stuff. Get hold of today's News and you'll see what I mean; it's right on the front page.
'I've had an on-the-spot investigation here, and I'm satisfied that the leak didn't come from this office. The guy who wrote the story was Jack McGurk's brother-in-law, but Jack's promised me it wasn't him, and the guy's called me to confirm that.'
Martin frowned. 'So are you suggesting that it came from my office?'
'No, no, no,' said the Superintendent, hurriedly. 'I'm just telling you, that's all.'
'Good, because my staff know bugger all about the detail of that case — so that would leave me as the source. And if you're suggesting-'
'I'm not, for fuck's sake,' Pringle protested. 'I'm just telling you this because Royston asked me to. Look it was probably one of the divers, okay. Or a paramedic. Or a porter at the Royal, even. I'll investigate it further and report back to you.' The veteran growled. 'Christ, another burning shirt-tail.'
The Head of CID was grateful for an opportunity to laugh. 'All right, Dan, I'll run some water on it,' he promised. 'Keep me in touch.'
He hung up and dialled Alan Royston's office, asking his assistant to bring him a copy of the Evening News. When it arrived he spotted the offending story at once. He read it, once, then again, then a third time.
When he put the newspaper down, his forehead was locked in a frown and his vivid green eyes, in their tinted contact lenses, were blazing like emeralds.
22
'Do you ever think that our lifestyle might be bad for us?' Maggie Rose gazed at her husband across their small garden table. She was wearing a loose-fitting cotton shirt, bra-less, and denim shorts, an outfit as different from her business clothes as she could find, and the remnants of supper lay between them.
'What? Living off carry-out pizzas?' he said, with a disarming grin. 'We only do it once a week; that's hardly excessive.'
She raised an eyebrow. The evening sun shone on her rich, red hair as it fell across her forehead; it was dark, almost blood-like. Most people thought it was a tint, but Mario knew otherwise. Most people thought of Mags as serious and straightlaced, but he knew differently there too. She was deep, was Mrs McGuire, a bottomless sea in whom the big, tough Irish-Italian detective had swum lovingly since first they had met.
'Don't be flip,' she said. 'You know what I mean. I'm talking about our jobs; you in Special Branch, me in CID. Aren't you ever afraid that they might take us over?'
He laughed. He was in shorts also; tailored, with big pockets on each side. Strands of thick, black, curly chest hair had forced their way though his white tee-shirt. 'If you're suggesting I get a transfer to traffic, you're not on.'
She laid her glass on the table, smiling inside of herself. 'Mario!'
He reached over and took her hand; as he drew it towards him, he saw the scar. It was fainter than it had been, but it was still there. For all the surgeon's reassurances, he knew that it always would be, just as he would always carry a mark of his own on his chest, beneath the mat of hair. 'Maggie,' he answered. 'I love my job. It's fascinating and at times it's exciting. But I love you a hell of a lot more. If I ever thought it was any sort of a threat to you and me, I'd chuck it in a second… or I really would get a transfer to traffic.
'You feel the same way about yours too; so instead of seeing it as a potential problem, look at it from another perspective. Look at the commonality of interest it gives us.'
She nodded; more of her hair fell forward, throwing her face into shadow. 'I suppose so. Just promise me one thing, though: promise me that you won't stay too long in Special Branch.'
He released her hand and reached for his glass. 'Why do you say that?'
'What else? Alec Smith: the way he ended up. Mario, what if that was related in some way to the job he did? Your job now.'
'Hey, kid. The day I find myself turning into Alec, I transfer out. And that takes us back to the subject of this conversation. Alec never talked to anyone, other than Bob Skinner and his predecessor, and then only when he had to. He didn't go home to Mrs Alec and unburden himself; he was so remote, so wrapped up in it that it made her leave him.' He paused, and shivered in the evening sun. 'And it made him into what?' he mused, in a whisper.
'What do you mean?' she asked.
'I don't know, love. I don't know.' He picked up the Chianti, topped up Maggie's glass, and poured the last of the bottle into his own.
'See that lass Cowan?'
'Alice? Yes. I've been asked if I'd like her in CID. I'd take her in a minute, but I'll leave the decision for Brian when he gets back from holiday. I'd rather he had the argument with her line commander.'
'You rate her then?'
'Very much. She's very sharp'.
'She thinks for herself, and doesn't say any more than she needs to?'
; 'Yes, I'd say that.'
'I might save Superintendent Mackie from that Barney, then.'
'What? You mean you might pinch her?' 'If she comes through vetting okay, yes. There's someone I've got to move out.' 'Who's that?'
'Tommy Gavigan: the old DC. He's blown out and he's got to go now; I've sent him on leave already and I won't have him back. He's forty-seven with just over two years to go to retirement, so we'll give him the extra time on his pension rights and let him leave early. I told Big Bob this as soon as I'd interviewed Gavigan, so it's as good as done. If Whitlow the bean-counter moans about the cost, he'll get told.
'Something else too, that should please you. In future nobody does more than five years in Special Branch… ever. That comes from the Gaffer himself
Maggie looked at him carefully. 'I'm glad to hear that; but Gavigan's an old soldier. You sure you want to replace him with a youngster like Alice? She's only twenty-four.'
'I'm absolutely sure, because she is a youngster, she's uncorrupted, a breath of fresh air, and I need that in SB.'
'What's brought this on? Am I allowed to know?'
'I don't suppose you are but I'll tell you, because you couldn't do anything about it afterwards even if you wanted to. The Boss wouldn't let you.'
He told her the stories of Lawrence Scotland and Shakir Basra. When he was finished, she let out a long, low whistle. 'You were asked to get a handle on Alec Smith, Inspector. You've surely done it, haven't you? I can see why you want Gavigan out.'
Mario nodded. 'Aye, it'll make it easier to use him as bait.' 'Uh?'
'Think about it. If Lawrence Scotland has finally plucked up the courage to get even with Smith, isn't there a chance that he might go for Gavigan as well, especially if he's off the job? Even as we speak, the man's under surveillance.'
'And this Lawrence Scotland is one of the two possibilities you mentioned earlier. Who's the other?'
'One Gus Morrison; a would-be tartan terrorist.'
'Do you like either of them for it?'
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