‘Not really, boss,’ I ventured. ‘The doors are facing Ocean Terminal and that’s empty at night. Besides, they were probably shut after the fire was lit. To do the job properly you’d turn the thing into a makeshift crematorium.’
‘We should back off,’ he said. The ground on which we stood was rough and unpaved bare earth, ready for housing development when the economy recovers enough to bring new buyers to the market.
‘Look.’ He pointed all around us. ‘Tyre tracks. We don’t want to mess them up any more than we have already. Whoever did this didn’t run away from the scene; they drove.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, after they’d taken the plates off the van. They’ve even taken the tax disc, in case it didn’t burn properly, I’d guess. They don’t want us to identify it too quickly.’
‘Or the people inside, possibly.’
The van had been white; it still was recognisably so but its sides were buckled and the remaining paint was bubbled. The tyres had burned as well and the vehicle sat on its bare wheels.
We moved away, as far as the DI’s car. ‘Gangland?’ I asked.
‘That’s what I’d assume. Maybe I should ask the SCDEA whether they’ve had any intelligence about tribal warfare on our patch and haven’t bothered to share it with us. Although,’ he added, on reflection, ‘I might put it a bit more discreetly than that.’
‘Or even better,’ I suggested, ‘have somebody else put the question. For example, DCS McGuire; I saw that he had the head of the agency with him yesterday.’
‘Yes. He was the outside officer in the interviews with Alice and her uncle.’
‘I hope he gave him a really hard time,’ I growled, bitterly.
‘Time wounds all heels,’ Pye chuckled. ‘And you’re right; it’s time also to call our boss man. Big Mario will want to know about this one; I’m sure we’ll see him pretty soon.’ He pointed east towards the new high-rise Leith. ‘See that block over there, on the water’s edge? That’s his place. Let’s haul him out of it.’
Paula Viareggio
I never thought I’d be a mum, but now that it’s going to happen I’m getting used to the idea. It’s going to be life-changing, that’s for sure, and so, while I’m looking forward to it with an intensity that frightens me at times, at the same time I’m grabbing every chance I can to be the old Paula, the one I’ll never be again.
That’s why I jumped at Aileen de Marco’s invitation to accompany her to that charity gig in Glasgow. Note: she and Bob are married but nobody ever calls her Aileen Skinner; that’s one thing she and I have in common, our insistence in clinging to our own family surnames. (The term ‘maiden name’ went out with the pill as far as I’m concerned. How many Western women these days come as maidens to the marriage bed?)
I don’t know her very well, so her call surprised me. I knew that I was third choice, at best, but I didn’t give a damn. It was a chance to glam up and put on my glad rags, and I wasn’t passing it up. I’d never imagined it was something I’d ever be doing with her, mind you. I have nothing against the woman, but she does strike me as something of a contradiction. As a politician, she’s articulate, outgoing, and assertive. I’ve seen her in parliament, live and on telly, and she seems to have the measure of everyone there, including the current First Minister, the man with the embarrassing waistcoat, without ever rubbing their noses in it. When she appeared on Question Time on BBC, the chairman described her as ‘the acceptable face of Scottish politics’; I’m sure that’s an image she’s been careful to cultivate. In private she’s much more reserved, much more internalised. I confess that I would never have her on the board of my company, because I could never be sure of what she was thinking.
Mario had just left when she rang again. ‘Hi, Paula,’ she began as soon as I answered. ‘It’s Aileen. I’m just calling to check that you’re all right for tonight. We’re front row centre and I’m sure Clive wouldn’t want an empty seat near him.’
‘I’m fine,’ I assured her. ‘I’m still short of going into labour.’ Or voting for them, I thought, but kept that to myself. ‘The wee darling’s kicking the crap out of me, sometimes literally, but everything’s normal, they tell me. It’ll be a couple of weeks yet.’
‘That’s good. Small change of plan,’ she continued. ‘I’m in Glasgow already, doing constituency stuff, so, rather than make a double journey to pick you up as I’d intended, I’ve taken the First Minister up on his offer of a government car for you.’
It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I could still fit behind the wheel of my own, when I remembered that my husband had taken it. With him, there’s never total certainty over when he’ll be back. ‘Thank him for me,’ I said. ‘Do they need the address?’
‘No, they’ve got it. What are you wearing tonight?’ she asked. A woman’s question.
‘The one and only evening dress I have that still fits me.’
‘Colour?’
‘Red.’
‘Ah,’ she sighed. ‘Me too. I don’t really have a choice at public events,’ she explained. ‘It’s expected of me.’
‘Aileen,’ I offered, ‘I’d wear something else if I could, but I reckon it’s either that or a nightgown.’
She laughed. ‘Don’t worry about it. Between us we’ll rub our Nationalist First Minister’s nose well in it. Hey, do you want to know about the guy we’re going to see? Clive told me all about him.’
‘I looked him up,’ I replied. ‘He’s third-generation Lebanese and he’s a Muslim. He’s a bit of a poster boy in his home country and in the Middle East in general. Famous for refusing to play in the Eurovision Song Contest because there was an Israeli entry.’
‘I thought he was classical.’
‘He is, but any bugger can turn up in Eurovision these days; he was supposed to play a piano break in the Swedish entry.’
‘Maybe ABBA will be on in the interval tonight,’ Aileen said. ‘But I won’t count on it. See you later.’
She left me wondering whether I had time to take a taxi up to Harvey Nicks and look for something classy, roomy, and in any colour other than red. I might have done that too, if the phone hadn’t rung again.
It was Sarah Grace: my morning for Skinner spouses. Sarah’s much more of a pal than Aileen though. We see each other regularly, and talk about anything but husbands.
‘You busy?’ she asked me. ‘Or are you just too pregnant to come out and play?’
When I thought about it, I realised that I was. Chauffeur or not, the evening might be taxing, so I reckoned I’d better rest up for it. I told her as much, and we agreed that she’d come to me for coffee. As soon as I’d heard her I realised that I was listening to a different Sarah. She sounded excited, a little hyper even, and happy, as if something good had happened in her life. With her, that could mean only one thing. I asked her as much. Her denial didn’t convince me and I looked forward to quizzing her some more when she arrived.
Only she didn’t. A couple of hours had gone by before she called to say she couldn’t make it, but by that time I knew it, and why. If Mario and I were charged for calls received as well as made, the bill would be horrendous. I was looking through my choicest coffee beans from our deli range. . the best in Scotland. . trying to pick one for Sarah’s visit, when the phone rang again.
‘Yes?’ I said as I picked it up.
‘Ms Viareggio?’ The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. As I’ve said, even though it’s ex-directory, our number has some of the heaviest traffic in town. There was background noise but oddly I wasn’t certain whether it was on the line or coming through the window.
‘This is Paula,’ I admitted. ‘Your turn now.’
‘Sorry, it’s DI Pye; Leith. Is the boss in?’
Of course I knew him. ‘No, Sammy, he’s not. He’s working, as I take it you are too. He’ll be in the office, or if not, on his mobile. . if it’s urgent.’
‘If it wasn’t, I’d know better than to call him today. If I can’t raise him and he
comes in soon, could you tell him that I’m at a major incident on the vacant development site off Newhaven Place.’
‘How major?’
‘A burned-out van and it’s not empty.’
‘Oh my God,’ I exclaimed.
Sammy panicked, just a little. I think he had visions of me being shocked into labour. ‘I’m sorry,’ he exclaimed. ‘I shouldn’t have told you that.’
‘No reason why you shouldn’t,’ I told him. ‘I’m not squeamish. I reacted that way because I may have seen it.’
That squared him up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m not sleeping too well just now. I got up for a glass of water, early hours; half past one, maybe two a.m., I can’t be certain. We have a window that faces west. I looked out and I could see a fire, in the area you’re talking about. I just assumed it was kids, lighting a bonfire and having a few drinks. I went back to bed and thought no more about it, until now.’ I paused. ‘Not kids, though?’
‘No, not kids. Although to tell you the truth, I’m not sure what’s inside the thing. We’ll need to wait for the pathologist to tell us that. She’s on her way here now.’
I put the coffee beans back in the cupboard.
Bob Skinner
I was in something of a daze all the way back to Gullane. As my granny used to say when I was very young, my head was full of bumblebees. Physically I knew where I was and where I was going; spiritually and morally, I hadn’t a clue. When I married Aileen and put my name to the paperwork, I imagined that I was signing up for a stable life as a faithful husband, putting my wife above everything else, as I expected she would put me.
Within a forty-eight-hour period that ideal was dust; my certainties were doubts, my vows broken. So was my marriage.
I’ve been there before, so I knew it. Sarah had told me some home truths, and I’d confessed some stuff to her that I’d never articulated to anyone before, not even to myself. The things she’d said about my emotional instability, they were undeniable, and she’d painted a Dickensian picture of my Christmases yet to come, that actually was one I’d seen in my darker dreams.
As I drove home to our kids, I thought of what she’d said.
‘Myra is dead, and you can no longer use her as a template for a living partner.’
True on the first count, and I suspected I was guilty as charged on the second. Shame on you, Bob Skinner.
‘You are far bigger than any police force, not the other way around.’
Well now, I’d never made that comparison, but force me to the truth and I’ll have to admit that for almost thirty years I’ve seen the force and myself as indivisible. Maybe that’s why Aileen thought she could force me to toe her line.
Had she manipulated me into marriage, as Sarah thought but hadn’t quite said? Was ours more a political alliance than anything else? I still can’t answer that, but what I will recognise and admit to now is that it was one of convenience on my part. I’d been tired, I was beaten up by endless crises and confrontations, I saw life with Aileen as a place to hide and I crept into it for shelter. I’d been strong, but I’d become weak. Was that before or after she’d cut my hair?
And something else Sarah had said, with real anger.
‘None of our children have ever mentioned the woman to me, not once.’
I hadn’t dwelt on that at the time, but when I considered it, away from Sarah’s vehemence, I saw what she meant. I tried to recall a single time I’d seen Aileen hug one of the kids, or kiss them, or even ruffle their hair as parents do, but I couldn’t. Not even Seonaid, who is a mistress of cute.
‘Love me, love my kids.’ It isn’t a clause in the contract when a parent remarries, but it’s implied.
Yes, Aileen and I had some truths to face, that I recognised. Would one of them be the fact that I spent the night with my ex-wife? Should I tell her that? Hell, no. How cruel would that be?
‘Coward,’ I whispered, as I turned into our street.
The kitchen clock read ten past eight when I stepped through the door. Trish was there, supervising Seonaid’s breakfast. ‘Daddeee!!!’ the wee one shouted, then she jumped down from her seat and bounced towards me, all eyes and blond wavy hair. I swept her up in my arms and hugged her.
‘How’s my doll?’ I whispered in her ear.
‘I’m not a doll, I’m a girl,’ she scolded. ‘Like Lex.’ When she was starting to talk, that was as close as she could come to her half-sister’s name, and it had stuck.
I sat her back on her chair. ‘That you are, Seonaid,’ I said. ‘That you are.’ I glanced at Trish. ‘Where are the boys?’
She smiled. ‘Still asleep; there was a sandcastle contest on the beach yesterday evening. I gave them both a late pass, after I brought Seonaid home. Their team won; Mark designed, James Andrew and two other boys built.’ She paused. ‘Would you like some breakfast, Bob? I could whip you something up.’
I almost told her that I’d eaten already, but veered away from that. I was sure she’d be wondering where I’d slept, and I didn’t want to feed her speculation. Not that she’d have asked. She’s been with us for years, through thick and very thin; she’s both loyal and discreet.
‘Thanks, but I’m not hungry,’ I replied. The truth, if not unbridled.
‘Coffee then?’
I nodded, then remembered Sarah’s medical advice. ‘No thanks.’ I stopped myself in the act of reaching for my mug, and went to the fridge instead. I took out a carton of milk and poured myself a glass. I drank some, then smiled at my daughter. ‘If it’s good enough for Seonaid, it’s good enough for me.’
She beamed back then laughed. ‘You’ve got a white moustache, Daddy.’
. . thus pointing out to an adult that wherever I’d been I hadn’t been able to shave.
I licked my top lip. ‘Any calls?’ I asked Trish.
‘No, Bob, none.’
That was a relief; I thought that Aileen might have phoned to say goodnight. Then it passed and, perversely, I was annoyed that she hadn’t.
She did ring, though, twenty minutes later, when I was in mid-shave. Trish doesn’t answer when I’m home, unless she’s asked, so I snatched it up on the fifth ring.
‘You’re in, then,’ she said.
‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘Didn’t you expect me to be?’
‘I thought you might have gone to Andy’s last night, for a grumbling session, council of war, whatever.’
‘I don’t grumble, my dear,’ I told her firmly. ‘And there is no war until you and Clive fire the opening shot.’
‘Then you’re no tactician,’ she shot back. ‘In your shoes, I’d be getting my retaliation in first. As it is, you’re too late. I’ve put my name to an article for tomorrow’s Sunday Herald explaining why a unified police force is essential for Scotland. And they’ve done an interview with Toni Field to back it up.’
‘Hey,’ I exclaimed. ‘She’s a serving police officer. I thought you told me we weren’t allowed to get into the political debate.’
There was a moment’s silence; I’d caught her off guard. ‘She’s not debating,’ she snapped, when she’d worked it out. ‘She isn’t arguing with us, not like you are. It’s an interview and she’s answering some questions, that’s all.’
‘I thought you didn’t like the woman.’
‘I don’t.’
‘But she’s useful to you so you’ll go along with her. She’s your fucking poodle and you’ve let her off the lead for a bit.’
‘Wrong breed, Bob. More like a Doberman.’
‘Then I won’t try and tame her. I’ll just shoot her down the first time she shows her teeth.’
‘That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it? Aggression.’
‘Only when threatened,’ I countered. ‘You should know that by now. You can stand me up at the gates of hell and I won’t back down. Or maybe you thought you’d smoothed that edge away too. You told me once I should be the sort of chief constable I want to be. Too fucking right; I certainly won’t b
e the one you want.’
I wasn’t making it any better, was I?
‘Why did you call, Aileen?’ I asked.
‘Not to start a fight,’ she said. ‘To tell you that I’m going to stay in Glasgow tonight as well. The chauffeur will take Paula home, but there’ll be a reception after the concert that I really should stay for.’
‘And you’ll want to check the Sunday Herald first edition. Yes, you stay there, that’s fine.’
‘It’s probably best that I do.’
‘Agreed. And maybe the night after that as well. And so on.’
‘We have to talk, Bob,’ she murmured.
‘Why? We’re lousy at it, unless the discussion’s going entirely to your satisfaction. Aileen, I’ve had enough of crap like this in my life. If I’m not the guy you thought I was, live with it, don’t put pressure on me to comply and don’t take it personally if I won’t. I don’t have strings, so don’t try to pull them.’
‘Why are you always,’ she hissed, ‘so fucking sure that you’re right?’
‘Because in my professional life that’s generally been the case,’ I replied. ‘Personally, domestically, the opposite’s been true, for the last quarter of a century. You’re the latest in a whole series of mistakes, Aileen. I’m sorry if it’s hurt you. Now I am off to spend a lovely day with my kids.’
‘To hide behind them,’ she sneered. ‘Your kids!’
‘No,’ I laughed, seeing things more clearly than I had in years, ‘to give them what they need and deserve: my love and attention. If you’d been prepared to do that it might have worked for us, but that’s not what you’re about, is it? I don’t blame you for it; we are what we are.’
I hung up, I finished shaving, and I went downstairs, feeling much more calm than when I’d climbed them. The boys were having breakfast by then, so I took Seonaid out to the garden, with a ball, and we spent some time working on her close control. On impulse, I called Sarah on my mobile. I felt the need to apologise for inflicting myself on her, but she wouldn’t let me. As we talked, I looked down at the little girl we’d made together and realised that I’d never felt closer to either of them. Then she told me again that she still loved me and I had to admit that I’d never got that out of my system either.
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