Gallery Whispers

by Quintin Jardine

  term. We might split up. I might come up against the wrong bloke in

  the job and get shot. Sheila might get cancer, like poor Olive.

  'If you learn nothing else from the Mcllhenneys, you should learn

  this. Fuck the longer term; concentrate on now, because that's all the

  certainty you've got, mate.'

  Martin sat on the edge of his desk, with a wry smile. 'My trouble

  is that I'm not certain of anything any more where Alex is concerned.'

  'But maybe you're just a selfish bastard where she's concerned.

  Think on that.'

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  38

  Not all of Edinburgh's Old Town fits that description. The spine of the

  original city rests on a hogsback which runs from the Castle, invincible

  on its great volcanic rock, down through the High Street past St Giles

  and the Council Chambers, and through Canongate, to the Palace of

  Holyroodhouse, the seat of generations ofMonarchs of Scotland and

  of the United Kingdoms.

  Rather than having been preserved as a monument, it has evolved

  as a living community. Many of its buildings have stood for

  centuries: those which did not survive have been replaced under the

  critical eye of the powerful civic watchdogs; some elected, others

  self-appointed.

  Dr Surinder Gopal's address was in the lower part of the Royal

  Mile, on the outer limits of a stone's throw from the Palace. It lay at

  the foot of a narrow close which ran beneath a modem tenement and

  connected the Canongate with Calton Road. Brian Mackie surveyed

  the grey stone building, trying to make sense of the numbering of the

  apartments.

  'What do you think this was, sir, before it was turned into flats?'

  asked Steele.

  'I believe it was a brewery.' The Superintendent pointed to double

  doors which opened out on to a small balcony at third floor level. 'I

  reckon they used to store the barley up there ... you can still see the

  spar for the hoist, look. The brewing would have been done in this

  part.' He nodded towards a square two-storey block which looked as if

  it might be an entire house, rather than flats.

  They found the name 'Gopal' alongside the first of a row of buttons,

  above a speaker grille. Mackie pressed it, leaning close to be sure that

  he caught the reply. He waited for thirty seconds but none came; he

  pressed again. Still there was no reply. He pushed the buzzer for a

  third time.

  'Bugger it!' he hissed, at last. 'The so-and-so must have gone on

  holiday right enough.'

  Suddenly there was a click from the grille, and a low buzz. 'Yess?'

  It was a female voice, nervous and tremulous.

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  'Detective Superintendent Mackie, DS Steele: St Leonard's

  Police Station. We'd like to speak to Dr Gopal.'

  'That is my son, but he is not here,' the woman replied. Even

  through her accent, which was heavily Asian, she sounded frightened.

  'What do you want with him?'

  'It's something connected with his work, that's all. Routine. Can

  we come in for a minute?'

  'I don't know; you really are the police?'

  'Yes, we are. But before you let us in, call our office.' He recited

  the number of the Divisional headquarters. 'The names are Mr Mackie

  and Mr Steele, remember. They'll vouch for us.'

  'Wait there,' said the woman. A few seconds later, through the hum

  of the intercom, they heard her voice faintly. Eventually she returned.

  'It's all right, they say. You can come in. Come all the way up to the

  top floor.' There was a click as the lock on the heavy green door was

  released.

  Inside, the building was a warren. Doors opened to no discernible

  pattern off the narrow winding stair; on one floor it divided, leading

  them on a brief wild goose chase. Eventually at the top of yet another

  flight, they turned, to find themselves facing a small, middle-aged,

  dark-skinned woman. She wore traditional Indian dress, bright cloths

  wound around her, embroidered with golden stars. Her oiled, greying

  hair was swept back from her forehead, upon which a caste mark was

  imprinted.

  Mackie took out his warrant card at once and held it up, Steele

  following suit.

  'Good morning, gentlemen,' she said in clipped proper tones, no

  longer apprehensive. 'Won't you come in.' She stood to the side and

  allowed them to walk past her into the flat.

  Stevie Steele whistled softly as he looked around. 'Nice,' he

  whispered to Mackie. 'I fancy this.'

  'Not on your wages,' the superintendent murmured. The apartment

  was virtually open plan, divided by sliding panels rather than doors.

  Short flights of steps at either end led to galleried areas; one was a

  bedroom, while the other seemed to be a study. The decoration of the

  rooms was fresh, and their pictures and ornaments displayed a mix of

  Western and Asian influences.

  'As you can see, detectives,' said the woman, 'my son is not here.'

  'We didn't doubt you, Mrs Gopal,' Mackie assured her. 'But we do

  need to find him. We hoped that you could tell us where he is.'

  The surgeon's mother shook her head. 'No. I cannot tell you that.

  He is away.' She looked up suddenly, making eye contact for the first

  time. 'The kettle is just boiled. You will have tea?'

  125

  Both policemen nodded. 'Thank you,' said Steele. 'Darjeeling, of

  course.'

  Shesmiled, 'What else, in this house?'

  They watched her as she stepped into the small kitchen took a tea

  caddy from a shelf then picked up a big porcelain pot. 'No tea bags

  here,' she called out to them in a sing-song voice as she heaped in four

  measures.

  'Do you live with your son?' Mackie asked her.

  She looked over her shoulder. 'No, of course not. I live with my

  husband. Surinder is on holiday so I come here every morning, to get

  his mail, to clean and to feed his bird.' She pointed to one of the long

  room's two windows. There was a cage on the sill, and in it, a blue

  budgerigar sat on a swing, eyeing a piece of cuttlefish bone which

  was clipped to the bars.

  'How long has he been gone?'

  'About ten days, maybe; I don't know.' She put the pot on a tray,

  together with three china cups and saucers, and carried it out of the

  kitchen area to a carved wooden table in the centre of the room. 'Sit,

  gentlemen, please,' she insisted, as she began to pour the tea.

  'What did he say to you when he left?' asked Steele.

  'He told me that he was going away for two or three weeks, on

  holiday. He said that he had not decided on the places he would visit,

  but that he would take his car and tour around. Go to Europe, maybe,

  for the sunshine. He told me that he had been working too hard and

  that he was in terrible need of a rest. I said fine, son; you go rest, I

  take care of your house. I haven't heard from him since, but that

  doesn't worry me.'

  'Does Dr Gopal ever talk to you about his work?' Mackie's question

  seemed to set the woman's dark eyes sparkling.

  'Superintendent, that is all he ever talks about. Surinder loves his

  work. His only
ambition is to be the best surgeon in the country.'

  'Does he ever mention his colleagues?'

  'He talks a lot about Mr Strang; he admires him very much. One

  day, Surinder will be Mr Gopal, like him. He tells me that the most

  important doctors are the ones who are called Mister.'

  'What about the place where he worked before he went into

  orthopaedics? Does he ever mention that?'

  'Not often. It's been a while since he left there.'

  'Does he still have friends there?'

  Mrs Gopal nodded. 'Professor Weston, he is still a friend. It was he

  who say to my son that he should go in for another sort of surgery,

  since there would be more opportunities there. The Professor still

  takes an interest in Surinder's career. He have them here for an Indian

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  dinner once. Professor and Mrs Weston. Not so long ago.' Suddenly

  she looked around towards a low bookcase, which stood against the

  wall between the windows. She pushed herself to her feet, walked

  over to it and took a slim volume from the top shelf.

  'They gave him this as a present,' she said, handing it to Mackie.

  He looked at the cover. It was a copy of The Jungle Book, by Kipling.

  Idly he opened it, at the title page. It had been signed; the words

  jumped out at him.

  'For Surinder, in memory of a delicious evening, Nolan and

  Gaynor.' He handed the book to Steele, still open at the dedication.

  Neither detective said a word; they simply sipped their tea.

  'Do you know if your son intended to go on holiday alone?' the

  young sergeant asked, eventually; to break the silence, more than

  anything. Mrs Gopal stared at him as if she did not understand his

  question. 'Might he have taken a girlfriend with him?'

  'My son, he does not have girlfriends.' She spat the word out as if

  it was something distasteful. 'Our family is traditionalist; he is

  traditionalist. When he is ready to marry, he will tell his father and a

  marriage will be arranged for him. Until then, he works.'

  'Does Dr Gopal keep a diary?' She frowned at Mackie's question.

  'An engagement book.'

  'No. If he did I would have found it when I dusted.'

  'Does he have a telephone answering machine, or service?'

  'No.'

  'I see. He really is out of touch then.'

  'As I told you.'

  Mackie nodded. 'Yes indeed.' He took out a card. 'If Dr Gopal

  should phone you, would you please ask him to contact either Sergeant

  Steele or me, on this number. Tell him it's important.'

  Mrs Gopal's forehead wrinkled. 'When detectives come looking

  for my doctor son, I know it is important.'

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  39

  a

  'I should have asked you before. How was the hot date, then?' Leaning

  against the wall of the small office, Karen Neville looked at McGuire.

  He wore a mischievous grin.

  'Cool, actually. He was nearly half-an-hour late, then when we

  started to get to know each other, he turned out to be gay.'

  The inspector gasped in surprise. 'What? Him and the bloke in the

  wheelchair, you mean?'

  'I asked him that. No, they're just friends, apparently, from their

  younger days. I don't think Dennis is up to any sort of nookie these

  days, straight or bent, from what Wayne told me. He has to lift him in

  and out of bed, and on and off the toilet - unless it's disabled-friendly,

  that is. Plus he has to help him dress, bath and everything.'

  'Where are they living? In one of the big hotels?'

  'No. The University found them a serviced flat that's been specially

  fitted out for handicapped people.'

  'Whereabouts?'

  'Down in Canonmills, Wayne said. I think I know where it is. At

  least I hope I do. I'm picking him up from there tomorrow night.'

  'What? But you just said he was . ..'

  She smiled. 'In which case you don't have to worry about me

  giving away secrets in the heat of passion, will you, Mario. Anyway,

  he's a nice guy, good company and if he's only in the market for

  friendship ... well, that makes a nice change from the usual.' She

  paused, and blushed slightly. 'Plus, I told him I was gay first. I

  thought if I did it might avoid complications.'

  McGuire laughed out loud, drawing a stem look from the customs

  officer across the room. 'Jesus.' He shook his head.

  'Inspector,' the customs man called out. 'The people from the

  Amsterdam flight should begin coming through in a minute. We'll

  check the non-EU passport holders at that desk there.' He pointed

  through a one-way window which looked out on to a narrow corridor.

  'Apart from the four cards that were drawn to your attention by the

  Dutch people, there have been six more completed during this flight,

  five of them by males.'

  128

  McGuire and Neville crossed the room to stand beside him. 'We've

  seen a lot of your unit out here in the last few days,' the officer said, casually. 'Is there a major alert?'

  'Just business as usual,' McGuire murmured, as the first passenger,

  a tiny Arab, wearing a headdress, made his way to the passport control

  point. He was swaying slightly, as if he had spent too long in the bar

  at Schiphol.

  'Hmm,' the man grunted moodily. 'Meaning "mind your own

  business", I suppose.'

  McGuire treated him to his most dazzling smile. 'Absolutely,' he

  said.

  'That's nice. We are on the same team, after all.'

  'No we're not,' the policeman murmured. 'You'd nick me in a

  minute if I was out there with a extra bottle of duty free . ..' He

  pointed through the glass at the Arab, who was almost weighed down

  to the ground by the polythene bag which he was carrying. '. .. just

  like that bloke there.'

  'What?' exclaimed the customs officer. 'Excuse me for a moment,

  please.' He hurried from the room.

  Left alone, McGuire and Neville looked on in silence as one by

  one, the passengers who had completed landing cards were checked

  through. Three were Asians, one had an arm missing: none bore the

  remotest resemblance to any of the Hawkins photofit treatments.

  'You know, Karen,' said the inspector, as they made their way out

  of the Edinburgh Airport terminal building and headed for the car

  park, "I am beginning to get just a wee bit bored by this surveillance.

  Just ever so slightly.'

  'I know how you feel.'

  'Huh,' he chuckled. 'At least you've got something out of it - even

  if he is bent.'

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  40

  'The missing heroin, Brian,' asked Skinner, 'enough to do the job was

  it?'

  'At least twice, sir, or so the hospital pharmacist told us.'

  'And there's a definite link between Gopal and Gaynor and Nolan

  Weston?'

  'He entertained them to a curry night up at his place. The mother

  showed Stevie and me the present they gave him. She assumed that

  the Prof had brought the current Mrs Weston.'

  'Must have been her night off,' the DCC chuckled. 'So what do you

  propose to do now?' He looked at Mackie across the desk, then

  switched his gaze to Andy Martin.

  'We're going to hav
e to re-interview Weston,' said the Head ofCID.

  'Brian and I were contemplating picking him up and taking him to St

  Leonard's for a formal interview, under caution. If he was an ordinary

  Mr Joe Criminal, we'd do that without question.'

  'But he isn't. Look, gentlemen. Professor Weston isn't going

  anywhere; he doesn't know that he's still under suspicion. Wouldn't it

  be better to get some answers out ofDr Gopal before you do anything

  to unsettle him?'

  Mackie frowned. 'That could take another couple of weeks, unless

  we put out a Europe-wide alert for his car.'

  'You know what he drives?'

  'A silver Alfa Romeo 146,' the superintendent answered. 'Registration

  T197 VSG. But I wasn't serious about the alert: not at this stage

  anyway.'

  'I should hope not. We can wait for the boy to get back from his

  holidays; I do not see him and Weston as potential fugitives.' Skinner

  shot a glance at Martin. 'How are the press on this one?'

  'They haven't forgotten about it, if that's what you mean. Alan

  Royston's a bit worried that if we don't give them something concrete

  soon, the tabloids will start writing speculative stories. Joan Ball's

  had a couple of reporters at her door; Christ knows what she's told

  them.'

  'We'd better quieten them down then,' said the DCC. 'Andy, have a

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  word with the Fiscal's office. Ask Pettigrew to schedule a Fatal

  Accident Inquiry into Mrs Weston's death for some date in the future,

  and to let the media know. That'll get them off Royston's back, without

  him having to tell them any porkies.'

  'What if we don't turn up anything before the FAI date?' asked

  Mackie. 'What if Gopal doesn't come back?'

  Skinner shrugged his shoulders. 'In that case, it goes ahead. We put

  the facts before a Sheriff and jury and let them decide. If they bring in

  a suicide verdict - and you never know, they might: juries have done

  dafter things in the past - then that's what it is. If they call it unlawful

  killing, the investigation stays open.

  'But Gopal will surface again, I'll bet. This pharmacist person isn't

  going to tell him about your visit, is she?'

  'No, not a chance.'

  'Then he doesn't know that he's got anything to run away from.'

  'Not even if he injected Mrs Weston?'

  Skinner shook his head, and pushed himself out of his chair as if he