Gallery Whispers

by Quintin Jardine

  working on when she got cut, has gone pear-shaped again. There's

  been a second apparent suicide, with exactly the same pattern.

  'The boss has ordered me to check the papers on every reported

  suicide in our area over the last three years, to see if any of them could

  possibly have been related. Trouble is, I'm stuffed for people-power,

  and I don't want to call in outside help any more than he does.

  'I'm going to have to take Neville or Pye back from you, unless .. .

  Look, I know Mags isn't allowed back for a couple of weeks, but

  would you mind if I asked her if she could help on this one? It doesn't

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  involve anything more strenuous than reading, and maybe the odd

  phone call, so she'd be able to do it at home. I wouldn't ask her behind

  your back though. So, what'd you say?'

  'I say go ahead, sir. I don't have a problem with that.' McGuire

  grinned. 'Now if I said "No way", and she found out about it later:

  that would be a problem.'

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  63

  Clan Pringle peered across Steele and out of the driver's side-window

  as the young sergeant drew to a halt outside the big stone terrace. The

  houses faced more or less due east, and on a fine day they would have

  enjoyed a clear view all the way down the coast to North Berwick and

  the Bass Rock beyond.

  However, as the detective looked across the promenade and out to

  sea, all that faced him was the grey wall of drizzle which the howling

  wind drove onshore. 'My God,' he said. 'I hope their draught excluders

  are working.'

  The two policemen jumped quickly out of the car and hurried up

  the steps towards the front door. Fortunately the woman at the tall bay

  window had seen them arrive, and opened it quickly.

  'Mrs Paterson? I'm Detective Superintendent Pringle and this is

  Sergeant Steele.'

  'Aye, aye,' the woman answered, quietly, 'Come in, quick, and let

  me get this door shut.' Steele looked at her as he stepped into the hall.

  Georgina Paterson was a thin, pinched woman, of indeterminate

  middle age. She wore a grey cardigan, pulled tight around her

  shoulders.

  'In there.' She pointed to a door off the hall, to the left. To Pringle's

  great relief, a coal effect gas fire was blazing away. Ushering the

  detectives to a settee, the woman sat in the chair closest to it.

  'I'm very sorry about your brother, Mrs Paterson,' Pringle began.

  He meant it; he was a kind man by nature. 'Were things, er, all right,

  at the hospital?'

  She nodded. 'Yes, thank you. The staff there were very nice to me.

  They made Anthony look very peaceful; all things considered.'

  The superintendent looked up at the high mantelpiece above the

  hearth. Various family photographs were set upon it, including one of

  a wedding group; bride, groom, best man and bridesmaid. He pointed

  to it. 'Is that yours?' he asked.

  Georgina Paterson nodded. 'Aye, that's our wedding, mine and

  Bert's. Thirty years we'd have been married, but for . . .' Her voice

  faltered.

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  'I'm sorry,' said Pringle once more. 'Has your husband been ...

  gone long?'

  'Sixteen and a half years,' she answered, composing herself. 'He

  was a miner. He was killed in an accident underground, hit by a

  runaway truck.' She looked across at Stevie Steele, saw him glancing

  round the big room.

  'I know what you're thinkin', son,' she said, not unkindly. 'A big

  house this for a miner's widow. But there was negligence, you see.

  My brother got me a good young lawyer, Mr Laidlaw, a customer of

  his at the bank, and he took up my case. The Coal Board settled out of

  court, and I got a great deal of money, plus a decent pension.

  'It was Anthony who said I should buy this house. He and I used to

  like Joppa when we were bairns, and he thought it would be nice for

  me here. Also, since there are five bedrooms, he thought I could do

  bed and breakfasts in the summer, an' earn a bit more money.'

  'And do you?' asked Pringle smiling.

  'Yes indeed. I do very well too, especially in the summer, although

  I've got folk that come to me all year round - salesmen and the like.

  As usual, Anthony's advice was right; he's aye been very good to me.

  Rina - she was his wife - used to help me down here sometimes.' Mrs

  Paterson shook his head. 'My brother never got over her death, ye

  ken. After she went, I think that he was just waiting to go himself.'

  The superintendent glanced up at another of the photographs above

  the fireplace. It showed a young man, in a University graduation

  gown. 'Is that your son?'

  The woman beamed with instant pride. 'Aye, that's Francis, in his

  graduation gown. He's twenty-eight now. He's a doctor, you know,'

  she added, proudly. Pringle felt a tingling sensation in his stomach.

  'Very good,' he said. 'Do you see much of him?'

  'Not nearly as much as I'd like. He works in London, in Great

  Ormond Street, the hospital for sick kids, and he's still studyin', so he

  doesn't have much time off. He'll be up for his uncle's funeral though.

  I spoke to him just there at lunchtime.'

  'Is he your only child?'

  'No, no. Ah've a daughter, Andrina; named after her auntie. She's

  twenty-one. She's a nurse, up at the Western.'

  'Ah, where her uncle was treated?' asked Pringle casually.

  The woman looked up at him, her eyes suddenly sharp. 'How did

  you know he was there?'

  'We know that he had been ill, Mrs Paterson. In Edinburgh, all of

  the cancer patients are treated there.'

  'Oh, I see.' She hesitated, wringing her hands in her lap. 'Ah'm

  sorry to be so abrupt with you, Mr Pringle. The thing is, my brother

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  was extremely embarrassed by his illness, and by the way it was.

  Anthony was a very fastidious man, so after the operation it was just

  mortifying for him to have to wear that bag. He never went out of the

  house afterwards, and he never saw anyone other than Andrina and

  me, or Francis, when he was up from London.'

  'No one at all, Mrs Paterson?'

  'Well, there was Mrs Leggat, the cleaning lady, she used to do his

  food shopping for him - no' that he ate much, poor man - and the outpatient

  visitors from the hospital and such, and Dr Lennie, his GP;

  but no one else, other than us.'

  'No friends from the bank?'

  'He didnae have many of those. His main friends were in the

  Rotary, and he cut himself off from them. But the bank? No none at

  all, really.'

  'Did they know he was ill when they gave him early retirement?'

  The bereaved sister shook her head. 'No. He knew, but he didn't

  tell them. He told me that if he had they wouldn't have let him retire,

  but put him on sick leave instead, so that if he had died they'd have

  had to pay out less to his estate than to him in his lump sum and

  pension. He was gey disillusioned towards the end of his career, Mr

  Pringle.'

  'I can understand that,' said the policeman. 'He knew he was ill

  himself, though, before he went?'

  'He knew for over a yea
r, superintendent. He had symptoms all that

  time, but he kept them to himself. Eventually, just after he retired, he

  mentioned it to Francis, and he made him go to Dr Lennie. By that

  time . ..' She broke off for a few seconds.

  'I went with him to the Western for his first appointment, jist taste

  hold his hand; you know how it is. His consultant, Mr Simmers, was

  a very nice man. He explained that the tumour was very large, but that

  there was still a chance, if it was removed, and if he had followup

  treatment. So they operated, and they gave him radiation treatment.

  He was all right for a few months, but towards the end of the summer

  he began to lose weight again, until he had trouble even walking

  about the house.'

  'Did Andrina nurse her uncle at all, Mrs Paterson?' asked Pringle.

  'When he was in hospital, I mean?'

  'No,' Mrs Paterson replied. 'She works in the cancer place, right

  enough, but in the breast unit, in Ward One. Some of her friends

  looked after him though, and they let her know how he was doing.'

  She sighed. 'I'm glad, you know, that Anthony went suddenly like

  that. He was a very dignified man, was my brother. It would have

  been awful to see him just wither away, totally helpless. I know that

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  thought frightened Andrina. She really loved her uncle, you know,

  and he doted on her.

  'In the last few weeks, she'd been visiting him just about every day.

  Her boyfriend used to go with her too, before he went off to University.

  Anthony was very fond of him too. He's a nice lad, is young Raymond.'

  Sometimes, the best detectives find that the key questions ask

  themselves. 'Raymond who?'

  Mrs Paterson looked across at Stevie Steele as he spoke. 'Raymond

  Weston, son. His father's a professor, up at the Western.'

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  64

  'Andy, when was the last time you took a holiday?'

  He looked at her, his elbow on the high round table which circled

  one of the pillars in the Standing Order bar. 'I seem to remember,' he

  replied, 'that you and I were in Spain this summer, at your Dad's

  place. I seem to remember that you and I were all over each other

  then.'

  'And I'm sure we will be again, next year,' said Alex. 'But you're

  dodging the question. You know bloody well what I mean. When was

  the last time you took a few days to yourself, to play golf, or to go

  wind-surfing. That spare room of yours is full of sports gear, gathering

  dust, and here you are, looking unfit, dog-tired, and if I may say so,

  just a wee bit podgy.'

  He smiled at her, sourly. 'Gee thanks. Go on, give us a quick

  chorus of "You fat bastard, you fat bastard, you ate all the pies!" so the

  whole pub knows I've put on a couple of pounds. For your information,

  girlie, I've started working out again in the Fettes weights room, and

  I'm back playing squash with your father twice a week, now that the

  Chief's back in semi-harness.'

  'Good, but none of that gets you out of the office. What are you

  doing to relax and to help you get away from the stress? That's what

  I'm asking.'

  He shrugged. 'This for a start. Having a relaxing stress-free pint

  with my fiancee, going for a tandoori afterwards and hoping that

  she'll come back to my place for B and B, or who knows, maybe even

  invite me to hers.'

  'You can forget the latter,' she said quickly; too quickly, she feared

  for just a moment. 'I'm not having Gina ogling you over the corn-

  flakes. When I get my own place - and I looked at a really nice wee

  flat this lunchtime, down in Leith - it'll be different. As for the other

  possibility, if we can keep up our recent run of not falling out across

  the dinner table, you might just be on.

  'Now, back to the point. When are you going to take some time off

  work?'

  He capitulated. 'As soon as this summit conference thing is over,

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  and once we get a result on a major investigation that Brian and Clan

  are working on, I promise you I will book a holiday. Some January

  sunshine, in the Canaries, or Florida maybe ... for two, though.'

  She shook her head. 'Sorry, we've got a major proof scheduled for

  January. Anyway, I'm taking some time before then; next week in

  fact.'

  'You're what? You never said.'

  'Well I'm saying now. I'm going to Marbella on Saturday, with

  Gina. I'm not sure how hot it'll be, but we'll get some sun.'

  'I see.' The two words seem hang in the air.

  'Just as well you do,' said Alex firmly, batting them away. 'Then

  you won't go moody on me. Listen, I want to marry you, Andy. But as

  I've tried to explain, I've got to get a life first, or it could be a disaster.

  Once we are married, I won't be able to bugger off with a pal for some

  fun - nor will I want to - so if I choose to now, don't give me a hard

  time about it. Instead of that, go ahead and book your January holiday.'

  'Maybe I'll just do that.' he murmured, taking a mouthful of draught

  Beck's. 'For two,' he added, into the glass, out of earshot.

  'Good. Now let's talk about our respective working days, like we

  used to. What's with this conference?'

  He looked around the busy bar. 'Sorry, love,' he said. 'I can't

  discuss that here.'

  'What about your big investigation then?'

  'That neither. That sort of chat was all right at home, when we were

  living together, but I can't talk to you about operational secrets in

  some damn pub. Your dad would tell you that. Look, you're the one

  who wanted change, girl; this has to be part of it.'

  'Fair enough,' she said. 'Let's just go and eat then.'

  'Nah,' he murmured wearily, finishing his beer and stepping off the

  high stool. 'You just go and catch your plane. It's no use, Alex, I can't

  share you ... not even with you.'

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  65

  Bob Skinner swivelled in his own familiar chair and gazed out of his

  office window. He smiled as he looked down the driveway which led

  to the main entrance of the headquarters building, watching the rush

  of the arriving staff, uniformed, CID and civilians, the third category

  having grown in numbers during the later years of Sir James Proud's

  reign.

  As he watched the scene, the Chief Constable's Vauxhall Omega,

  driven by Lady Proud, rolled slowly up towards the doorway. Sir

  James emerged from the passenger side, with a brief nod to his wife.

  It would have been out of character for him to kiss her goodbye in

  front of his office, and completely unprecedented for him to do so

  while in uniform.

  'Excuse me, sir.' He swung round in his chair at the sound of Ruth

  McConnell's voice. Even although she had been only a few feet away

  across the corridor, he had missed his long-haired, long-legged

  secretary while he had been filling the Chief's shoes.

  'Sorry, Ruthie. Didn't hear you come in. I was admiring the view.'

  She smiled back at him. 'Your morning meeting,' she said. 'The

  men are here, and Sarah's just arrived as well.'

  'Christ,' Skinner muttered, rising to his feet. 'Don't keep my
wife

  waiting. Is she looking okay?'

  Ruth stared back at him, puzzled. He had told no one in the office,

  other than Andy Martin and the Chief, of Sarah's pregnancy. 'Morning

  sickness,' he explained briefly, watching her eyes widen, just as he

  stepped past her.

  'Come away in, everyone,' he called into the corridor. One by one,

  they filed in and took seats around the low coffee table: Sarah, Brian

  Mackie, Clan Pringle and Stevie Steele, the young sergeant looking

  very slightly nervous to be in the vaulted heights of headquarters.

  'It's nine o'clock,' he said. 'These days Sarah and I don't drink

  coffee this early, so you gentlemen can do without as well.

  'I've called this meeting, and I'm running it, rather than Mr Martin,

  because he's asked me to give an overview of the investigation, and

  because he's snowed under with the security work for next month's

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  conference. I've asked Sarah to come along since she's done the path.

  work in both cases, and since she was at the first murder scene.' He

  suppressed a smile; Skinner could never admit it to his men, but his

  wife's presence on an investigation team always gave him added

  confidence, such was his respect for her abilities.

  'I've been reading the file on the Weston death. It seems to me that

  there are only two leads left: the mysterious Mr Deacey, and the DNA

  trace which Arthur Dorward turned up and which may or may not

  have been left by the person who helped Mrs Weston take her life.

  After the disappointment of the bogus Deacey, and the serious injury

  to Maggie Rose, both of those are stalled for the moment.' He looked

  at Pringle. 'Clan, give us an update on Murray.'

  Bob Skinner never encouraged formality, but often there was

  something about him which simply inspired it. 'Very good, sir.' The

  thick-set superintendent nodded, and straightened in his seat as if

  coming to a form of attention. 'We've finished talking to the

  neighbours; none of them saw or heard anyone come and go. That's

  hardly surprising. Murray's house is in a cul-de-sac, and there's nobody

  directly across the road.

  'I have a report from Inspector Dorward.' He glanced at Mackie,

  relaxing slightly. 'He hasna' been as helpful this time, Brian. There

  were no prints at all on the black tape. It was a brand new roll, of the