real Scotophile.' He nodded. 'So long, gentlemen; nice to meet you
both. So long, gal, I'll see you tonight, yeah?'
'All things being equal,' she answered. 'About nine, as usual, once
SB's turned in.'
Skinner frowned as the Australian walked away. 'SB, Karen?' he
said, sternly. 'We don't talk about that to outsiders.'
'No, sir,' she replied, hurriedly. 'I didn't mean Special Branch.
SB's short for Sleeping Beauty. It's what we call Dennis. Wayne helps
him to bed around nine, and then we go out.'
The DCC smiled. 'Ah, I see. For a minute there I thought you were
turning into a security risk. On you go, then.'
She looked at him, relief written on her face, and headed back
towards the foyer. Skinner's smile vanished as quickly as it had arrived.
'What's up with you?' asked Martin.
'I'm not sure she might not be a security risk after all,' he growled.
'There's something about that Aussie that's giving me a niggle. Maybe
it's just the voice, maybe it's just that all these surf burns tend to look
the same.
'It's probably nothing at all, and yet ... I can't help feeling that
I've seen that one somewhere before.'
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'Here you are, sergeant, this is the one you're looking for.' Neil
Mcllhenney murmured his thanks to the hospital records clerk, a
cheery little woman, and took the thick file from her.
Seating himself at a desk in the corner of the small office he
looked at the green folder. Alongside 'Patient's Name', he saw 'Nicola
Marston', and in the space marked 'Consultant', 'Mr Simmers'. The
word 'Deceased' in heavy red lettering was stamped across the cover.
Staring at it, he shivered for a moment, before he opened the history
and began to read.
He saw at once that the file was in reverse date order, for the first
document was a note which read, 'Patient's death reported by police.
Postmortem shows death due to overdose of insulin.' The scrawled
signature was only just legible. Mcllhenney read it aloud: 'D Simmers'.
The detective had not intended to read the history page by page, yet
he was unable to stop himself. He pored over each entry from the top
down with an eye which was no longer that of a total layman, making
his way backwards through the course of Nicola Marston's illness,
studying the notes in each stage of her treatment.
Although the regime was far from identical to that which Olive was
undergoing, there were some similarities, most notably the concern of
Deacey Simmers and his Registrar for the side effects of their therapy
on the patient's blood. Before he was half-way though the file he
found himself identifying with Nicola Marston, sitting by her side at
each consultation, feeling her pain and distress as she struggled
through the inevitable, violent sickness which followed each chemical
transfusion, imagining her pleasure as he happened upon positive
indicators from her scans and X-rays.
All the while that he read, he recognised the danger to himself of
exposure to such a story, but he forced that consideration to one side.
This was not Olive, this was not Olive, he told himself. This was a
woman who had given up.
Very few pages remained unread when he found the name. One
that he had read in the police report on Anthony Murray: one that he
knew.
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He raced through the rest of the folder, closed it, then sat at the
desk, his head in his hands, thinking hard. At last he nodded, a
decision made: he took out his mobile phone and dialled Skinner's
direct number.
'Yes,' came the snapped reply. The impatience in the normally
steady voice took the sergeant by surprise. 'Boss?'
'Sorry, Neil,' said Skinner, at once. 'I've got something on my
mind.'
'I won't keep you then, sir; but so have I. There's something in this
report and I'd like to follow it up. To do that, I need to make one call,
and I need to go and talk to someone.' He chuckled softly into the
phone.
'I think I must have been working with you for too long, gaffer. I'm
starting to get hunches!'
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Sarah grinned. 'Of course we're pleased to see you Alex. It doesn't
matter that there's European football on television tonight, does it
Bob?'
'What? Oh sorry girls, I was miles away there. No, no, sod the
football.'
His daughter laughed. 'You know what they say about the secret of
life. Pops. It's sincerity: once you learn to fake that, you've cracked it.
You still need to do some work in that area.'
'Seriously, I mean it. Anyway, it's only an English team. So what
did bring you out here?'
Alex shook her head, rearranging her long dark curls on her
shoulders, and fixed her big blue eyes on her father. 'A bonding trip,
Pops. With my brothers and with you two.'
'I don't suppose for a minute that you wanted to ask me how Andy
was getting along,' he said, idly. 'No, that would have nothing to do
with it. Bonding, sure, that's it.'
'You, you ...' she spluttered, then smiled, '... always could read
me, couldn't you.'
'He's doing fine, kid. He had a couple of days of moping and
chewing people out, but he seems to have pulled himself out of it. In
fact, I didn't realise how much he'd changed in the time you two were
engaged. The truth of the matter is, I reckon, that you were suffocating
each other.'
'Do you think there's a chance,' Sarah began, tentatively, 'that once
the two of you have had a chance to readjust, and to get your own
personalities back, that you might get together again?'
'Not as much as a flicker, step-mother. Andy's very easy-going in
some ways, but completely unbending in others.'
'So are you, kid,' Bob murmured.
'Maybe so, but my principles are consistent. Andy has a selective
conscience, you know. He squares it with contraception, no problem,
but as soon as one of his tadpoles goes astray, that's it, he might as
well be wearing a pointy white hat and carrying a shepherd's crook.
You should have seen him when I told him about my termination ...'
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'You still can't say abortion, can you.'
'Okay,' she shot back at him, her voice raised, 'have it your way;
my abortion. He went berserk all because I'd exercised my rights over
my body. Yet that same guy would put a bullet in someone's head
tomorrow, if the need arose, then go out for a pint with the lads.'
'No,' said Sarah, intervening to calm her, 'I guess it doesn't look
like there's a chance, does it. What about this boy Ray? Do you think
you might see him again?'
Alex's smile returned in a flash. 'God no! He's got a brain the size
of a pea; I was only ever after his body. No, I'm fo'otloose again. Just
like my ex. Seriously though, I'm glad to hear he's getting over it.
He's not sniffing around that Neville woman, is he?'
Bob shook his head. 'No, he'll keep her at arms' length.'
'He'd have to with that chest others.'
trouble. But really, Karen's not a factor. She's spoken for. And that's
why I was preoccupied earlier, to tell you the truth. I still feel I should
be able to place the guy.'
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The woman took a while to open the door: it was understandable,
Mcllhenney realised, as soon as he saw her twisted, claw-like hands.
'Miss Ball,' he said. 'Good evening to you. I'm Sergeant
Mcllhenney: I phoned you earlier.'
'Yes, of course,' she replied. 'Come away through, I've been
expecting you.' He followed her through an open doorway and found
himself not in her sitting room as he had expected but in the kitchen.
'Before we begin, sergeant, can I ask you something I ask all my
visitors? Would you please make us a nice pot of tea. I can manage a
bag in a mug these days, but I do so much prefer it properly made.'
'So do I,' said the detective. 'Show me where the tea is and I'm
your man.'
Five minutes later, he poured perfectly brewed Darjeeling into two
china cups and placed them on a side table between his hostess's chair
and his own. 'Well done,' she exclaimed. 'Now, I'm at your disposal.
This is still about Gaynor, isn't it. I haven't read anything in the
papers lately, so I suppose the mystery remains.'
'It does, Miss Ball. Now I've been asked to see if I can solve it.'
'So, how can I help?'
Mcllhenney settled into his seat. 'When you were interviewed by
DCI Rose, you. mentioned that you have support from a disabled
charity. Can you tell me which one it is?'
The woman nodded. 'Yes, of course, it's called Home Support. It's
more than a disabled charity really; it looks after the continuing needs
of people who've been through the hospital system.' Mcllhenney felt
the first small pulse of excitement run through him.
'When you have a visit, is it the same person who comes all the
time?'
'It is, yes. We all have case officers.'
'Who looks after you?'
'A very nice lady called Penelope dark.'
The sergeant managed to keep his expression unchanged. 'Can you
remember if Gaynor ever met her?'
Joan Ball's eyes seemed to take on a knowing look, but her voice
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remained even as she replied. 'Oh yes, of course she did. They were
great pals. One of the first times Penelope visited me, Gaynor called
in for something, and I introduced them. They hit it off and after that,
whenever she visited me in the evening or at weekends, she'd go next
door to say hello.'
'When was the last time you saw her?'
'Last week. Before that, a couple of months ago.'
'Would that have been during the time when Mrs Weston was at
home? In the two weeks before she died?'
Joan Ball thought for a moment. 'Yes, it was.'
'Did she call on her?'
'Yes, she did. That time she came during the day, which was unusual
for her - she normally does her rural visits out of hours, as it were.
She noticed that Gaynor was in and popped in to see her.'
Both cups of tea were untouched and cooling. Mcllhenney took
them into the kitchen poured them down the sink, and poured a
slightly stewed refill for Miss Ball. 'That's been very helpful,' he said,
as he replaced the cup on the side table. 'I have to go now, but I may
need to talk to you again. If I do, I'll call you.'
'No,' she said, sipping awkwardly. 'Come to see me. You make
damn good tea.'
Mcllhenney grinned. 'I'll try,' he promised. 'I'll let myself out.'
'If you would.' He had almost left the room when she spoke again.
'Very able woman, Penelope. Well qualified for her job too. She's
a doctor, you know.'
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'Hey look at this,' Brian Mackie called down from the bar, nodding
towards the door. 'The Bomber is back.' Mario McGuire, Maggie
Rose, Karen Neville and Stevie Steele all sitting looked round together
to see the Head of CID heading towards them, dressed in a black
leather jerkin and black denim jeans.
Neville and Steele looked at each other, puzzled. 'That used to be
Andy's standard uniform for a night out in the pub,' Maggie explained.
'Bomber jacket and jeans. Until he went respectable, that is.'
'Mine's lager if you're on the bell, Thin Man,' Martin shouted to
Mackie, over the noise of a dozen conversations, as he took one of the
two vacant seats at one of the Abbotsford's big, rectangular tables.
'Glad you could all make it,' he said, as he looked around the
booth. 'I thought about having a formal team briefing this afternoon,
then I said to myself, "Shit, we all know what we've got to do anyway.
We might as well get together in the pub." Thanks, Brian.' He drew his
chair over a little to allow the superintendent more room for his long
legs.
'You do all know, I take it,' he added quietly. 'Brian, you're top gun
with the Secretary of State, along with Stevie. You're on station at the
official residence in Charlotte Square at eight-thirty sharp, ready to
escort him up to the Centre. The PM's leaving from there as well, by
the way.
'Mario, Karen, you're with me in the auditorium as discussed,
checking people in then watching the action. The boss will be floating
about all over the place, keeping an eye on everything.' He smiled at
Rose. 'Maggie, you're lucky. You're out of it.'
He leaned across the table, even though there was no one in earshot.
'I'm not expecting any bother tomorrow, not with all the firepower
that's going to be in the hall, but I'm not having us go in naked either,
so we'll all be wearing our wee gold eagle badges and carrying a
friend inside our jackets.' He looked at Neville and Steele. 'Brian,
Mario and I are all experienced cowboys. Are you two all right with
that?' Both sergeants nodded, solemnly.
'That's fine, then.' He took a long pull at his pint. 'So if everyone's
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happy, we can enjoy a night out.' He grinned in Karen's direction. 'For
those of you who haven't been near something this big before, let me
tell you that the nerves, the tension you're feeling inside, they come
with the territory. It doesn't matter how often the three of us have
been to the well, we all feel just like you do. This wee get-together is
to help us all chill out a bit.
'This is my favourite kind of team building, anyway; we say far
more to each other here, when we can all put our ranks to one side,
than we do when we're sat in our collars and ties round an office table.
We haven't been doing nearly enough of it lately.'
'True,' Brian Mackie agreed. 'We haven't had a decent party for a
while either. Tell you what, Sheila and I plan to have a housewarming,
round about New Year time. Make a mental note for now and I'll give
you all a date later.'
'Ahh,' said Andy, 'you may be gazumped on that one. I happen to
know that a certain grey-templed Deputy Chief Constable and his
wife are plotting a similar event at their newish pad out east, round<
br />
about the same time.'
McGuire whistled. 'We'll need to watch ourselves out there,' he
murmured.
'You kidding? Bob could bevvy for Scotland.'
'Naw, I didn't mean that. What I meant was that if you get comatose
in their house, then given her new line of work Sarah might have your
insides out on the kitchen table.'
'She'd put yours back again very quickly, McGuire,' Maggie
murmured.
The inspector, glass in hand, pointed towards the main area of the
bar. 'Don't know if you've noticed, guys and gals, but this place is
suddenly filling up with journos. I recognise at last half-a-dozen of
them from today's session.'
Martin shrugged. 'We can go somewhere else. This is maybe a bit
touristy; they won't know about Number Thirty-seven, though.'
'I like it here,' Karen protested.
'Is the Aussie picking you up from here, or what?' asked McGuire.
'No. I'm not seeing him tonight. He has to help Dennis get ready for his big day tomorrow, he said.'
'Hey,' said Andy, softly. 'It's a big day for us all tomorrow. I'll get
another round in here, then we can think about moving on for the
last one. I want everybody checked in tomorrow at Fettes by quarter
to eight, to sign out firearms, so we'd better have a ten o'clock
curfew. Yes?' As his five colleagues nodded agreement, he rose to
his feet and stepped up to the counter. On impulse, he called back
over his shoulder, 'Final word on the party stakes; Friday night, my
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place, to celebrate this crap being over.'
'Will it be a good party?' a small, dark-haired girl asked him, as he
raised an eyebrow to catch the barman's attention. She was leaning on
the bar, nursing a pint of Guinness.
He grinned down at her. 'They usually are.'
'You involved with the conference?' She had a clipped accent;
southern hemisphere, he thought, but he had difficulty in placing it.
'Catering,' he said, in a voice loud enough to carry to his table.
'You?'
'Indirectly. I'm a journalist but I can't get into the Hall.'
'Why not?'
She wrinkled her nose; not an unattractive nose, he noticed.
'Because some bastard of a copper wouldn't give me accreditation, all because I refused, on principle, to tell him how old I was. As if that
bloody mattered. Even though I had a commission from the FT, I
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