'The only way he'll cough is if he catches the flu.'
'He's been in the cells long enough for that. Let's have him.' He pushed himself from his chair, in the office they had been loaned by the Danderhall station commander. He had almost reached the door when the phone rang. MacDougall took the call, frowned, then replaced the receiver. 'We've got a visitor. He's coming up to see us.'
'Who?'
'Bob Skinner's hatchet man.'
'Eh?'
Mackenzie still wore his bewildered expression when the door opened, and a large man stepped into the room. He recognised him at once, but even as they shook hands he struggled to put a name to the face. 'DCI Neil McIlhenney, Special Branch,' said the newcomer, by way of an introduction. 'Our paths did cross a couple of weeks ago, if only briefly.'
'Ah, of course. You're the guy that's married to the actress. What can we do for you? Do you want our autographs for the wife?'
McIlhenney looked at him, stone-faced. 'Save the flash act for the punters, friend. You've got two prisoners in the cells downstairs, Bell and Cable.'
Mackenzie's smile vanished. 'Yes. So?'
'So you're letting them go.'
'I'm what?' the drugs squad commander cried out, spontaneously. It was the first time that Mavis MacDougall had ever heard him raise his voice.
'They're being released, without charge. You will shred all transcripts of interviews and give me all your tapes. Destroy any paperwork you may have relating to this operation. The record of their booking in here has already been erased.'
'On whose authority?'
'Mine. I'm Santa Claus, come to them early.'
Bandit regained his composure. 'You're a DCI, pal. Last time I looked, so was I. You'll need to give me more than that.'
McIlhenney gazed at him. 'No, I won't. You'll do as I ask. But before they leave this building, I will be speaking to your prisoners; alone.'
'And what about Spike Thomson? They'll go straight back to his place and chib him.'
'No, they will not. They will not go near Spike Thomson again, or his place.'
'And who's going to tell them that?'
'I am. Now, give me the tapes, please.'
Mackenzie glowered at him, but took four cassettes from his pocket and handed them over.
'Thanks,' said McIlhenney. 'For what it's worth, I'd be brassed off too, if I was in your shoes. I'm sorry, but this is the way it's got to go.'
'Okay,' Bandit acknowledged. 'I understand. I know that Bell's got form, but Cable, is he an undercover cop, then?'
'Please don't ask, and please don't mention his name again, not here, at home, at Fettes, not anywhere. I know it's frustrating, but…'
'Understood,' Mackenzie conceded, grudgingly. 'Even if I do act flash on occasion, and even if I'm new in Edinburgh, I'm a professional.'
'Fine,' said McIlhenney, as he turned to leave. 'Just one more thing. Come and see me in my office tomorrow afternoon, please. Five minutes to three, no later, and don't talk about that either.'
Fourteen
Although she had been a police officer for over twenty years, Mary Chambers had never faced a press conference. She had been given communications training in Glasgow, where she had begun her career, and Alan Royston had briefed her well, but still she felt uncharacteristically nervous as she read her prepared statement to the media, gathered in a conference room at the divisional headquarters in Torphichen Place.
It was brief, naming the victim and describing the circumstances of his disappearance and the discovery of his body. When she revealed that the dead boy was the son of Detective Sergeant George Regan, a collective murmur rippled across the room. Most of the journalists present knew Regan; all of them recognised a page one headline when they heard it.
She completed her text, laid the single sheet of paper on the table and looked out over her audience inviting questions.
'How are you treating this death, Superintendent Chambers?' asked a grizzled veteran in the front row.
'John Hunter, freelance,' Royston whispered in her ear.
'On the face of it, Mr Hunter,' she replied, 'it's a tragic accident. I'm never keen to anticipate pathologists' findings, but I'm not expecting anything from the autopsy to change that view. However, we are keen to speak to anyone who may have seen George, in Lothian Road, or King's Stables Road.'
'When was the last known sighting of the boy?'
'He and his friends parted company in Princes Street, at the foot of Lothian Road. George lived on a different bus route from the rest of them. We've spoken to all of the boys, and they all describe him as heading for the bus stop in front of St Leonard's Church, just after seven fifteen. The spot where his body was found isn't far from there. The medical examiner put the provisional time of death at eight p.m.'
A woman raised her hand. 'Iris Staples, Evening News,' she said. 'Was George a bit of a daredevil?'
'George was a normal active boy,' Detective Inspector Steele answered, from the side of the room, 'with a keen sense of adventure. I knew him, but I'm not going to stick any labels on him.'
'Would it have been in character for him to go off to try a spot of rock-climbing?'
'That's a question that would be better put to his parents, when they feel up to seeing you.'
'So, Superintendent,' said John Hunter, 'to come back to my first question, we can safely say that there's no evidence of foul play, and leave it at that? Nothing's going to change overnight?'
'No, it isn't,' Mary Chambers replied, 'nor the night after that. We'll await Professor Hutchinson's report, and any witness statements we receive, but I expect we'll be able to make a report to the Procurator Fiscal pretty soon.'
Fifteen
Rolling his suitcase behind him and with his flight bag slung over his left shoulder, Bob Skinner stepped through the international arrivals gateway and out on to the concourse of Glasgow Airport. It was eight a.m., his eyes were gritty… he never slept on aircraft… and he felt in dire need of a shower and a shave. He also felt cold: he had left in late-autumn conditions, but he was returning to a full-blown Scottish winter.
He shivered as he looked around for Neil McIlhenney, not bothering to hide his impatience as he failed to spot him. Suddenly he felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned… to see Aileen de Marco looking up at him. 'Taxi?' she said.
For the first time in a full day he smiled. 'Hi,' he sighed. 'I'd like that, but I'm being picked up.'
'You are indeed: by me.'
'How come?' he asked, bewildered. 'Did you quit after all and go into the car-hire business?'
'Nearly, but I stopped myself. Being chauffeured is one of the perks of my job. I couldn't give that up. As for my being here, I wanted to see you, so I called your pal Neil and persuaded him to let me take his place.'
'I thought you didn't drive.'
'Your information was out of date: I didn't have a car for a while, but I've driven since I was eighteen. I bought myself new wheels six months ago: a sharp deal from Arnold Clark.'
'I'll bet Neil was pleased to hear that.' He leaned forward slightly, and kissed her cheek. 'But I'm glad you did it: I wanted to see you too. I tried to call you yesterday, but Lena said you were tied up all day.'
'I sure was: She took his arm. 'Come on, let's get out of here.'
She led him out of the terminal building and across the road to the short-stay car park. Her car was a Fiat Stilo hatchback; he put his bags into the boot and climbed in, pleased to discover that the interior was still warm from the trip to the airport.
'Have you come from Edinburgh?' he asked her, as she turned on to the M8.
'No, I stayed at my flat in Glasgow overnight. I thought we'd go there now, actually, to let you freshen up, and to have some breakfast.'
He rubbed his chin. 'Good idea. I feel like I've been travelling for ever; it's three flights from where I was to here.'
'There's a Scotsman in the back,' she said. 'There's something in it you should see.'
'Sounds omin
ous,' he murmured, reaching behind him to retrieve the newspaper.
The report of George Regan junior's death was at the foot of the front page. 'Jesus,' he whispered. 'The poor kid. I met him, too, at the station Christmas party a couple of years ago.' He scanned the report. 'How must George and his wife be feeling?'
'Like any other parents who've lost a kid, I imagine. They'll be going through all sorts of agonies and recriminations: if only they hadn't let him go, and all that.'
'Try caging thunder,' Bob mused. 'My younger son would try to climb Mount Everest if I took my eye off him for a second.'
'Make sure you don't, then. By the way, I've got a message for you from Neil. There's a meeting in Fettes at three this afternoon that you'll want to attend.'
'Did he say what it is?'
'No; he just asked me to tell you the time, and make sure you got there.'
She turned off the motorway and headed into, then through Govan. The traffic was building, but most of it was headed for the Clyde tunnel, so there were no hold-ups. They passed through street after street of sandstone tenements until, suddenly, the river came into sight and with it a tall development of newer apartments. She turned into the car park of the third block, and tucked the Stilo into a space marked 'Reserved. 4a'. Bob took his flight bag from the boot, followed her inside and into the lift.
The flat was on the fourth floor; it was small, but the space was well planned. The living room had a corner window which looked across the Clyde, and eastwards, towards the city. Very nice,' said Bob, impressed.
'I like it,' Aileen replied. 'I wish the parliament was in Glasgow, then I could live here all the time.'
'You could do that if you wanted. The government cars would pick you up from here and bring you back. Like you said, it's a perk of the job.'
'My days are too unpredictable.' She smiled. 'As for my nights, there's nothing to draw me back here.' She reached up and touched his face, feeling the stubble on his chin. 'You look tired. Do you want to go to bed for a couple of hours?'
'Do you mean alone?' he asked her, with a quiet grin.
'That, sir, is up to you,' she murmured, provocatively. 'I have things to tell you, and that might be as good a place as any.'
He put his hands on her hips. 'Honest to God, Aileen, I couldn't do you justice. I'm just off the flight from hell, I've got a chin like a hedgehog, plus… to be honest, the time isn't right'
She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. 'I know. But I thought I'd make the offer anyway, out of devilment, if nothing else.'
'You don't feel snubbed that I've turned it down?'
'No, honestly.' She smiled, shyly. 'I'll regard it as a rain-check. The truth is, I don't know how I'd have felt if you'd taken me up on it' She ran her palm over his beard. 'You're right about the stubble; heavy-gauge sandpaper at the very least.'
He looked at her, his emotions churning, temptation gnawing at him, realising that he was approaching a pivotal moment in his life. He thought of his marriage, and asked himself, for the first time, whether he wanted to repair it, even if he could. 'I really would like to sleep for a bit, though,' he told her, to end the moment, as much as anything else.
She led him through to her bedroom, showed him the en suite shower room. As soon as she had left him alone, he stripped off his clothes, slipped under the duvet, and was gone in sixty seconds.
When he was awakened by a gentle touch on his shoulder, she was sitting on the edge of the bed; her blonde hair was perfectly arranged and she had changed from the casual clothes she had worn earlier into a dark business suit. She smiled down at him; for a second he was disorientated, then his eyes and his mind focused. 'Hi,' he mumbled, drowsily. 'What time is it?'
'Five to twelve.' She picked up a mug of coffee from her bedside table. 'Yours is there,' she said, nodding over his shoulder.
'Thanks.' He pulled himself up to sit beside her, picked up his mug from its coaster, and took a sip. 'Jesus, I needed that.'
Aileen laughed. 'Which? Sleep or the coffee?'
'Both.'
'How did things go in Florida… or don't you want to talk about it?'
'There's not a lot to talk about. Let's just say we reached some understanding of where we stand and what we really feel about each other. Before, there was anger on both sides, but I think we've worn that out. Sarah says she's going to do some thinking over the next few days. I suppose I'll do the same. I've got all sorts of worries in my head, but most of all the kids. What do you tell them at times like this?'
'The truth, I suppose, if they're old enough to understand it.'
'They're old enough to be hurt by it.'
'So are you. It's in your eyes.' She ruffled his hair. The duvet was folded back to his waist, and her eyes were drawn to a ragged scar on his side. 'What's that?' she asked.
'That? It's where I was stabbed a few years back.'
She touched his face above the nose. 'What about that? Who gave you that one?'
'Big Lenny Plenderleith; he got plenty in return, though. I think that's how I earned his respect.' He grinned at her; there was a mischief in his eyes that she had never seen before. 'How many scars do you have, then?'
She jumped off the bed, unfastened her trousers and pushed them down enough for him to see a faint line on her lower abdomen, to the right. 'Appendix,' she said, then fastened herself in again. 'When I was twelve. All the rest are on the inside.'
'I'd like to heal those.'
'Maybe you can't; maybe no one can. Just make sure you don't give me any more.'
'I promise I won't do that. So talk: these things you mentioned, tell me them.'
She drank some more coffee, then set down her mug. 'Okay,' she said, 'but first I've got a question for you. Did you know that Sir John Govan was being replaced as the First Minister's security adviser?'
She could read the surprise on his face, so she knew his answer before he spoke it. 'No, I had no idea.'
Aileen smiled. 'That's good. If you had, my next question was going to be "Why the hell didn't you tell me about it?" But you would have, wouldn't you?'
'Of course, but I'd have expected you to be consulted.'
That's not the way our First Minister works. Tommy wants his own man, not someone with anyone else's seal of approval. He made the appointment all on his own.'
'So who is it?'
'One of your guys, Mr Jay.'
Bob sat bolt upright in bed, forgetting that he was naked. 'Greg Jay? You're joking.'
'You'll find I'm not, when you get to your office. He's full-time in post as of yesterday. But he was active before that, as I know to my cost. After our bust-up on Sunday, Murtagh had him monitor my telephone calls. He knows I called you in Florida; he knows you leaked the story to the press. He's threatened to ruin you if you don't behave, and to boot me out of the Cabinet in disgrace if I don't fall into line and go along with his plans.'
'Has he now?' Skinner growled. 'Let's see him try. It doesn't take a genius to guess who was behind the story, but let him prove it. You could stick John Hunter in the High Court and have a judge order him to reveal a source on pain of jail, and he wouldn't. If Greg Jay tried to interrogate him, he'd laugh in his face.'
'Couldn't he check your phone calls from the hotel?'
'He'd need the FBI's help, and it's no cert he'd get it; but even if he did he'd come up dry. I used Sarah's American cell-phone to call John, and he knows nothing about that'
'Don't underestimate him. He knows a lot about us. That's why I came to pick you up this morning; it's why I wouldn't speak to you on the phone yesterday. I was afraid that someone would be listening.'
'What does he know, exactly?'
She repeated everything that Murtagh had told her about their meetings, about the Arts Club, her Edinburgh flat, the Open Arms Hotel. 'Jay must have been tailing us all along, or me at least.'
Bob took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. 'No,' he said, quietly. 'I'd have known if he was doing that. He didn't follow anyone unseen,
not me at any rate; he's not that good, and I'd have known if he had used any serving officer for the job. Somebody told him about those meetings.'
'But who could have?'
'Work it out. It wasn't me, so that leaves only one person.'
Aileen's brow knitted into a frown. 'No, it couldn't be; she wouldn't.'
'Lena McElhone isn't your personal secretary, love. She's your private secretary and that's different. She's a civil servant: if she was leaned on by the First Minister or his stooge, she'd have a career choice to make. I wouldn't blame her, but I'd be careful what I let her know in future, other than your official business.'
'Those bastards!' She spat the words out. 'I can just see them doing it too. What's this man Jay like?'
'Disgruntled, is how I'd describe him. He didn't quite make it to the top, but he thought he should have. I transferred him recently, out of Leith to another division; he accepted it at the time, but I could tell that he didn't like it. I don't think he liked me either.'
'Why not?'
He chuckled. 'It's not compulsory. Greg might seem like a quiet, sober, middle-aged man, but inside that drab exterior there lurks an ego at least as big as mine.'
'How did he get the job? Murtagh said something about him having friends.'
'He does. He's got Masonic connections for a start. I guess the First Minister must have sent out scouts and his name came up. He's no security expert, but I guess that isn't the main requirement for the post any more.' He looked at her. 'This is not good. What are these plans of wee Tommy's that you mentioned?'
'He intends, and I quote, "to take a lot tighter control over the police service". He also wants me, as his Justice Minister, to go along with it. He wants you, as he put it, to "lower your profile and stop interfering". Or else.'
'He's threatening us?'
'Exactly. If we don't play ball he'll do some leaking of his own, about you and me.'
Skinner laughed. 'But he doesn't have anything to leak. Or didn't until now. Innocent we may be, but what would the tabloids do if they were tipped off that we've been together in your flat?'
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