Last Resort

by Quintin Jardine

  I hadn’t made it past the first few pages of ads for equipment that was already outdated, before the lady returned, with a cup of coffee . . . a cup, note, not a mug . . . and the good news that Dr McGrane would see me as soon as his meeting was over. ‘About ten minutes, he thinks,’ she added.

  I thanked her and tried the coffee. It was pretty damn good; my guess was Nespresso, the brand George Clooney advertises.

  I looked out of the window as I waited. The city skyline has changed considerably in the ten years since I lived there, and for the better. Some of the new buildings I could see were offices; another was an arena, the massive new Hydro, but most were blocks of flats, much like mine in Edinburgh.

  My eye settled on one of them, one that I knew. Aileen de Marco, the more recent of my two official stepmothers (there were a couple of unofficials during my childhood and adolescence) has an apartment there. She kept it even when she was married to Dad, and even though she’s gone from Scottish politics now, to a safe Westminster seat in the north-east, I’ve no doubt that she’ll have kept her foothold in the city where her personal power base still lies.

  ‘I wonder who’s kissing her now,’ I hummed, quietly, then realised that I was scowling and drove further thoughts of the Witch from my mind, concentrating on Sarah, the one stable presence in my father’s life since Mum died . . . although even she’s had some pretty flaky moments. I forgave her those a long time ago, though, as she’s the mother of my younger brother and sister, who may be the reasons I have never felt the need, as yet, to raise kids of my own.

  ‘Ms Skinner?’

  A voice broke into my contemplation. I turned to see a tall man, in a perfectly tailored charcoal-grey suit that any football pundit would have been proud to wear, standing beside the reception desk.

  ‘Roger McGrane,’ he announced. ‘I run this place. Please, come through to my office.’ There was no Kelvinside about his accent; it was pure Oxbridge.

  Aesthetically speaking, Dr McGrane was a bit of all right. His hair was dark, but with the kind of natural highlights that I pay my stylist hundreds to fake, he was clean-shaven and so clean-cut that he could have advertised a coffee brand on television any day of the week.

  His features were fine, but the hand that shook mine was broad and strong, and used for something more energetic than placing slides under a microscope. As for his age, there’s ten years between Andy and me, and I guessed that he slotted in somewhere around the mid-point.

  ‘What’s your doctorate?’ I asked as he ushered me through the door behind reception. ‘Medical?’

  ‘No, it’s a PhD: genetics. I did it at Massachusetts Institute of Technology, after I graduated from Cambridge.’

  ‘Cambridge England to Cambridge Mass,’ I said, ‘That was a nice move. What lured you to Glasgow?’

  ‘The climate.’ He smiled as I stared at him. ‘Not! I was going to add.

  ‘This place is American-owned,’ he explained. ‘I worked for the parent company in Atlanta, and was more or less inserted here when the vacancy arose.’

  ‘You were drafted?’

  He grinned, flashing a couple of gold fillings. ‘You could say that. The Forest Gate group talent-spots in several universities. It contributes research funding and gets the inside track on recruitment. They chose me from MIT, and got me a Green Card straight away. Other foreigners can wait years.’

  ‘Can you go back?’

  ‘Oh yes, and I will, in a couple of years probably, once I’ve got our new premises up and running. We’re expanding, moving across the river to a purpose-built centre on Pacific Quay.’

  We’d reached his office; he opened the door and showed me into a small room with a window that looked out across a back yard and beyond to the spiky Gothic building that is Glasgow University.

  I pointed to it. ‘That’s my alma mater,’ I said. ‘I lived not far from here for four years; hall of residence for a while, then Dad bought me a flat.’

  I took a seat, facing across the desk, but he joined me on the same side. He picked up my business card and peered at it.

  ‘Not very informative,’ he ventured. ‘Just “Alexis Skinner, LlB, Solicitor”, and a mobile number.’

  I explained my career move, and told him what I’d been doing before.

  ‘I know,’ he murmured. ‘I read the business press, Alexis . . . may I call you that?’

  ‘That’s my Sunday name, Roger. It’s Alex on the other six days. I only use the full version on my card to avoid the assumption that I’m a bloke.’

  ‘I imagine that could be a disadvantage in law these days. Aren’t most new graduates female?’

  ‘So I believe.’

  ‘And you’ve been a trailblazer. Why should the “Dealmaker of the Year” decide to change tack? You’re not following in your father’s footsteps, are you, joining the police force?’

  ‘They call it “Police Service” now,’ I tutted. ‘They’re very precious about that.’

  ‘Is that why your father did what he did? Was the new set-up too touchy feely for him?’

  ‘The opposite, funnily enough; he thinks it’s divorced from the people.’

  ‘I can understand that view.’ He smiled again. ‘Your father is a very impressive man, Alex. He seemed to fill this room when he was here. I was taken completely by surprise when he turned up and asked to see me. Strathclyde Police has always been, or rather was when it existed, our biggest client, but in the five years I’ve been here I had never met the chief constable, not until then.’

  ‘Another reason why he’s opted out,’ I told him. ‘He’s a hands-on guy.’

  ‘Even so, I was surprised, when he explained the commission, that he should be bringing it to me personally. I still don’t know why he did; my assumption has always been that state security was involved, hush-hush stuff, because he did impress on me the need for confidentiality. Even the invoice had to go directly to his office, so marked.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, Roger, it wasn’t security, nor was it counter-terrorism, nor any police matter: it was personal.’

  For the first time, Dr McGrane looked unsure of himself. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

  ‘It was a family matter; that’s all I need to tell you. However, the need for secrecy, yes, that was about security: the personal security of an individual. And now that may have been compromised. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Do you think we’ve breached it?’ he exclaimed. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘No, I’m saying no such thing. I’m here on my father’s behalf to eliminate that possibility, that is all.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you do that if I can. But Alex, I have to point out that it would be difficult for us to leak a secret when we don’t know what it is. The samples that we analysed were anonymous.’

  ‘You can remember the detail of every single test?’

  ‘I remember that one because of the man who commissioned it; plus, I looked up the details while you were waiting in reception. That’s what the ten minutes were about.’

  ‘That being so, what can you tell me about it?’

  ‘Your father visited me twice: the first time was to give me the commission, and the second was to deliver the samples. When he did, he told me that they had been taken by a medical professional.’

  That made me smile. I enlightened him.

  ‘My stepmother: she’s a forensic pathologist.’

  ‘Then she’s very good; they were presented and labelled perfectly. Chief Constable Skinner asked for a minimum fifteen loci analysis. You probably know that we can test to various levels and various degrees of certainty; the more loci, the greater. I did the comparison myself, and I have no doubt that I was looking at father and son. There’s always a statistical possibility of error, but at that level, it’s utterly remote.’

  ‘Especially if the two individuals have a close resemblance?’

  ‘That underlines it.’

  ‘How were your fin
dings delivered to my father?’ I asked.

  ‘Mrs Harris, the lady you met in reception, delivered them to his office in Pitt Street, by hand. His personal assistant came down and took possession.’

  ‘No other links in the chain?’

  ‘None at all; and let me head off your next question by telling you that Yvonne Harris is absolutely trustworthy; she’s been here for fifteen years, and worked for three directors, me included. The invoice for our services was included with our report. I see from the record that your father called our account department that same afternoon, and made payment. I didn’t know until today that he used a personal debit card.’

  ‘How are your records kept?’ I asked.

  ‘For DNA testing, the reports are filed electronically. The samples are destroyed unless there’s a specific request that they’re retained; there was none in this case and so all the slides were incinerated.

  ‘For added security, reports are always filed under the client’s number rather than his name, or its, if it’s a corporate entity. Without that key, suppose some genius was able to hack into our system looking for a specific file, he wouldn’t know where to begin.’

  ‘You must keep a record of client names surely, otherwise you won’t know which is which yourselves.’

  Dr McGrane grinned. ‘Very true. It would be a shambles otherwise. Our numbered client list is kept the old-fashioned way, on paper, in a safe in this building: in this room, as a matter of fact,’ he pointed to the wall behind me, ‘behind that large photograph of President Obama, which my bosses in Atlanta display in all our offices to make our parentage clear. We’ve had no break-ins here, ever.’

  ‘Suppose someone did hack into your server, what would happen?’

  ‘It would set off a huge alarm. Alex, we are paranoid about security; given the nature of much of our work, we have to be. I have an IT security consultant; she earns nearly as much as I do . . . and I don’t come cheap.’

  ‘Thank you, Roger,’ I said. ‘I have no questions left.’

  ‘I have one,’ he replied. ‘Would you consider having lunch with me?’

  The loss of my mother in my infancy and my single-parent upbringing combined to make me precociously cynical. I am notoriously difficult to surprise. It happens maybe once in every year, and that may have helped to make me a good lawyer. Three months earlier I’d learned that I had a teenage half-brother. That came out of the blue, and I’d reckoned that was my annual quota, but Roger McGrane’s question set me back in my seat.

  I stared at him, for longer than I should have, and he read it wrongly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I’ve embarrassed you, forgive me.’

  ‘No,’ I replied slowly, as I recovered my composure, ‘you haven’t embarrassed me at all. You asked me a straight question, would I consider it, and I’m doing just that. The answer is, yes, I would consider it. Having done that, I have no urgent appointments this afternoon, it’s that time of day and the alternative would probably be a sandwich at Harthill service area on the motorway. So, did you have anywhere in mind?’

  He smiled, in a different way than before, giving me an opportunity to admire the most perfectly aligned set of teeth I’ve ever seen on a man of his age.

  ‘There’s a place I go nearly every day. I have a lunch table permanently reserved there. It’s not gourmet dining, but I like it. Normally I walk, but today we might drive.’

  ‘A mystery restaurant,’ I said. ‘I’m up for that. We’ll take mine; it’s parked outside.’ That was not a suggestion, and Dr McGrane realised that. Accepting an impulse lunch invitation from a strange man is one thing, but to get into his car as well is a step too far for any cautious woman.

  He led the way through reception, passing Mrs Harris at her desk. ‘Usual place, Yvonne,’ he told her, ‘and my mobile will be on if you need me.’

  I thanked her for her help; as we left, I had the impression that her smile was just a little less warm than before. I was about five years younger than her boss and she was maybe five years older. Did she have a crush? Might there even have been history? If so, sorry but tough luck; I was going to lunch and she wasn’t.

  ‘Nice car,’ Roger murmured as he eased his tall frame into the passenger seat of my Honda. He glanced in the rear-view; from his angle he could see the child seat in the back.

  I read his thoughts. ‘I have a half-sister,’ I told him. ‘She’s approximately twenty-five years younger than I am. I took her to see Santa Claus last weekend. My young brothers are no longer believers, so I left them behind. Seonaid and I are bonding, now that she’s starting to turn into a human being.’

  ‘You’re not married?’ He glanced at the plain gold ring on the second finger of my left hand.

  ‘No. I’m a career woman, in a comfortable long-term relationship with a career man. You?’ I asked quickly to deflect supplementary questions.

  ‘Was. Kendra-Jane couldn’t hack Glasgow. She’s a Californian; anything below twenty Celsius and she gets hypothermic. She left after a year, and divorced me in Reno a year later.’

  ‘How did you feel about that?’ I asked as I started the car.

  He shrugged. ‘I signed the papers and sent them back express delivery.’

  His directions took me out on to Sauchiehall Street, where it becomes two-way, turning right, away from the city centre. We hadn’t gone half a mile before he told me to turn right, and directed me into the car park of Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum.

  ‘I love this place,’ I exclaimed as I got out. ‘I used to come down here to study, believe it or not. I’d sit in the central hall; it was quiet and nobody would ever bother me.’ I looked up at the great red-stone building. ‘I haven’t been here in years.’

  ‘It was refurbished a few years ago,’ he said.

  ‘I know; I gave them a donation.’

  ‘I don’t know if they put the restaurant in then, but it’s nice, particularly when the day is sunny, like today.’

  He led the way inside through the Grand Entrance. There is a Glasgow urban legend that the thing was built back to front and that the architect jumped off one of the baroque towers when he saw what had been done, but it’s not true. The building was designed to look across Kelvingrove Park, as it does, and up towards the university spire beyond.

  The restaurant is in the lower ground level, and Roger’s reserved table was beside a floor-to-ceiling window, taking full advantage of the view. He barely glanced at the menu, then smiled across the table.

  ‘I have haggis once a week, and today’s the day.’

  ‘Suits me too. I take it Kendra-Jane didn’t like haggis either,’ I ventured.

  ‘She genuinely believed that the haggis is a creature.’

  We ordered our lunch, and sparkling water. ‘How much time do you have?’ I asked.

  He gazed into my eyes. ‘As much as you like, Alex.’

  I gazed into his. ‘Are you trying to pull me, Roger?’

  ‘Are you pullable?’

  ‘Do you mean am I the sort of woman who meets a single guy, fancies him, and isn’t averse to a quick, no consequences, afternoon shag at his place, which I’m guessing isn’t too far from here?’

  He grinned. ‘I suppose I do. You’re wonderfully direct.’

  ‘I was brought up by my dad, on his own,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t do subtle, and that’s rubbed off on me. As for your question, a few years ago I might have been, but now I’m not. However much such a prospect might interest me . . . not that I’m saying it does . . . I’d have to tell Andy afterwards. It would hurt him very much, and I wouldn’t do that for the world, because I care for him.’

  Neither of us had broken eye contact. ‘Why do I not feel embarrassed or ashamed of myself?’ he murmured.

  ‘Why should you? You’re being honest. So am I; I wouldn’t be sitting here right now if I didn’t feel some . . . let’s call it personal curiosity.’

  ‘Can I see you again?’

  Of all the questions he could have asked, it wa
s the one I feared. My relationship with Andy was long-term, and as I’d told Roger, I saw it as comfortable and loving, even if it had become predictable. He made me feel safe, most of all because he never crowded me, even if we did little together but eat, talk and have sex.

  And yet . . . people say I’m my father’s daughter, but none of them ever met my mother.

  I frowned as I turned my head to look up at the university building that dominates the west of Glasgow.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I murmured. ‘My number’s on my card; call me in a week and ask me then.’ Then I smiled. ‘But you’ll probably have pulled some other lady visitor by that time.’

  He smiled, a little gauchely. ‘That’s very unlikely. I’ll be in touch.’

  Lunch arrived then, perfectly timed and very well cooked. Roger did most of the talking, about Forest Gate and how it operated internationally, about the new centre he was building, and about himself. I’d pegged him mentally as a public school boy, and he was, but through a scholarship. His father was a motor mechanic, he said, and his mother a nurse. Dad had died of cancer when he was fourteen, and his mother had raised him alone from then on.

  ‘My story’s the same,’ I told him, ‘although I was much younger than you when I lost my mum. With her it was a car crash. My father didn’t remarry until I was through university. He’s a great cop, but a lousy husband; his first divorce and his third marriage were both mistakes, but he’s corrected them both.’

  Right on cue my mobile sounded in my pocket, as if he’d known I was talking about him.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Can you talk?’

  ‘Yes, up to a point.’

  ‘Not alone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. How are you getting on with those things I asked you to do?’

  ‘The reading part, I’m progressing. The security situation is taken care of. The man Kemp is no fan of yours, but he’s sorted. As for the third task, I’m with Dr McGrane now, and I’m happy that Forest Gate is watertight.’

  ‘Water will get through anything if you let it drip long enough. I can hear crowd noise. Where are you?’