They placed their orders and talked quietly, the two women and the three men developing their own conversations, until they were called upstairs to the dining room. They were in the hallway when Sarah put a hand to her side, to the pocket of her cream-coloured jacket. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘that’s my phone, trembling away. I know it’s anti-social, but I always like to be contactable for Trish. You all go up, I’ll take it in the ladies’ lounge.’
She walked through to another part of the building, while Bob led the way to their table, and seated the three guests. Sarah rejoined them in less than two minutes. He looked at her, a question in his eyes.
‘The kids are fine,’ she told him quickly. ‘That was business. The police in Haddington want me to do an autopsy tomorrow in Roodlands Hospital.’ McGuire’s head turned towards her also. ‘No, it’s not suspicious. The doctor’s certified it as a heart-attack, but it was unattended, so they need a post mortem. Ironically, it’s one of those Belgians. I wouldn’t be surprised if those muskets scared him to death!’
32
‘Are you pleased to be handing an empty pending tray to Mary Chambers?’
‘I thought we said no job talk. Come on, bring your glass next door. We’re finished here.’ Maggie stood up from the table; it was past ten o’clock and the last of the coffee with which they had finished dinner was cold in the cups.
‘Let me help you clear up first,’ he offered, but she shook her head firmly.
‘Later. You’re a tidiness freak, DI Steele, that’s your problem. Anyway, I never use anything I can’t shove straight into the dishwasher.’
He followed her through to her living room. ‘Is it too warm in here?’ she asked. The coal-effect gas fire was lit and the curtains were drawn against the cold night outside.
Stevie plucked at his shirtsleeve. ‘Not for me. I’m fine.’
‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘What’s that wee logo? Ralph Lauren?’
‘Yeah. Polo. I’m a sucker for designer labels.’
‘You and me both.’ She looked down at the dark sheen of her blouse and skirt. ‘DKNY, this is.’ She sat on the sofa, which faced the silent television. Her companion headed towards the armchair, until she stopped him. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Put some music on, and come and sit beside me.’
He moved over to the music centre on a shelving unit and looked at the CDs racked beside it. ‘What do you like?’
‘You choose.’
They were neatly filed, the artists listed in alphabetical order. He scanned through them almost to the end until he found Fulfillingness First Finale by Stevie Wonder, and put it on. ‘Do you know,’ he asked her, as he joined her on the settee, ‘that album is thirty years old? It’s been around for most of our lives and yet it still sounds better than most of the stuff that’s churned out today.’
‘The seventies was a pretty good decade,’ Maggie replied. ‘I mean, look at us; we’re both its products . . . more or less.’ She settled back into the lush upholstery, warming her short-stemmed wine glass between her breasts. She had drunk more with their meal than was her norm, but Stevie had reasoned that she was at home, and that it was, after all, a celebration of sorts. He had not stinted himself either; he had come by taxi and planned to go home the same way.
She smiled up at him. ‘Thanks, Stevie,’ she said quietly.
‘What for?’
‘For being a good copper, a good colleague, a good bloke, a good friend. Even today, it can be difficult for a woman at my rank in the police. Having you around always made me feel more comfortable. You may not have known it, but you were my shield against the George Regans of the world.’
He chuckled. ‘Good old dependable Stevie, eh? Is that how people really see me?’
‘Most of them. They trust you. They know that they can take a chance on telling you stuff, and that you’ll keep it to yourself; but more than that, you’ll know the right thing to say to them.’ She drained her glass, then reached down for the bottle, the second of the Viña Hermina Riojas that he had brought with him, and that she had brought through from the table, and refilled it. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘let me see to yours.’ He did as she asked, and she topped him up.
‘It’s not just the women, either,’ she told him. ‘Nobody thinks you’re a wuss, if that’s bothering you. They know you’re a hard bastard when you have to be. You’ve got old MCP Regan taped, and young Tarvil looks on you as a sort of role model.’
‘You mean like I look on you?’ he murmured.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘You’re not taking the piss?’
‘Mags, you are exactly the police officer I want to be. I think it’s a fucking shame you have to leave CID, but I can see why you have to.’
‘My ex, do you mean?’
‘No I didn’t, actually, but I can see where that could be a consideration.’
‘Mmm. Me too. Do you know what he’s doing tonight, by the way?’
He grinned. ‘Surprise me.’
‘He’s having dinner at Gullane Golf Club, with the DCC and Sarah, and our American visitor . . .’ she paused ‘. . . and Paula.’
Stevie whistled. ‘Now that is a surprise.’
Maggie shifted in her seat; as she did so, the top button of her DKNY blouse popped open, and he caught a glimpse of black bra beneath. ‘Yup,’ she murmured, ‘Ms Viareggio’s been accepted into polite society. Across the table from Dr Sarah, no less.’
‘Does that upset you?’
‘Not a bit, not any more at least. Shit, not that it ever did bother me much. Why? Does it upset you?’
Stevie blinked, then looked into his glass. ‘What, Paula, you mean? She and I have been history for a while now. When we were seeing each other, I always knew I was filling in for someone; I just didn’t know who it was, not then. After a while, I’d had enough of it.’
‘Is she a good lay, then?’
He gasped. ‘That’s a hell of a thing to ask me; you don’t expect an answer, do you?’
‘Not if you’re too much of a gentleman, which I suppose you are. Anyway, she’s bound to be better than me.’ He said nothing; he sipped his wine, and looked away. She reached out and touched his chin, to turn him back towards her. ‘Sorry, Stevie, that was a stupid thing to say. I’ve embarrassed you.’
‘No, you haven’t. It’s just . . .’ He sighed, deeper than she had ever heard from him. ‘Mags, you’re not the first woman to pour her heart out to me this week. It should be great for my ego, but somehow it isn’t.’
‘I thought you’d love that. You a single bloke, and having it laid on a plate for you; what more could you want?’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘Oh no?’
‘Well, maybe it was, but the important thing is that I didn’t eat any.’
‘But it might be on the menu again?’
‘It might, and that’s what’s worrying me.’
She nestled into him; if she was aware that her blouse had opened wider, she ignored it.
‘Why? Are you afraid you’ll be too hungry next time to pass it up?’
‘Something like that. She’s a very attractive woman.’
‘So?’
‘So everything would be wrong about it. But more than that, Mags; it would be bloody dangerous.’
She looked up at him. She blinked, then her eyes widened in surprise. ‘When I asked you earlier about being upset,’ she whispered, ‘at first it wasn’t Mario and Paula you thought I meant, was it?’
‘I’m saying nothing.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I feel as if I’m heading for trouble, Mags,’ he said hoarsely.
She emptied her glass and let it roll on to the floor. ‘That is something I cannot allow.’ Her arm came up and round his neck, she drew him down to her and kissed him, holding nothing back. ‘Come here, baby,’ she murmured, ‘where it’s safe. My transfer’s come through, remember.’
‘Hey,’ Stevie whispered.
‘Are you taking pity on me?’
‘No. I’m trying to make you a better offer. Or would you rather I didn’t?’
‘Are you crazy?’ he asked, grinning.
In a single supple movement she was on her feet, pulling him up after her. He followed where she led, upstairs and into her bedroom. He glanced around; there was something austere about it, it bore the mark of her, and her alone. She began to unbutton his shirt, as he flipped open the remaining buttons of her blouse, and reached behind her for the catch of her skirt.
‘I want you to know,’ she told him, when they were naked, ‘that although I’ve had a few drinks, I am very frightened, and I really wasn’t kidding when I said that I’m no good at this.’
He reached down, flipped back the duvet, and slid into bed, pulling her after him. ‘Show me,’ he said, with a soft laugh in his voice.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean,’ he answered, ‘show me what it is you’ve been doing wrong.’
He lay back and she rolled alongside him, reaching down for him: he kissed her softly, on the lips and on each breast. They lay, fondling each other, until, to her surprise, she became moist; even then, though, he allowed her to control every step of what was happening. When, finally, she mustered all her courage and drew him into her, although she trembled, she felt no fear, no revulsion, none of the self-loathing that she had come to associate with sex. As she moved on top of him, and as he moved within her, what she felt most of all was peace, absolution and utter release.
No waves crashed on an imaginary beach, she had no shuddering, screaming orgasm, but as he spent himself, she experienced a brief, delightful climax, the very first of her life.
‘Couldn’t see a hell of a lot wrong with that,’ he murmured into her ear, when it was over.
She lifted her head from his chest and smiled down at him. ‘Thanks,’ she whispered.
He laughed softly, contented. ‘Shouldn’t I be thanking you?’
‘If you like, you can. But my thanks are different. They’re great big thanks, as big as I can make them.’
‘Why’s that?’
She slid down from him, settling in the embrace of his left arm. ‘Because of this,’ she told him. ‘When we waken tomorrow morning . . . both of us right here, I hope . . . you’ll still be the same person you were before we climbed those stairs. But I won’t. I’ll be different; I’ll feel like a proper woman, in a way I never thought I could.’
‘What’s your story, Maggie love?’ he asked.
She laid a hand on his chest, tweaking its hair with her fingers. ‘Some day, if this turns out to be anything more than a one-night stand, I might tell you. Or maybe I’ll discover that I’ve forgotten it completely, and I won’t.’ She kissed him on the cheek, then nibbled his earlobe, gently. ‘For now, though,’ she whispered, ‘let’s concentrate on finding out if there’s any more where that came from.’
33
Sarah could have done the autopsy at Roodlands, the local hospital at Haddington, as the police had asked, but she preferred to use the new facilities at Little France, and so she asked for the body to be transferred there from the local undertaker’s premises to which it had been taken.
As she drove there she was thankful that Mawhinney had declined Bob’s invitation back to their house for a nightcap. Even on routine assignments she liked to work with a totally clear head.
The late Belgian, whose name had been Bartholemy Lebeau, was waiting for her on the table when she arrived. Joseph, the technician who would assist her, had him ready for examination, his head propped at an angle on a wedge.
She gave the cadaver a cursory examination, as she picked up the notes of the GP who had certified the death, and those of the police officers who had been called to the scene as a matter of routine. Like many victims of sudden death, he looked serene, as if he had simply gone to sleep. The lips were blue, but there were no other outward signs of distress. Clearly, Monsieur Lebeau had been overcome very quickly.
She glanced through the notes. The deceased was male, aged sixty-two; he was not grossly obese. In fact he had been weighed on his delivery to the mortuary and had been found to be around the average weight for a man of his height and age.
He, Colonel Malou and other members of the party had been billeted at the home of a British Legion member, a farmer with a large house near a hamlet called Bolton. They had been preparing to dine with their host and hostess, and Lebeau had decided that he would freshen up first. He had gone into the guest bathroom; when he had failed to emerge after fifteen minutes, the colonel had knocked on the door, to give him, he thought, the ‘hurry up’ sign. There had been no reply; when Malou had opened the door, he had found his friend lifeless on the floor.
Dr Lezinski, the emergency-service doctor who had responded to the call, had examined the body. Naturally she had looked for various options. She had eliminated cerebral haemorrhage as a likely cause, and had come to the conclusion that in view of the man’s age, the drinking habits described by his companion, and the fact that he was a lifelong smoker, death had been due, subject to confirmation by post-mortem examination, to myocardial infarction.
‘And you’re almost certainly right,’ Sarah murmured. She knew Jean Lezinski to be an experienced and very capable GP.
She put a tape into the recorder as usual, but before switching it on, she gave the body a quick external examination. There were no marks, no bruising from a fall that might have contributed to his death, nothing out of the ordinary, apart from an old scar on his upper right leg and another on his lower abdomen, almost certainly the result of an appendectomy. She pulled back his eyelids. The eyeballs were milky, and heavily bloodshot. She turned back his top lip. The remaining teeth, about half of the set God gave him, she estimated, were discoloured with age, coffee and tobacco, but they had been well looked after. On impulse she pulled the lip further back, and frowned. The gums showed signs of a furious irritation, a vivid rash. ‘What the hell is this?’ she murmured.
‘Joseph,’ she called out, ‘would you pass me a torch, please, then hold the lips back for me.’ The technician handed her a penlight and then did as she had instructed. She shone the light into the dead man’s mouth. The rash was widespread.
‘What do you see, Doctor?’ the young man asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. She picked up Dr Lezinski’s report and read through it again. ‘I’ve got to speak to her,’ she said aloud. She knew the medical emergency service number off by heart; she went over to the wall phone, found an outside line and dialled it. ‘This is Dr Sarah Grace,’ she told the operator. ‘I’m in the mortuary at Little France, and I need to speak to Jean Lezinski, urgently. You’ve got her ex-directory there, I know. Either give it to me, or get hold of her and have her call me here at once. I’m on . . .’ She looked for the extension number on the phone and read it out. ‘Do it now, okay.’
She hung up and waited. ‘What are you thinking?’ Joseph asked.
‘That rash on the gums, it’s so bad that he must have been taking some medication for it. I have to cover the possibility that there might have been a rare and fatal reaction with something he ingested that day. I’d rather talk to the certifying doctor before I look inside him, in case there’s something she forgot to include in the report. It looks like an open and shut coronary case, and Jean would have had no reason to look in the man’s mouth.’
She waited by the phone; after a couple of minutes, it rang.
‘Jean,’ Sarah began, ‘thanks for calling. I’m looking at your Belgian. He exhibits what seems to have been a pretty severe mouth infection. Did you notice any medication lying around when you examined him?’
‘No,’ the GP replied. ‘Nothing at all. As a matter of fact, when he had his fatal collapse, he was cleaning his teeth. I asked his friend if he was on any drug treatment. The poor chap was very upset, but he was coherent enough to tell me that he hadn’t been. Why are you asking, Sarah?’
‘I don’t know
for sure. It’s just that this rash is very severe. In fact if he was brushing his teeth and he strayed on to his gums it might have been damn painful.’
‘Not so painful as to shock him into a cardiac arrest, though.’
‘Hardly. Jean, thanks. I won’t keep you any longer.’
She hung up, frowning. ‘Dr Lezinski says he was cleaning his teeth when he died,’ she told the technician. ‘There’s no sign of any residual paste in the mouth.’
‘The body’s been prepared by the undertaker.’
‘That was kind of him, he should know better than to do anything to an autopsy subject. Let’s get on with it, Joseph. Take a couple of photographs as he is, then I’ll go straight into the heart.’ She picked up her scalpel, as her assistant reached for his camera.
34
‘You got those morning-after blues, Stevie?’ asked Maggie, as she looked at him across the kitchen table. ‘You were miles away there.’
He grinned, then glanced at his watch. ‘Just for starters, it’s afternoon now, and no, I don’t have any sort of blues. I was just thinking, that’s all, about where we go from here.’
She smiled back at him. ‘We don’t have to think about that now, do we?’ They had wakened together at around nine, after the best night’s sleep that Maggie could recall in her recent past. After they had proved to each other that what had happened the night before had been no fluke, they had half dozed again, listening to Steve Wright on the radio and enjoying the peace of the Sunday morning. Eventually they had risen, showered together, then dressed, and Stevie had gone to the nearest Scotmid store to buy rolls, bacon, eggs, milk and a selection of newspapers. He had brought back the Sunday Post and Scotland on Sunday, Maggie had noticed, classic signs of a conventional Scottish upbringing.
‘Nah,’ he replied, ‘you’re right, we don’t. It’s just that I’m a compulsive thinker.’
‘Well, since you can’t help yourself, where do you want to go from here?’
‘Back to my place.’
‘Have you had enough of me?’
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