And anyway, would he want it?
‘No,’ he declared, shaking his head. Whoever had been to blame for Alex and him breaking up, it had happened, and he had moved on, to build a life that was happy if not completely fulfilled. He had gone to Karen because she made him feel secure and gave him stability. No, not the old Andy, not the one who had fathered Alex’s aborted child, but when he considered it, he did not want to be that man again. A small grin crossed his face. If that made him a boring old fart, then so be it.
So what would he say to Karen? Nothing at all, he decided. She managed the household and she would see the hotel charge on the credit card statement when it came in, and verify it against the bill, which he would give her, as he always did . . . and note, instinctive cop that she still was, that he had not had breakfast.
As that realisation crossed his mind, he saw a sign ahead for a motorway service area. He flicked his indicator stalk and took the exit.
He slipped right off the roundabout at the top of the ramp and into the car park. He had trouble finding a space, for it was almost full, a side effect of a music festival that was occupying many of his officers that weekend. He had paid a call on the site twenty-four hours earlier, then had left the district commander to get on with it.
A look into the cafeteria convinced him that he would be more comfortable in his car. He bought a bacon roll and a coffee to go . . . as a cover story rather than because he was hungry. He shoved the till receipt into his wallet and carried them back outside.
He put the coffee beaker in the dashboard holder, and switched on the radio as he began to attack the second stage of his breakfast. While he had been in Edinburgh, he had been tuned to the local station Talk 107, but the signal strength had deteriorated. He switched wavebands, and tuned to Tay AM. The volume had been set high, and suddenly the cockpit was filled by a powerful, uncompromising guitar sound, which Martin thought he recognised but struggled to place. By the time he had rifled through his formidable mental musical catalogue and identified it as that of George Thorogood and the Destroyers, the track was fading, to be replaced by successive ads, for a furniture warehouse, a double glazing company, and a car sales company.
He blanked out as the sales pitches progressed, his mind going back to Alex and what had happened between them. When the news jingle blared, he barely noticed it, and the first two items failed to reach him. It took a sudden change in the newsreader’s intonation to recapture his attention.
‘This just in,’ the woman said, her smooth accent-free voice suddenly urgent and grave. ‘Half an hour ago we reported that Ainsley Glover, the independent MSP and one of Scotland’s leading authors, was found dead this morning on the site of the Edinburgh International Book Festival. After his press office initially stated that there were no untoward circumstances, Detective Superintendent Neil McIlhenney, the capital city’s CID co-ordinator, is about to make a further statement. We’re going live now to the Book Festival site; our reporter is Rhiannon Purvey, from our sister station, Radio Forth.’ She paused.
Martin was bolt upright in his seat, his bacon roll forgotten and gripped only loosely. ‘In the light of new information which led to a renewed examination of Mr Glover’s body,’ he heard his former colleague declare over a buzz of background noise, ‘his death is now being regarded as suspicious and a full-scale investigation into the circumstances is under way.’
‘Do you mean a murder investigation, Superintendent?’ a female reporter called out.
‘That’s the way it looks, Rhiannon,’ McIlhenney confirmed.
‘Are you following a specific line of inquiry?’
‘At this stage, no, we aren’t. We were advised by the pathologist of this new development only twenty minutes ago. Our first priority is to interview everyone who was in Mr Glover’s company at the Book Festival’s launch party last night. Once we’ve done that, we’ll go forward from there.’
‘Could you tell us how he was killed?’
‘Yes, but I’m not going to.’
‘Neil,’ another voice broke in; Martin thought he recognised it as that of Jock Fisher, chief reporter of the Saltire newspaper, someone who’d been around long enough to be allowed familiarity. ‘Ainsley had a barney with Bruce Anderson at the party last night. I know that for sure because I was right next to them. Does that mean you’ll be interviewing the former Secretary of State for Scotland?’
‘Have I not just said so?’
‘Will you be interviewing him as a suspect?’
Martin could picture the gleam in McIlhenney’s eyes. ‘Jock,’ he said heavily, ‘you and I are both too old for you to be trying to put words in my mouth. If you were as near Mr Glover as you say you were, then we’ll be interviewing you as well. If you’d prefer that to be under caution we’ll oblige you, otherwise it’ll be as no more than a witness, just like Dr Anderson.’
The journalist chuckled. ‘You can keep your handcuffs in your pocket. Do you have any idea of a motive?’
‘At this stage no, but that’s one of the reasons why we’re interviewing everybody. That’s all I can say for now, ladies and gentlemen. DI Samuel Pye is the lead investigator. Any further information will come from him.’
‘Do you expect an early arrest, Superintendent?’ Rhiannon Purvey asked.
‘I don’t have any expectations at this stage, only hopes. It remains to be seen how quickly they’re fulfilled. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’
Andy Martin reached out to switch off the radio, whistling softly as he did so, then took his phone from its hands-free socket and trawled through his contacts list for Neil McIlhenney’s mobile number. He pushed the call button.
‘Andy,’ the superintendent exclaimed briskly. ‘Have you just been listening to the radio?’
‘Yes indeed. What happened to him?’
‘I can’t speak right now.’
‘I understand; too many people in earshot. But I do need to talk to you.’
There was a brief, loaded silence. ‘You mean as a witness?’
‘Yes. Look, I’m halfway home just now; I’ll call Karen and tell her I’ll be later than I thought, then I’ll head back to Edinburgh.’
‘You don’t need to do that. Give Sammy a call when you get home and let him have whatever information you’ve got.’
‘No, this has to be face to face; you and me. Maybe Mario, too, but that’s it.’
‘Mario’s in Australia, on holiday with Paula. How about Bob, although he won’t be available for a while; he’s picking his kids up from the airport.’
‘Then it’s just the two of us for now; no Sammy, not yet at any rate.’
‘Is it that important?’ asked McIlhenney, a trace of doubt in his tone.
‘It could ruin your whole fucking day,’ said the deputy chief constable grimly. ‘That’s how important it could be.’
Twenty
‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’ asked Mario McGuire.
‘By my reckoning it’ll be about half past ten at night where you are,’ Neil McIlhenney replied calmly.
‘Exactly. We’ve not long finished dinner, we’re sitting under a space heater in an open-air bar, with drinks in our hands, looking across Sydney Harbour at the bridge, and at the moonlight on the water, and it’s bloody magnificent even if we are both half asleep, practically falling off our stools. We haven’t got to grips with the jet lag yet. Paula says hello, though.’
‘And hello back to her. What’s the weather like in Aussie-land?’
‘It’s OK, considering that in our climate terms it’s the middle of February. It’s dry, it’s sunny and it’s quite warm during the day; cold at night, though, hence the space heater.’
‘How much longer are the pair of you spending in Sydney?’
‘Three more days after this, then we’re going up the Gold Coast on Thursday. It’ll be warmer there, I’m told, even though it’s still their winter. How’s it back home?’
‘Sunny and warm. I had planned to take the kid
s to the beach this afternoon. I might still do that.’
‘What’s holding you back?’ asked the head of CID. ‘You’re allowed Sundays off, aren’t you?’
‘That’s a nice concept, but at the moment I’m sitting in an effing Mongolian tent at the Book Festival, waiting for Andy Martin to arrive and tell me something that’s supposed to be for my ears only.’
‘Oh yes? Suddenly, I get the impression that this isn’t a social call. What’s up? Why are you at the Book Festival, and what the hell has our pal the Tayside DCC got to do with it?’
‘I can’t answer your last question yet, but as for your first, somebody’s won the Festival some extra publicity by bumping off a crime writer. And to give the media a bonus, this one happens to be an MSP as well. You asked me to let you know if any heavy stuff happened; I reckon you might hear about this on the BBC World Service telly, so best you get it from me first.’
‘You said an MSP as well as an author. It’s not Ainsley Glover, is it?’
‘That’s the guy.’
‘Aw shit,’ McGuire moaned. ‘I’m a big fan of his; I’ve read all his books. I met him once, at a signing. I asked him if his Strachan character was based on Willie Haggerty. He didn’t admit it, but he didn’t deny it either.’
‘That’s a laugh,’ said McIlhenney. ‘I know people who think he was based on you, and that Glover only put him in Glasgow to cover it up.’
‘That’s bollocks. You and I were both plods when he wrote the first book, so it couldn’t have been me.’
‘I know that, but other folk don’t. I’m only telling you what’s been said to me.’
‘But Walter Strachan’s a rough so-and-so; he bends the rules and he’s ugly with it.’
‘Like I said . . .’
‘You’re pulling my chain, you bastard,’ McGuire growled.
‘A wee bit,’ McIlhenney laughed. ‘But come on, Mario, you were flattered; admit it.’
‘Not in the slightest.’ The holidaying detective paused. ‘What happened to the poor sod?’ He listened as his colleague explained how and where Glover’s body had been found and ran through the sequence of events that had culminated in Professor Hutchinson’s eventual findings. ‘It’s just as well you got him to do the PM,’ he said, when McIlhenney was finished. ‘Another pathologist might not have been as thorough.’
‘I agree, but as it is, old Joe’s a bit embarrassed that it took two examinations before he got the whole picture.’
‘He did get it, though, in the end, like he always does. Who’s in the frame?’
‘We’re not looking hard at anyone at the moment; we’ve a bit to go before we get there. Mr Glover seems to have been a guy with no enemies . . . bar one.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Dr Bruce Anderson; apparently he had a grudge against the guy. He had a verbal go at him at the Festival party last night, just before Glover was killed.’
‘Did he indeed? I can see the headlines being written right now. “Ex Secretary of State banged up for murder.” The red-tops will go pure crazy. Mind you, I can think of one man who’d just love it if that happened.’
‘Aye, me too. But I can’t see it. This killing was very carefully planned; it was absolutely not spur of the moment. My thinking is that if Anderson had set it up, he’d hardly have drawn attention to his feud with Glover just before he bumped him off.’
‘On the other hand, perhaps he would, knowing that your conclusion’s the one simple polis like us are likely to draw.’
‘In that case, Sammy can put that to him when he interviews him.’ He glanced over his shoulder at Pye, who was studying the list of party guests that Randall Mosley had provided.
‘Sammy?’
‘Yes, he’s lead investigator on this one. With Stevie Steele gone, he’s pretty much our top DI,’ he said quietly, not wanting his assessment to be overheard by its subject. ‘I’ve brought him and Ray up from Leith. Alice Cowan too; she and Wilding have gone back out to see Glover’s daughter, to take a formal statement from her.’
‘Does she know her dad was murdered?’
‘She will if she heard me on the radio. If not, she still thinks that he died from a heart attack. They’ve gone to fill in the blanks.’
‘Fine,’ said McGuire. He hesitated for a second, before continuing. ‘Neil, bringing Sammy in, that’s a good shout, but are you sure you want to put him in with Anderson?’
The detective superintendent sighed. ‘Maybe not. I suppose I should take the lead on that one, or sit in at least. Bugger it; and there was me looking forward to getting the sand between my toes this afternoon.’ He looked up as the door of the yurt opened and Andy Martin stepped inside. ‘Got to go now,’ he said. ‘Sleep tight.’
‘With luck. Keep me informed, chum.’
McIlhenney snapped his phone shut and rose to his feet.
‘Hello, Andy,’ he said, extending his hand to the newcomer. ‘Good to see you, although I’m sorry your Sunday’s screwed up too.’ As they shook, he thought for an instant that something flashed in the other man’s eyes, something he could not read, but it was so fleeting that he decided almost as quickly that he had been mistaken. ‘You’re sure we couldn’t have done this over the phone?’ he asked, moving on.
‘Not unless it was secure.’ The reply was abrupt, renewing McIlhenney’s curiosity; his own eyes must have betrayed him, for Martin’s face softened at once. ‘Sorry, Neil. I didn’t mean to snap. You’re right, this day is not turning out as I’d have liked. I should have laid off the whoopee juice last night and gone straight home after the dinner.’
The big superintendent smiled sympathetically. ‘So let’s get this done,’ he said, ‘and then you can get home.’
Martin looked around the tent. He nodded briefly to Pye, who replied, ‘Afternoon, sir.’
The DCC glanced at his watch. ‘Don’t remind me of the fact. Sammy, can you give us a minute?’
‘No, he won’t.’ McIlhenney’s intervention took the senior officer by surprise. ‘I’m sorry, Andy,’ he went on, ‘but DI Pye is leading this inquiry. If what you’ve got to say is relevant to it then he’s going to hear it. I’m not cutting him out of anything.’
‘I told you, this is highly sensitive,’ said Martin, his voice suddenly formal and commanding.
Pye looked at the two men. He had known them both for years, as his career had progressed. Martin had brought him into CID, and he had worked with McIlhenney in Special Branch. He had never known them to be at odds, yet there they were staring each other down.
‘Look, boss,’ he said to the superintendent, ‘I’ll step outside. I don’t mind.’
‘You’ll stand your ground,’ McIlhenney snapped. ‘DCC Martin’s warrant card was issued by the Tayside force, not this one. He’s come here because he has information that he thinks may be relevant to your investigation and you are fucking well going to hear it.’
‘I’ve got a long memory, my friend,’ Martin murmured, ‘and you know how good it is.’
‘In that case you’ll have DCC Skinner’s phone number stored in there. You call him and tell him what we’ve got going on here and see whose side he comes down on. But you’d better tell him that now you’ve kicked this game off, you’re not leaving here till it’s played out.’
‘Don’t threaten me.’
‘Sorry, sir; not a threat, but a promise.’
‘Gentlemen!’ Pye exclaimed, feeling totally out of his depth. He was ignored, by them both, and found himself wondering what he would do if Martin headed for the door.
And so a huge sigh of relief escaped from within him when instead he shrugged and said, ‘Have it your way, but Bob will hear of this . . . and so will you, down the line.’
‘You mean if you come back as deputy when he moves up? You think none of us have seen that one coming? Well, I don’t give a shit about down the line, because I’m right and you bloody well know it.’ He looked at the inspector. ‘Sammy, do you have a notebook?’
‘No notes, Neil,’ Martin interjected, ‘and no tape.’
McIlhenney frowned. ‘OK, I’ll give you that much. Tell us your story and maybe we can all be friends again.’
‘Maybe.’ Martin pointed to a table at the back of the yurt; Randall Mosley had left behind a kettle, half a dozen mugs, a carton of milk and a jar of Nescafé. ‘Any chance of a coffee? The last one I had went cold, and the one before that . . .’ he paused, ‘it was way back.’
‘Help yourself.’
‘You?’
The superintendent nodded; the DI shook his head. They waited and watched the kettle as it boiled, and as their visitor filled two mugs, handing one to McIlhenney as if it was a peace offering.
The trio took seats at the small table near the entrance, Pye securing the door with a bolt.
‘Right,’ said Martin briskly and almost cheerfully, as if the confrontation had never happened. ‘I believe it’s possible that the security services were involved in Ainsley Glover’s death.’
‘What?’ McIlhenney gasped. ‘Have you been reading one of his books?’
‘I can understand that reaction, but hear me out. I’ve never mentioned this before, probably because I was slightly embarrassed by the fact, being a serving police officer, but Ainsley Glover was a distant relation of mine. I know that he’s always been regarded as very much an Edinburgh toff, and mostly he was. His father was Professor of Medical Law at the university, but his mother was from Glasgow, and she was my mother’s cousin. She was older than my mum, just as Ainsley was older than me, so they were never that close, but they’d meet up at family events. The first time I ever came across Ainsley was at his sister’s wedding. I was about fourteen at the time, and so he’d have been late twenties. He was a nice bloke, distinctive-looking even then, chubby, and with that fly-away hair of his. His wife, Joyce, she was about the same size as him that night; she was pregnant with their first kid.’
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