Grievous Angel

Nine

It was good, no denying that. Sex with Alison was energetic, enthusiastic, strenuous, and a whole lot of other adjectives, with the exception of acrobatic. We tired each other out after a while and fell asleep, with a window left open slightly to let us breathe.

I don’t know how long I’d have slept if my bed-mate hadn’t been wakened by the sound of the milk truck skidding round Goose Green, just after half past seven: in those days we had the fastest milkman in the east. I came to with my hand on her breast, my thumb massaging her nipple, very gently. ‘Bob,’ she murmured, ‘it’s morning.’

‘And?’ I mumbled. ‘Since when did you only do it in the dark?’

We were out of bed by eight, though, at least I was, having insisted on first go in the shower so that I could get breakfast under way. By the time Alison emerged at eight fifteen, her short, blonde-tinted hair still in damp disarray, Alex was up too, scrambling eggs and grilling bacon and tomatoes, while I made tea and toast. ‘Not for me, please,’ Ali said. ‘I’m a cereal only girl.’

She relented, though. My kid has always done very good scrambled eggs. It’s an undocumented fact: one-parent families do not have room for a bad cook.

Breakfast over, we got on with our weekends. Alex left first, to walk to Daisy’s place. She told me they were going food shopping in Haddington so I gave her forty quid and a list and told her to pick up some stuff for us. At thirteen I’d have trusted her with a debit card on my account, but legally she was too young to sign the slips. After she’d gone, I tidied in the kitchen, while Alison dried her hair, and packed her bag.

‘You don’t have to go,’ I pointed out, once more. ‘You could just chill out here, and wait for me.’

‘No, I can’t. Apart from anything else, I was air-dropped into a new office yesterday, and unlike you, I had no warning. I’m going in this morning as well. I need to read up on our current investigations. We’ve got a couple of pub break-ins on our hands, and one serious assault that might turn into murder. That’s a break from the norm. Two young male victims, stabbed, last Saturday: one’s unconscious, on life support, but the other’s wounds were superficial. At first he said they were attacked, but the story kept changing. Eventually he admitted that he and his mate tried to mug a gay bloke, but got it badly wrong.’

‘In Grove Street?’

‘Yes. The witness thought he was a dead man, but someone turned into the street and the guy ran off.’

‘I read about that in the Saltire,’ I recalled. ‘There was no mention of the poofter aspect, though.’

‘Poofter?’ she repeated, raising an eyebrow. ‘Are you homophobic, Bob?’

‘Do I have a fear of homosexuals?’

‘You know what the word means.’

‘Alison,’ I told her, deadpan. ‘I treat everyone the same, regardless of creed, colour, gender or sexual orientation.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Just for a second, I thought you sounded really bitter. No,’ she continued. ‘Mr Grant held that back from the media. He’s got officers out tonight going round the gay pubs and discos. The two would-be muggers said they saw their prey coming out of one in Morrison Street and followed him.’

‘Have you got a description?’ I asked.

‘Orange hair and heavy eye make-up, that’s all.’

I laughed. ‘You may take it that by now the hair will be a different colour and the kohl will be gone.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ she agreed, ‘but I’m the new girl, so I kept it to myself.’

I considered the situation. ‘Between you and me, I’d have given the press everything.’

‘Why?’

‘Because all kidding aside, this man sounds dangerous. Your two victims probably intended no more than to rough him up a wee bit and nick his wallet, but what they got in return… Gay man out on a Saturday night tooled up? That’s hardly typical of our pink community.’ I paused. ‘You’re not part of the pub trawl, are you?’

‘No, it’s boys only, Superintendent Grant said.’

‘So you could come back here tonight?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I’ve got something on. I’m going to my friend Leona’s for dinner. She’s married to an MP, he’s away to South America on some parliamentary jaunt or other, she’s pregnant, and we’re having a girlie night.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Roland McGrath. He’s a real prick; I can’t stand him.’

I sensed bitterness. ‘Let me guess: he tried it on with you.’

Her eyes turned grim. ‘A week before their wedding. The stag and the hen nights merged into one later on. Everybody was a bit pissed and Roland caught me in a quiet corridor of the hotel and offered me what Leona was going to be getting for the rest of her life; that was how he put it. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, so…’

‘So? So what?’

She laughed, suddenly, beautifully. ‘So I threatened to arrest him. He didn’t believe me until I cautioned and cuffed him.’

‘You took your handcuffs to a hen night?’ I gasped.

‘I surely did. We’d been going to have a rag with Leona, but we thought better of it. Yes, I cuffed him and it was only then that he said he’d been joking all along.’

‘How did it turn out?’

‘Eventually it was me that made the joke of it. I left the cuffs on him for the rest of the night and told everyone I was showing him what marriage was all about. I’ve never told anyone the real story until now.’

‘Not even Leona?’

‘Especially not Leona. She thinks that the sun shines out of his fundamental orifice.’

‘Will you tell her about you and me?’ I asked her.

‘I have done, a while back, when we first started… seeing each other.’

‘What did she say?’

‘Well,’ she began, ‘she wanted to know if you were a good shag, and I said you are, then she wanted to know if I was in love with you, and I said that I wasn’t. She said that was a shame, because you were probably looking for someone just like me. And I told her that was absolute bollocks, because you were looking to make chief constable, just like me, and that we both know that any relationship that competes with that ambition in either of us will be doomed to failure.’

I wasn’t sure I’d wanted to hear myself summed up so bluntly, or so accurately. Oh yes, she was right, but still, there was one difference between us that she’d overlooked. Elvis had never sung about her. She’d never woken crying in the night, from a dream of grievous loss, to the realisation that it had all been true. She’d carried her ambition from the start, untarnished. Mine was a substitute, even if it did burn bright in those days.

I smiled, though, and ruffled her carefully composed hair. ‘You keep on telling her that, but be sure you add that I’m going to get there first.’

‘Oh I do, but the glass ceiling’s there to be shattered.’

‘And you’re the woman to do it. You have a good night and don’t spare the gossip.’

‘No danger of that. Call me.’

We left together, each in our own car, but her Nissan was out of my sight in the Discovery by the time I reached Aberlady.

I arrived in the office at quarter to ten. McGuire, wearing black jeans and a muscle-hugging polo shirt, was at his desk, and Martin was waiting for me, his green eyes full of life. ‘It’s Saturday,’ I said, ‘and the rugby season’s over. But if it wasn’t…’

‘The job comes first, boss. I still play rugby at top club and district level, but I’ve told the national selectors that I’m no longer available.’ Recalling the awe in Alf Stein’s voice when he’d described the young man’s playing style, I realised that if he had taken that step, then I was looking at someone whose career ambitions matched Alison’s and mine.

‘Okay. I promise I’ll do my best not to let work interfere. What other games do you play?’

‘Squash and golf; that’s all.’

‘Me too. There’s a squash court in this building; we’ll need to work each other over some time.’ I turned to business. ‘Any calls since you got here?’

‘One from Stevie Steele. He and Brian have been down that manhole since eight. Bella’s been down to the shops for rolls and milk and the Daily Record, and there was someone with her. A very large bloke; a Chieftain tank on legs, Stevie said.’

I grinned at the answer to a question I’d been asking myself. How would Tony Manson have reacted to the news of Marlon’s murder? I’d come up with one proposition. He’d have had the same thought as me: like son, like mother? But he wouldn’t be relying on the police to protect his woman.

‘In that case, we don’t need to bother about her safety.’

McGuire looked at me. ‘You know who he is, sir?’

‘I do. He’s the best insurance policy I can think of.’

‘Did Manson send him?’ Martin asked.

‘Yes. I know where Tony is, Andy, and when he’ll be back. I’d like this business sorted out before he gets here, otherwise it will get messy.’ I headed for the door. ‘Come on, let’s knock a couple of doors. I’ll drive.’

I’d parked the Land Rover in front of the building rather than round the back. As we stepped outside I saw that the chief constable had arrived after me, and thanked my stars that I hadn’t nicked his space.

Martin tried to stay impassive when he saw my wheels, but couldn’t quite cut it. His eyebrows rose, very slightly, but they did. ‘Pile of old shit,’ I told him, ‘but it doesn’t stand out in a crowd. I put a couple of the dents in it myself, for added authenticity, so to speak. It’s reliable under the bonnet, though; our garage makes sure of that.’

The DC smiled. ‘It’ll never catch a getaway vehicle, though.’

‘It doesn’t have to, son,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s got a police radio in it.’

As I drove out of headquarters, into Fettes Avenue, my mind went back to Alison’s division’s open investigation. ‘Andy,’ I began, ‘do you live in Edinburgh?’

‘Yes. Haymarket.’

‘And you’re a young single guy, so you’ll get out and about?’

‘Yes.’

‘Got any gay friends? Or doesn’t your faith allow that?’

The question took him aback. ‘I’m not that Old Testament, boss. There’s a gay couple that are regulars in Ryrie’s Bar, part of the crowd. We’re not bosom buddies… bad choice of phrase… but we talk. Why?’

‘Do they ever say anything about anti-gay prejudice in Edinburgh? We’ve got this image as a tolerant society, but there are bigots everywhere. Is there a problem that we don’t know about?’

I glanced at him and saw him frowning. ‘Well,’ he replied, thoughtfully, ‘those blokes are body-builders, both of them, but one of them did say something about there being parts of the town where they always go together, just in case. Look, is this important? I’ve got a date tonight, but I could go into Ryrie’s early on, check if they’re there.’

‘Nah,’ I said. ‘Don’t do that. It’s not our business, just something I heard.’

‘Okay, but if it would help anyone, I’ll do it.’ He paused. ‘Where are we going, sir?’

‘We’re paying a house call,’ I told him, ‘on a man called Douglas Terry.’

‘Are you sure he’ll be in?’ he wondered.

‘A practical man, eh, Andy. I’m not certain, but I don’t think that Dougie sees much of the day before noon, not at the weekends, at any rate.’

‘What does he do?’

I had to think about that. ‘Do you read much?’ I asked him.

‘A bit.’

‘My dad brought me up on short stories,’ I said, ‘almost all of them American. He liked Thurber, Dorothy Parker and Damon Runyon, but his number one favourite was William Sydney Porter, who wrote under the pen name O Henry. Of all his stories, the one that’s stuck in my mind is called “Man about town”. That’s what I would call Dougie Terry … a man about town. You might call him a freelance. He does a bit of everything for everybody, but mostly he’s involved with a man called Jackie Charles.’

‘I know that name,’ Martin murmured.

‘You should. For a start, it’s over a big car showroom down in Seafield Road, specialising in high-value vehicles. But that’s his public face; he also owns a chain of bookie’s shops under the name John Jackson, and a couple of taxi firms, Carole’s Cabs, and Sherlock Private Hire. The first one’s called after his wife, the second he bought from Perry Holmes, the guy that Bella Watson’s brother Billy tried to kill.’

‘You seem to know a lot about him.’

‘Oh, I do.’ I felt my mouth tighten as I thought of Jackie Charles. He had been a neighbour of mine at one time, out in Gullane, before he went upmarket and bought a big pile in Ravelston Dykes. Myra and Carole were part of the same crowd of young women in a group called the Housewives’ Register… God knows who came up with that name… so we often went to the same parties. I’d found them a bit awkward, though, and eventually I stopped going; I’d stay home and babysit while Myra went without me. My hesitancy came from what, by that time, I’d learned about Jackie’s other activities. He was what might be called a business angel, in that he put up the capital, and lent organisational skills to entrepreneurial ventures. The problem was that these ventures were armed robberies, not just in the Edinburgh area but all over Britain, but Jackie was too smart ever to be linked to any of them.

I didn’t tell any of this to my young colleague though, not then, because it would have taken him into areas of my life that I wasn’t ready to share with him. ‘Dougie Terry works for Jackie,’ I said. ‘He looks after the below-the-parapet businesses, but he does other stuff as well, disciplinary matters, let’s say.’

‘Charles is bent?’

‘Charles is one of the two big players these days in organised crime in Edinburgh, the other being Tony Manson.’

Martin frowned. ‘Are you saying that he might have had Marlon killed?’

‘That’s what’s perplexing me,’ I confessed. ‘There’s a loose business relationship between Jackie and Tony. Charles stays out of the pubs, drugs and prostitution and Manson doesn’t step on his toes.’ As I spoke I pulled up outside a house in Clermiston Road. Once it had been council property, but now in the aftermath of the Right to Buy, it had been augmented with every build-on imaginable, save for a machine-gun turret. I parked behind a Ford Mondeo and across the driveway, blocking the exit of a Mercedes S class saloon, with a personalised registration plate.

I walked up to the door and gave it the policeman’s knock. Martin started to count, but I told him not to bother. ‘There’ll be nothing to hide in here.’ And then I smiled. ‘By the way, there’s something I forgot…’

Before I could finish, the door was opened by a slim woman in her late thirties with a soft perm and hard eyes. ‘Morning, Jane,’ I said. ‘We’d like a word with Douglas.’

‘I’m sure you would. Come in then.’ She didn’t argue about it; she’d got past that stage years before. ‘Douglas,’ she shouted, at the foot of the stairs. ‘Police.’

She opened the door to a well-furnished sitting room. ‘I’ll be off out,’ she declared. That was par for the course. On the three or four occasions that I’d rousted Dougie at home he’d always made her leave, so that under no circumstances could she be called to witness anything that might be said: super-cautious.

We waited for five minutes, before Terry appeared. He was around forty, stocky with heavy chiselled features and a chin that was in want of a shave. ‘Mr Skinner,’ he greeted me.

I nodded an acknowledgement. ‘This is DC Martin.’

Terry turned to him and offered his hand. As they shook, he said, ‘Good morning, son. Do you know what kippers are? Fish that need a lot of sleep. Did you like my wife? I first met her in the tunnel of love. She was digging it at the time.’

‘Dougie!’ I shouted. ‘Enough! What I was telling you on the doorstep, Andy; we call this guy the Comedian. Whenever our colleagues have him in for a chat, they ask him a question and he tells them a joke. That’s how it goes until they get pissed off and chuck him out. Chic Murray’s his favourite.’

‘Not always,’ said Terry, looking at me. ‘Did you hear the one about the couple in the old folks’ home?’

‘Dougie,’ I told him, seriously. ‘I am not your local CID; I’ve got no sense of humour. You try that routine with me, and I will knock your fucking head off. Then you’ll wish you’d had breakfast before we arrived.’

‘No fun you, big man,’ he grunted. ‘Sit down then.’ He sat, we followed suit. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘You can convince me that Jackie Charles didn’t have Tony Manson’s driver killed.’

I studied his face. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened for a second in a gasp. He didn’t put that on. ‘Now it’s you that’s fucking joking,’ he muttered.

‘You know me better than that.’

‘When?’

‘Very early Wednesday morning, in Infirmary Street Baths.’

‘That dead bloke was Tony’s guy?’ he exclaimed. ‘Are you fucking serious?’

He was scared, and that interested me.

‘That’s who it was. Whoever did it was very determined.’ Slowly and deliberately, I described how Marlon had died.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, when I was finished. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t Tony himself?’

‘I can’t be a hundred per cent certain that it wasn’t, but Tony’s rogering the boy’s mother. Plus, he’s sent big Lennie Plenderleith to bodyguard her until he gets back. So, Dougie, go on, tell me. Is Jackie upset with Manson over something?’

‘No,’ he insisted. ‘No way. Jackie’s fine wi’ Tony.’

He was rattled all right. If I had turned up on his doorstep asking that question, then it could only be a matter of time before Manson came to ask it as well, and his interrogation techniques weren’t subject to the same limitations as mine.

‘Then prove it to me,’ I challenged. ‘Get out there and ask questions. Two guys in a Transit van; we don’t know the colour and we don’t have the number, but that’s what they drove. Who are they and who were they working for? You’ll find me at Fettes; Serious Crimes office. Make it soon.’

We left him in his armchair, pondering the gloom that was darkening a sunny day outside.

‘Will we get anything from him?’ Martin asked.

‘We’ve got something already. From Terry’s reaction in there I know for sure that Jackie Charles isn’t involved. That’s a start. He might come up with something on the van. To be realistic, he’s got more chance than we have. There isn’t a door in Edinburgh that’s closed to him. He’s tight with Charles and he’s on fairly good terms with Manson. That gives him a lot of clout.’

I unlocked the Land Rover. The Mondeo had gone, probably in the direction of Jenners: Jane Terry was a designer dresser. ‘On to the next,’ I said.

‘Where’s that?’

‘Slateford.’

‘What’s in Slateford?’

‘The new generation.’

I drove across town, with the volume on the CD player turned up so that I didn’t have to talk. I was too busy thinking about Marlon, and what he’d known, or done, for him to die that way, thinking about Alison, and thinking about our next port of call. Eventually I pulled up outside a pub in Slateford Road. It was called Caballero’s, a fanciful name if ever I’d heard one, and it occupied much of the ground floor of a tenement building with three storeys of flats above.

‘Ever been here?’ I asked Martin.

He nodded. ‘About a month ago, with the rugby team, after a game at Myreside.’

‘You didn’t cause any trouble, I hope.’

‘None, boss. Most of the tales are exaggerated.’ He laughed. ‘Most of them.’

I led the way inside, and looked around. The place had been refitted since my last visit. The old island bar had gone, and had been replaced by one that ran most of the length of the back wall. There were booths on either side, but the floor was clear apart from two raised platforms, about four feet high, each with a pole in the centre running all the way up to the ceiling. There were no dancers in place though, too early for that, only a couple of barmen, one per customer.

‘What can I get you gents?’ one of them asked, in an accent that had not come from any part of the city or its environs. His black hair was slicked back and he wore a uniform that might have looked vaguely Spanish, to someone who’d never been to Spain.

‘You can get us Tomas,’ I replied.

‘He’s no’ in.’

‘My car’s parked next to his. Please don’t piss us about, mate, or I’ll be checking your immigration status.’

The barman’s face flushed, but before I had to lean any harder, a door opened beyond the serving area and a man stepped through it. He was young, still in his twenties and not much older than Martin, but he had the air of a leader about him, and a hint of danger too. ‘Mr Skinner,’ he exclaimed, in an accent similar to that of the barman, but with more edges knocked off. He extended a hand that carried, on the back, a tattoo of a man on a horse. We shook. ‘I saw you on the TV in my office. Welcome to Caballero’s. It’s good to see you.’

‘And you, Tomas. This is DC Martin; remember the name and the face.’

‘I do remember it; the face at least. You were in here a few weeks back; you chinned one of your rugby pals when he got out of order with one of my dancers. You were very impressive.’

I looked at Martin; he shrugged, as if to say, ‘Rather I did it than his bouncers.’

‘Andy, this is Tomas Zaliukas. If you ever heard anyone mention the name Tommy Zale, he’s who they’re talking about.’

‘Please, Mr Skinner; I used to think that name was macho, but now I’m trying to shake it off. I’m proud Lithuanian, proud of my name.’

‘You’ll never manage that, Tomas. It’ll always be hanging around. Now, take us somewhere private, please.’

‘Sure,’ he said, ‘come through the back.’ He led us into an office that was furnished more like a sitting room. On a long sideboard were three television sets, but two were monitors fed by cameras in the bar. One of them was trained on the till. I smiled when I saw it, and he read my mind. ‘You can never be too careful, Mr Skinner,’ he chuckled.

‘I hope you mean that, Tomas,’ I replied. ‘I put my judgement on the line when I backed you for the licence of this place and for your pub in Leith, and I don’t want to be proved wrong.’

He looked offended. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Once upon a time, when you were younger and wilder, you were Tony Manson’s driver, yes?’

‘You know I was. But like you say, I was younger then, not long ashore from jumping ship in Edinburgh. I moved on since then.’

‘And you’re doing well for yourself, I’ll give you that.’ He nodded his thanks. ‘But,’ I went on, ‘as part of moving on, after the Iron Curtain was pulled aside, you brought in a crowd of your fellow countrymen. We both know that some of the stuff they did, for Manson and others, would have landed them in jail for a hell of a long time if it could have been proved, and that you’d have been alongside them, if we could have nailed you for setting it up.’

He frowned, and went tight-lipped. ‘I say nothing about that.’

‘No, and I’m not asking you to. We’re past the bullshit stage, you and me. I don’t pursue lost causes; I prefer to concentrate on keeping you straight.’

‘Okay.’ He was showing more signs of irritability. ‘But now I straight, so?’ he grumbled.

‘Do you know who’s been doing your old job lately, chauffeuring?’

‘No. Why should I? I keep my distance from Tony, and he’s okay with that.’

‘Marlon Watson,’ I said.

‘That’s who?’

‘Yes.’ I sat and waited, watching Zaliukas’s mind work.

It clicked. ‘The gadgie that was found swimming in an empty pool?’

‘That’s the one.’

His eyebrows rose. ‘Poor lad. Who did he upset?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Whoever it was, he used two guys to make his point, unless he didn’t subcontract the job, and that’s not usually how it goes. What I want to ask you, Tomas, without throwing any accusations your way, is this. How sure are you that all your Lithuanian associates are under your control? Would any of them take on freelance work?’

‘If any of them did…’ he murmured.

‘… you’d give us their names.’

‘Sure I would,’ he said, instantly, but I wasn’t convinced. ‘But I trust them all, Mr Skinner, I trust them all. Two of them, you said?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Anything else?’

‘They used a Ford Transit for the job, unmarked.’

Zaliukas shrugged, and grinned; the edginess between us was gone. ‘That’s my boys off hook then. None of them would drive shit like that.’

‘Is he really legit, boss?’ Martin asked, as we left. ‘He seemed to have…’ He stopped. ‘I don’t know quite how to put this, but I’ve come across a couple of people in the short time I’ve been on CID. One was a paedophile and the other was crazy; he had strangled his sister. They both gave me the same feeling, that they were different from the rest of us; it seemed to come off them in waves. I’ve just had it again.’

I was pleased to hear him say that, although I didn’t tell him; it was a big step along the way to being a good detective. ‘I remember the two you’re talking about,’ I said, ‘although I was nowhere near the investigation. Psychopaths, both of them, and very obviously; they should have been stopped before they got as far as they did. It’s not always that simple though. About eight years ago, there was a robbery homicide. It was three or four years before it was solved. Three people were involved. One disappeared without trace; the other two, a man and a woman, were both psychopaths, and classically so, yet they were successful people with conventional lives, and had given no hint of their real selves, even after their crime. Yes, Tomas gives off a vibe, and he might be diagnosed as psychopathic too, that’s possible, but he’s highly intelligent and he’s worked out that the best way forward for him is by putting his brains to legitimate use.’ I frowned. ‘There’s another saving grace too; he’s on my radar, and he knows it.’

I drove Martin back to Fettes. There were no reports of progress from anyone, so I stood him, and McGuire, down for the rest of the day, told the rest of the team to reach me on my mobile if anything did come up, then headed for the Sheraton.

It took me a while to find a parking space, but eventually I nailed one, opposite the Lyceum Theatre. I was ten minutes late when I passed through the Festival Square entrance doors and into the hotel. I kept walking, through the foyer and into the lobby area. It was busy; I couldn’t see an unoccupied table, but I could work out why Mia had been so confident that she wouldn’t be recognised. The Saturday customers were almost exclusively female, not her fans, though, but their affluent mothers. I looked around for her, and spotted her at a table in the furthest corner. She was wearing a sleeveless brown dress, and her arms and legs showed off a golden tan.

I apologised for my lateness. ‘Bloody Edinburgh,’ I muttered, as I sat. ‘The Castle Terrace car park was full so I had to cruise for a bit.’

She smiled, and I couldn’t help noticing, once again, how attractive she was. ‘I thought,’ she chuckled, ‘that policemen had special signs they could leave on their cars.’

‘Like “Doctor on call”, you mean? We can do it in an exceptional policing situation, but we’d draw complaints from Traffic if we tried it on. Plus there’s a further consideration. There are wee neds out there, wherever you turn, and most cars work best with all four tyres inflated.’

‘Neds? Is that not a Glasgow word?’

‘I’m betraying my roots,’ I admitted, ‘but the type is universal.’

A quick frown knitted her brow. ‘Don’t I know it. My late brothers were two classics.’

‘Maybe so, but it’s not a capital offence. Most of them can be cured by having their arses kicked hard enough by the right bloke.’

‘That wasn’t an option in their case, not for offshoots of the Spreckley family. Christ,’ she exclaimed, bitterly, ‘were those boys ever touched by Fate.’

‘You’ve broken free. How did you escape?’

Before she could answer, a waitress appeared by my side, pad in hand. I hadn’t looked at the menu, but when Mia ordered a club sandwich and coffee, I told her to bring that twice.

‘Initially,’ she said, when we were alone again, ‘by keeping my head down, staying apart from the nonsense and working hard at school. I didn’t have a problem childhood, I won’t say that. I was older than my brothers, so I had a bit of authority over them, and rough as the neighbourhood is I was never bothered by anyone because I was Gavin Spreckley’s niece. Uncle Gavin was a real animal. Uncle Billy was weak, always a follower, never a leader, but Gavin, oh, he thought he was Al Capone. He made my flesh creep, but he was useful in that way. .. until he got Ryan into even bigger trouble than usual and they both disappeared.’

‘Or most of them did.’ The comment escaped; it slipped past the censor sensor in my brain, and was out there before I could stop it. ‘God, Mia, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘Don’t worry, Mr Skinner,’ she assured me. ‘I’m not the sensitive kind. It was true, anyway. When that happened, it was the end of it for me. I was sixteen by that time, and I could make my own choices, so I went to live with my dad.’

‘I thought he was long gone,’ I said.

‘He was,’ she replied, ‘but not forgotten. He kept in touch with me, sent me money, and presents and such. Only me, though, not the boys, and he never spoke to my mother.’

‘Why did he leave?’ I asked as our sandwiches and coffee arrived. They must have been lined up in the servery, ready made.

‘He and Uncle Gavin had a big bust-up when I was about six. I learned all the details about ten years later. Dad found out that Gavin and Billy were involved with people who were dealing drugs. Not long after that, Dad was beaten up himself, by a gang of men he didn’t recognise. He wound up in hospital and when he was there, Mum went to see him with a message from Gavin, that if he didn’t clear off, next time they’d kill him.’

I poured the coffee, and then looked up, catching her eye. ‘Are you sure the message was from Gavin?’

‘Are you trying to suggest that it might have been from Mum herself?’

‘I’m not saying that.’

‘It’s possible. She wasn’t upset when he left, that’s for sure. We had quite a succession of “uncles” after he’d gone.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘Peterhead. He moved up there, and sailed out of there. He worked on the trawlers.’

‘Yes, I knew that.’

She smiled again, but there was a wry sadness in it. ‘So the police have always taken an interest in our family, have they?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ I admitted. ‘But it has drawn itself to our attention over the years. What about you, though? How did you get where you are?’

‘More by luck than judgement,’ she replied. ‘I stayed on at school in Peterhead and got my Highers, then went to Sunderland University and did a degree in broadcast journalism. I brought it back to Peterhead and got a job in the newsroom in a radio station in Aberdeen. I might have stayed there, but my dad died.’ She stopped, and was silent for a while.

‘How?’ I asked her, quietly.

‘His job. He was washed overboard, and lost, about three years ago. So was I for a bit; lost, that is. I had nobody else up north, so I looked around and found myself a news job with the station in Stirling. I was doing okay, liking it, then one day they had a crisis. One of the presenters was injured in a car accident on the way to work, I was on duty, and I was told to fill in for him. Because I was known as a reporter, they asked me to choose another name. I said “Mia Sparkles”, because believe it or not, “Sparkles” was what my dad used to call my mum. I turned out to be good at it; the girl who was injured was going to be off long-term, they wanted a female replacement, so they gave me a longer run. The audience figures went up. That’s what counts, start to finish, so I wound up with a career change. When Airburst won the new licence, they asked me if I would join to present a show called “School’s Out”, and… here I am.’

‘Well done,’ I congratulated her. ‘You’re a role model for a lot of kids.’

‘Oh please, Mr Skinner,’ she protested. ‘Don’t burden me with that.’

‘Then don’t you burden me with “Mister”. The name’s Bob. This isn’t a formal police interview. Come to that, it isn’t any sort of an interview. You asked to meet me, remember?’

‘True,’ she conceded.

‘So you don’t see yourself as an example to others?’

‘Hell no!’ She laughed, spontaneously. ‘I’ve got a very healthy following among nice middle-class kids, like your daughter, with real spending power through their parents. That makes me Airburst’s golden girl, but these kids like me because they think I’m one of them, a big sister. If they knew I was a schemie from a low-life family, that would change, and fast.’ Her face darkened. ‘That’s why I’m so grateful to you for not associating me with my brother’s death, and it’s one reason why I steered clear of him while he was alive, the other being the fact that I never could stand the little shit, him or Ryan.’

As she broke off to attack her sandwich, one thing puzzled me. ‘Why did you contact your mother?’ I asked.

‘I didn’t,’ she replied, when she was ready. ‘She contacted me. As soon as she heard “Mia Sparkles” on radio, she knew that it was me. That didn’t happen until I moved back to Edinburgh. The signal from the Stirling station doesn’t reach this far. But I should have anticipated it.’

‘What did she want?’

‘Money, what else? I pay her to keep from selling the story of my family background to the tabloids.’

‘How much is she into you for?’

Mia winced. ‘A hundred and fifty a week.’

‘Don’t say if you don’t want to, but is that quite a lot for you?’

She nodded. ‘We’re a new station. I’m not on huge money.’

‘Seven and a half grand a year, after tax.’ I felt outrage welling up in me. ‘How do you pay it?’

‘Standing order, my bank to hers, every week.’

‘She’s not that bright, then. What’s her phone number?’ I asked.

‘She doesn’t have a phone. She uses a mobile.’

‘There’s no phone in the house?’

‘No.’

‘What’s her number?’

‘Why?’

I was steaming mad. ‘Just give me it.’ She did, I took out my own mobile, keyed it in, and called it. A man answered, a quiet voice, but I knew who it was. ‘Lennie,’ I said, ‘it’s Bob Skinner. Put Bella on, please.’

‘Okay. Did you recognise my voice,’ he asked, ‘or are you…’

‘That’s a “yes” to both questions. What did you expect? Now, let me speak to her.’ Obstructing the police wasn’t part of his brief; I heard him call her.

‘What do you want, Skinner?’ Bella snapped. ‘Have you caught the fuckers?’

‘No, but I’ve caught you.’

‘Whit d’ye mean?’

‘Do you want to upset me?’ I snapped.

‘I’m no’ fuckin’ bothered, pal, one way or the other.’

‘Well, you should be, lady, because you have done. I’m with your daughter.’

‘Lucky you.’ Opposite me, Mia was looking alarmed, but I motioned her to stay silent.

‘Yes, but not so lucky you. Don’t you have the brains to collect the money in cash when you’re blackmailing somebody? This stops, Bella, it stops now, and you repay the money you’ve had so far or, I promise you, I will arrest you and charge you with extortion.’

‘Oor Mia would just love that,’ she sneered.

‘It wouldn’t bother her one bit, or affect her, because in cases like yours, the court won’t let the media say who the victim is, or why they were blackmailed. So you believe in my promise, you slag, because if I have to I’ll keep it. But I’ll do more than that. While I’m at it, I’ll make very sure that the papers know who you work for, and who you’re shagging when he isn’t in Ibiza boning another bird. We both know how much he dislikes publicity, so unless you want big Lennie there tapping your shins with a baseball bat instead of looking out for you, you will fucking well behave yourself! Understood?’

I heard a long intake of breath. ‘Understood?’ I repeated, loudly enough to draw a glower from a blue rinse at the next table.

‘Aye,’ Bella hissed. ‘Okay.’

‘Wise woman. Remember what I’ve said, and don’t you think, not for one second, that I won’t do everything I’ve threatened.’ I slapped my phone shut, ending the call. ‘Sorry about the language,’ I told Mia, ‘but it was your mother I was speaking to. You can cancel that standing order.’

‘Have you always been that angry?’ she asked me quietly. ‘I don’t know what you did to my mum, but you scared me.’

I looked at her. ‘Angry? Me? That was just me in cop mode, don’t worry about it.’

‘No, it was more than that. There’s real rage in you, Bob.’

‘No, really, I’m a big soft nelly at heart. You should see me at home with my kid.’

‘I’m sure, but you’re not at home just now. You couldn’t see the look in your eyes when you were lacing into my mother; I could. They were full of… fury, almost.’

‘Nah,’ I scoffed, lightly. ‘You were imagining some other bloke.’

She wouldn’t be deterred. ‘You told me your daughter doesn’t have a mother any more,’ she said. ‘What happened? Did she run off?’ I shook my head and sought refuge in a large bite of club sandwich. She took it as a snub. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I have no business asking.’

‘It’s okay,’ I told her. ‘It’s no secret. Car crash, eight years ago.’

‘Were you involved?’

‘No, she was alone. It was a silly wee car with too much power. She lost control.’

‘Poor woman. Poor man. It must have hurt you so badly.’

I looked away. ‘That’s a fair assumption. You know the damnedest thing, though? The mind must have some sort of a safety valve, for I’ve got very little memory of the accident itself, even though they told me that I arrived on the scene not long after it happened. There’s before, and there’s after, but the detail of the… the thing itself, it’s not there.’

‘I wonder if that’s what makes you angry,’ she mused. ‘Or could it be that when you have to deal with people like my mother, and you must have, all the time, you feel it’s unfair, for them to be alive while your wife isn’t.’

I held my hands up in mock surrender. ‘Hey,’ I exclaimed, ‘I thought you did a broadcast journalism degree.’

‘I did, but there was a psychology element: to help us with interviewing, let us work out what our subjects’ reactions meant.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind next time I’m interviewed on the radio.’ I turned the spotlight back on to her. ‘But what about you? Don’t you feel any anger about your brothers or your uncles?’

‘About Gavin and Billy, no. Not a bit. They had no regard for life. Ryan? You could say he never had a chance, but I could see that Uncle Gavin was a beast, so why couldn’t he? But suppose he had, it wouldn’t have made any difference. He worshipped him, and copied everything he did. Marlon, maybe I feel a bit of pity for him, but not enough to let his death screw up my life. He could have done what I did, if he wanted, got out.’

I found myself thinking of the kid in her mother’s street, Clyde Houseman. He was playing the role of tough guy because he had to, because he knew no other way of making the place survivable. Maybe one day he’d call me; but probably not.

Mia broke through my contemplation. ‘That man you mentioned when you were talking to Mum; who is he?’

‘Lennie Plenderleith? He’s minding her.’

‘No, the other one, the one you said she’s…’

‘His name’s Manson. He’s…’ How to put it? ‘… a person of interest to us, and your brother was his driver. How does that relate to his death? As of this moment we have no idea.’

Her eyes widened, and she put her hand to her mouth, to stifle a grin. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s terrible of me to laugh, but are you saying that my mum’s a gangster’s moll?’

I smiled at her amusement. ‘An old-fashioned term but appropriate. She doesn’t have exclusive rights to the territory, though, Manson spreads his favours far and wide.’

‘Why does she need a minder?’

‘She probably doesn’t, having met her; but her boyfriend might know more about your brother’s death than we do.’

‘He might think that somebody could be after her too?’

‘Not really, but we’re covering the possibility. I’m not just relying on Lennie to look after her. I’ve got people there too. If they see anyone nosing around… She’s safe. But most important of all, she’s off your payroll.’

She gazed at me, and her eyes seemed to soften even more. I felt as if they were embracing me. ‘I can’t thank you enough for that,’ she said. ‘It started off at a hundred a week, then she wanted more. She’d have bled me dry.’

‘It’s my job,’ I assured her. ‘I let her off lightly. You let me know if you don’t get that money back.’

‘I don’t care about that. I’m glad she doesn’t have her claws in me any longer; that’s the main thing. She’s a bad bitch.’

That was an understatement: I wasn’t going to tell her daughter but I had Bella marked as the most evil of the three Spreckley siblings. I’d met Gavin only once, in my very early days on the force. He’d been dangerous, yes, but thick with it, so thick that he’d crossed the Holmes organisation and got himself and his nephew killed. His sister, on the other hand, was as amoral as him, but as I was discovering, she had a brain. The truth was that I’d have been struggling to convict her of extortion; a half-decent lawyer would have got her off. No, my real threat to her was in using her to embarrass Tony Manson. ‘You made a smart move when you left home,’ I told Mia. ‘Your mistake when she put the bite on you was in not calling her bluff.’

‘You reckon?’ She was sceptical.

‘Absolutely. You need some good PR advice. You’re underestimating your audience. If your story was told properly and sympathetically, you’d be a role model for thousands of kids who are just as you were, trapped in awful domestic circumstances, and afraid to do anything about it. I’m not saying that you should do it now, with your brother’s murder still a hot media topic, but once that’s all blown over, the right piece in the right newspaper will give your career another shove forwards, rather than hurting it. You’ll be a media darling. You’ll be on telly before you know it.’

‘You’re very sure of yourself, Detective Superintendent.’

I grinned at her. ‘Is that your way of asking who the hell I am, a cop of all people, to be advising a broadcaster on public relations?’

She laughed in return. ‘You said it.’

‘You think you’re the only one who’s studied psychology?’

‘Are you a uni graduate?’ She sounded surprised.

‘As it happens, yes I am. It’s the coming thing with the polis. The lad who was with me yesterday, he’s one; my girlfriend’s another.’

‘You’ve got a partner?’

‘No,’ I said, quickly. ‘We’re not that serious. We see each other, that’s all. It suits us both.’

‘I’m sorry, Bob,’ she exclaimed. ‘I was being nosy.’

‘It’s okay. But… to be accurate, psychology wasn’t part of my university degree. I studied that on a senior command course at the police training college, for much the same reason you did at university. Not only that, we were given some training in how to deal with the media.’

‘Who trained you?’

‘Consultants; a couple of television journalists. To be honest I wasn’t all that impressed by them.’

‘Some of it must have rubbed off, for you to be passing it on to me. I will think about it, honestly,’ she conceded, ‘but I’ve still to be convinced that it’s worth taking the chance.’

‘It could be taken out of your hands, Mia. The bigger a name you make for yourself, the more the press are going to be interested in you. Life is about control. Lose it, and you’re vulnerable.’

‘Wow!’ She chuckled. ‘Angry and a control freak. I’m glad I’m not

…’ She stopped short, and her eyes left mine.

‘Married to me? Is that what you were going to say?’

‘Mmm.’ She nodded. ‘Sorry.’

‘Then don’t be. I wouldn’t wish me as a husband on any woman. Still, I’ll make one plea in my defence. The only place where I’ve never had control is my own house. In reality Alex runs that, just like her mother did before her. It used to be that her needs as a child dictated everything. That’s still true to an extent, but she’s pushing fourteen now, so her adult personality’s developing. She can play me like a guitar.’

‘I’ll bet,’ Mia said. ‘That reminds me.’ She reached into a capacious handbag that lay at her feet, and produced a stiff, cardboard-backed envelope. ‘I brought this.’

I was about to take it from her when my phone sounded; headquarters, the screen told me. I excused myself and took the call.

‘Skinner?’

‘Yes.’ I wasn’t sure of the voice.

‘It’s Davidson here, technical services. I’ve got something for you.’

‘Oh yes? Go on.’

‘One of your underlings left a tape with us to see if the quality could be enhanced. Well, we’ve excelled ourselves. I’ve got a partial number for you.’

‘How partial?’

‘All but one digit. It’s N two seven, D something N. We can’t quite get the middle letter of the suffix. It may be that the plate is damaged. We’ve done bloody well as it is.’

‘I’m not complaining,’ I told him. ‘I’ll take that, thanks.’

I cut him off and called Leggat’s number. ‘Fred,’ I began as he came online, ‘we’ve got something on the vehicle.’ I read out the number that the techies had retrieved. ‘I need you to dig out the licensing authority in Wales, and try to fill in the missing letter. It shouldn’t be too difficult; the odds are against there being more than one Transit van in the range of possibilities.’

‘Will do, Bob. Where’ll you be?’

‘Possibly at home by the time you get back to me, but use the mobile anyway.’

‘Sorry,’ I said to Mia. ‘I’m never completely off the radar.’

‘That’s almost comforting to know.’ She handed me the envelope. ‘Autographed picture, for your daughter.’

‘Why don’t you give it to her yourself?’ The invitation was completely spontaneous. It came out of the blue. There was something about Mia, and I didn’t want to say ‘So long’ and go on my way.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come with me and meet her. Or do you have other plans for the day? Boyfriend waiting somewhere, for example?’

‘I don’t have one of those,’ she replied. ‘I don’t have any other plans for the day either, and I’d love to meet your daughter, but are you sure?’

‘Absolutely. Think of it as audience research.’

She laughed. ‘Nice way of putting it. On that basis, yes, thanks. Let’s go. But I’m paying the bill for these.’

She wouldn’t have it any other way. By the time our waitress had brought the check and picked up the money, it was almost two. While Mia went to the ladies’ room, I called Alex’s mobile to let her know I was heading back home… I’d bought it for her thirteenth birthday, on security grounds. She also carried a personal howler alarm, a police-issue pepper spray that she wasn’t allowed to talk about, and she’d been going to martial arts training since she was eight.

‘This is exciting,’ Mia bubbled, as we passed out of the lobby area. ‘You wouldn’t think so, given my background, but I’ve never been picked up by the police before.’ My hands were in the pockets of the denim jacket that had been my Saturday choice; she took my arm. I’d been ignored by the Ladies Who Lunch on the way in but, with my new companion, heads turned as we passed.

There is this thing in my life… only my private life, I should stress. Whenever I try to plan a surprise for a near and dear one, be it a party or a present, it never quite works out. I say something by mistake, or somebody else does. But, if ever there is a rabbit that I want to stay in the hat, the furry little bastard is almost guaranteed to jump out and crap all over my day. I’m sure that Parkinson had a law that applies, or if not him, Murphy.

We were approaching the exit when the doors swung open and who walked through them but Alison, with Detective Superintendent Alastair Grant, her new boss.

She saw me, and her face froze.

‘Alison,’ I began. That was all she let me get out.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ she replied, evenly, then strode on. Grant offered a brief ‘Hello’ but was more or less pulled along in her wake.

Mia didn’t seem to notice the exchange. ‘You haven’t told me where you live,’ she said as we stepped outside into the square.

I pulled myself together. ‘East Lothian,’ I replied. ‘Gullane.’

‘Lucky you,’ she exclaimed, then winced. ‘God, I shouldn’t say that to you, of all people. What I meant was, it’s lovely out there.’

I slid an arm around her shoulders and squeezed, lightly. She was quite tall, even in heels that were no more than a couple of inches high. ‘Mia, you don’t have to treat me like I’m an emotional cripple. It is lovely out there, and choosing to live there is one of the smartest things I ever did.’ I let her go as we reached the pedestrian crossing in Lothian Road, and waited for the green man.

‘Sorry about the transport,’ I said, as I unlocked the Land Rover. I pointed to a sticker that Alex had put on the rear window; it read, ‘My other car is a BMW.’ ‘That’s true,’ I told her.

She peered at the radio as I drove off, heading up Johnston Terrace rather than for the Grassmarket, even though that would have been quicker. I didn’t want to take her past the mortuary, where her brother was still in a cooler. She wouldn’t have known, but I would. She played with the controls until she found Airburst FM. It wasn’t one of my presets. ‘They want me to do a Sunday morning show through the summer,’ she murmured. ‘Ten o’clock to one. We get thumped by Radio One on Sundays, and they want to change that.’

‘I know of at least one listener you’d have,’ I said. ‘How do you feel about that?’

‘For the money I’m on, I feel that five days is plenty, thank you very much.’

‘Can they make you?’ I asked.

‘Under the terms of my contract, they can, but I don’t think they’ll push it. It can be terminated by a month’s notice on either side, and I’ve already been approached by Radio Forth. If they really want it, we’ll negotiate. I’ve got a pay review coming up in a month. If they double my salary, I’ll do the Sunday slot.’

‘Do you have an agent?’

‘I don’t need one, not at this stage of my career. Why pay someone twenty per cent when I know what I’m worth already?’

Beauty, body, brains, I thought. And I felt myself getting hard.

That made me wonder about Alison. I’d have to apologise to her, I knew, but for what? No commitment, she’d said, even more firmly than I had, so why the frost? To hell with it, let DI Higgins stew for a while. Good afternoon, sir, indeed!

We were on the A1, almost at the Tranent junction, when my phone sounded again. I pulled on to the verge to answer, activating my warning flashers. Fred Leggat was excited. ‘We’ve matched that plate,’ he announced. ‘The missing letter is a C; that makes it a Newcastle-on-Tyne number. The van’s red in colour and it’s registered to a man called James Pearson, of South Shields.’

‘Excellent! Fred, standard practice, get a stop-on-sight request out to all traffic cars. We want to be talking to this man as soon as we can, but first, let’s find out about him. Run an NCIS check, and have a word with our colleagues on Tyneside. Who is he and why would he be interested in our territory?’

‘I’ll get that under way,’ Leggat promised. ‘How do you want to play it afterwards?’

‘Ask our friends, very politely, to lift him, and impound his van. If they’re well disposed towards us, they’ll bring them both up to Edinburgh. If they’re not, or they’re tight for manpower, we’ll meet them at the border and take them off their hands.’

‘Very good. Do you want to be involved?’

‘Every step of the way, once we’ve got him in our hands.’

‘Even if it’s tomorrow?’

‘Even if.’ I pocketed the mobile and rejoined the traffic.

‘How do you manage?’ Mia asked.

‘Manage what?’

‘Life. Don’t you ever have any time to yourself?’

‘Not really,’ I admitted, ‘not in the job I do.’

‘Drugs Squad, it said on the card you gave me.’

‘Not any more. I’m Serious Crimes Unit, now.’

‘But you don’t work alone.’

‘No,’ I conceded. ‘I have a team, but I’m two days into the job and I’m still sizing people up.’

‘So our Marlon’s murder is a serious crime.’

‘All murders are, Mia. But his becomes of interest to my unit because of the job he did.’

‘Driving for my mother’s fancy man?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Is he a killer, this man?’

‘Not personally, no more than the Governor of Texas.’

She twisted round in her seat and gazed at me. ‘What do you mean by that?’ she asked.

I considered my reply. ‘Well, when George Bush Junior,’ I began, ‘signs off on the execution of some unlucky bastard on his death row list, he doesn’t go along to Huntsville and give the injection himself, but it happens as surely as if he did. It’s the same with Tony Manson, and people like him. They give the word and somebody dies. The man your Uncle Billy shot, Perry Holmes, he was the same as Manson.’

‘Why did Billy shoot him? I was a journo in Aberdeen then. I wasn’t party to the details, and my dad didn’t discuss it.’

Shit! I thought. Why did I mention Holmes? She doesn’t know anything about it.

‘You don’t want to go there, honey.’

‘I think we’re beyond that option, Bob, aren’t we?’

We were. If I clammed up, she’d find out. ‘We believe that it was Holmes who had Gavin and Ryan killed. He had them executed; they’d been freelancing drugs, and to him that was a capital offence. Billy hadn’t been involved, but we understand he made him watch what happened to them.’

‘And Billy executed him in his turn?’

‘It didn’t work out that way, not quite. He killed his brother, but Perry survived. He’s a basket case, though, and out of that life. Now please, let’s not talk about it any more. These are the people I have to work amongst. I’m nearly home now, and I don’t allow that part of my life in there.’

She reached out and squeezed my hand. ‘Poor love. I’m sorry.’ At that moment, we were passing the bend where Myra died.

The mood had changed by the time we passed the quarry corner and the Gullane skyline, beyond the golf courses, came into sight. ‘Oh!’ Mia exclaimed. ‘That’s beautiful.’

‘That’s what most people say the first time they see it. I remember I did. We had to put ourselves in hock to live here, but not doing so wasn’t an option.’

‘I’ve been here before,’ she confessed. ‘When I was about eight. Gavin brought Mum and us out here one day. I remember, he left us all on the beach and came back for us after a couple of hours. It was about this time of year, ’cos it was quiet. I wanted to go in the sea, but we didn’t have swimsuits or anything, not even towels. I made such a fuss, though, that eventually Mum told me to go in the nuddy if I was that keen. So I did, then ran up and down the hard sand till I was dry. Gavin did his nut when he came back and saw me. I remember him screaming at Mum that she was letting me make an exhibition of myself, even though there was hardly anybody else there but old couples walking dogs.’

‘I could hazard a guess about why he got humpty. He was probably out this way on business, and didn’t want attention drawn to himself in any way.’

‘You don’t have drugs in Gullane, do you?’ she exclaimed.

I frowned. ‘My ego isn’t so big that I’d assume there are none just because I live here. But I do keep my eyes and ears open. If anyone was pushing hard drugs I’d know about it, and I’d come down on them so hard that folk would talk about it for years afterwards. There was one clown a few years ago, along in North Berwick, selling pills to kids out of the back of his car. A concerned parent told me about it, and he’s still inside.’

Instead of going straight home I cruised past Daisy’s place and blasted the horn. A few seconds later, Alex appeared in the doorway, Tesco bags in both hands. I waved to Daisy, then reached behind me to open a back door. I wish I’d taken a photograph, for the expression on her face, as she saw that the front passenger seat was occupied, should have been preserved for posterity. It was a mix of curiosity and concern. I could read her mind; no women for eight years and now two in two days. Was her old man having a mid-life crisis?

‘Hi, kid,’ I said, as if it was just the two of us. ‘Had a good day?’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Tesco was heaving, though.’ Her eyes were fixed on mine in the rear-view. Her reaction puzzled me until I worked out the obvious, that Mia was a radio star and relatively new on the scene, so there was no reason why she should recognise her.

‘This is Miss Watson,’ I told her, deadpan. ‘She’s come to visit us. Miss Watson, this is my daughter Alex.’

Mia reached back and they shook hands. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Alex said, but I wasn’t convinced. She liked Alison. I began to wonder if I’d made a big error of judgement.

I was still unsure when we arrived home. I pulled the tank alongside the BMW. ‘The window sticker does not lie,’ I pointed out. Our guest smiled, but said nothing. I guessed that she might have been spooked too by my daughter’s reaction, so I put an end to the game.

‘Alex,’ I said, ‘Miss Watson has a first name, and I don’t think she’d mind you using it. She’s called Mia.’

She stared at me and dropped the bags, then looked at Mia and back to me. ‘Mia Sparkles?’ she exclaimed.

‘You got it in one. I told her all about you and she wanted to meet you. She doesn’t get too many chances to meet her listeners.’

‘Why didn’t you say so from the start?’ she scolded me. ‘Instead of playing childish bloody games!’

Maybe I should have told her to mind her language, but mine wasn’t always perfect around her, so all I did was wink and say a very meek, ‘Sorry.’

I unlocked the front door and ushered Mia inside. I didn’t think that the cottage was anything special, but it seemed to appeal to her. I’ve never thought of myself as a romantic, but it struck me that the feeling was mutual. With her in it, my comfortable but well-worn living room seemed to be enhanced. Or had it become again what it once was, was that it? Or was it all my imagination?

‘I’m going to put the kettle on,’ I announced. ‘Alex, show Mia around the house. I’ll be in the garden when you’re done, with tea on a tray… if that’s all right with you ladies.’

‘Fine by me,’ Mia responded. She fished the envelope out of her bag and presented it. Her fan’s eyes lit up again.

They were talking, animatedly, when they rejoined me, ten minutes later. By that time I’d dug the garden chairs out of the shed, their first airing of the year, and made a pot of Darjeeling and Earl Grey blend… to me, tea is tea, but Alex liked that mix.

‘What do you like most about the station?’ I heard her new friend ask, as I passed round the mugs.

‘I only listen to you,’ she replied with the candour that she’s never learned to tone down. ‘You play the music I like, you talk about interesting things and you don’t treat me like a kid.’

‘Interesting things?’ I butted in. ‘Such as?’

She frowned at me. ‘Things I can’t talk to you about. Clothes, because you’re all stuffy and conservative when we go shopping. Movie stars, because you think they’re all a bunch of useless tossers. Women’s things, because you’re my dad and it makes you uncomfortable.’

She was right, on every count. ‘You talk about all those things?’ I asked Mia.

‘Of course.’

‘Including…’

She smiled, and her eyes seemed to engulf me again. ‘Including that. Bob, my audience are predominantly young women; that’s what our research shows. Young women have periods. They’re an inevitable part of life, so why shouldn’t I talk about them on radio? Puberty’s easy for you guys; your voices squeak for a bit and that’s it. One day you’re Macaulay Culkin and the next you’re Tom Cruise.’

‘I’m much too tall to be Tom Cruise,’ I complained.

‘Okay, Russell Crowe, if you prefer.’

‘Who the hell is Russell Crowe?’

She laughed. ‘Wait and see. But take my point; no problem for boys, once it’s done it’s done. But for girls it’s still a taboo subject with most people… even some girls themselves, because that’s the attitude they inherit from their mothers, or in this case from Dad.’

I didn’t have a counter-argument. Daisy had seen Alex through the onset of puberty and I had left them to get on with it. I’d never even bought her Tampax while doing the supermarket shopping. Thinking back, it hadn’t been a topic of conversation between Myra and me either.

‘I’m not blaming you,’ Mia added, ‘or saying you’re failing as a dad. It’s the way a girl’s life is. As a result, it’s a valid topic, so I air it.’

‘What about your boy listeners?’

‘It’s got to be good for them too,’ she argued. ‘If you talk about issues in a matter-of-fact way, it takes any silliness out of them.’

It had been dawning on me all afternoon, and finally I was convinced. Mia Watson was like very few women I’d ever met. There was a depth to her, a seriousness, that was contagious, even across the airwaves, given the empathy between her and my daughter. ‘Your father must have been a hell of a man,’ I remarked, quietly. She looked at me, suddenly self-conscious.

My mobile sounded. ‘Bugger!’ I swore, and dug it out as I pushed myself from my chair, and walked to the far end of the garden.

It was Fred Leggat. ‘Progress?’ I asked him.

‘Ever have one of those days when you can’t believe your luck?’ he replied, question for question.

I looked back towards the table. ‘I think I’m having one.’

‘So did I,’ the DI sighed, ‘until about fifteen minutes ago. NCIS came up with nothing at all on Mr James Pearson of South Shields, but the Newcastle police did. He’s dead. He was a plumber, he developed mesothelioma, from exposure to asbestos, and it killed him, last year, aged fifty-four. His widow sent his van to auction. It was sold, but the change of ownership hasn’t been registered yet. I’ve asked them to find the manager of the auction yard to get the details of the buyer, but they’re not hopeful of tracing him before Monday.’

‘How hard are they trying?’

‘As hard as they can, Bob. They know this is a murder inquiry. We’ll probably have to sit on it until Monday.’

I was frustrated but I knew that he was right. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘You’d better stand down. See you on Monday.’

Mia read my mood as I returned. ‘Problems?’

‘Delay,’ I replied. ‘We’re trying to trace the owner of a Transit van; I thought we had him, but now we don’t.’

‘Has he gone into hiding?’

‘In the arms of the Almighty. So he’s not part of it; the van still is, though.’

I didn’t elaborate, not with Alex there; she’d been in at the start of the investigation, but I didn’t plan to take her with me all the way through it. Instead I sat down again and listened to them talk about radio, about Mia’s daily routine, and about which music stars had visited the station and which ones were expected. ‘I’m having a new band as guests on Wednesday,’ she said. ‘They call themselves the Spice Girls. There are five of them and their first single’s due out next month. Their management sent me a couple of demo copies, on condition that I don’t play it on air any sooner than a week before the release date. It’s amazing; you’ll love them. Would you like the spare copy? I’ve got them both at home; if I left them lying around the studio they’d be nicked.’

‘Yes please!’ Alex squealed, childlike again.

I wasn’t aware that it had clouded over until I saw goosebumps forming on Mia’s arms. I looked at my watch and saw that it was just after five thirty. She saw me. ‘I must go,’ she said. ‘What time are the buses?’

‘You’re not taking the bus,’ I declared. I didn’t want her to go at all.

‘I am,’ she insisted. ‘I didn’t come out here meaning to let you run me back home. I’m a big girl; I know how to get on and off a bus.’

‘Train would be better,’ my pragmatic daughter pointed out. ‘There’s one from Drem at ten past six.’

‘That’ll do then.’

I was tempted to ask her to stay and eat with us. We always went out on Saturdays, usually somewhere within walking distance, so that I could have a glass of wine, or two, or three. That evening we were booked into the Roseberry and I knew that they’d have fitted in a third, but I didn’t want to push it with her. I drove her to the station, with Alex in the back seat.

‘It’s been a lovely afternoon,’ Mia said, as we saw the approaching train in the distance.

‘Would you like to do it again?’ I asked. ‘Maybe just the two of us,’ I suggested, ‘to give you a break from the interrogation?’

‘What about your girlfriend?’

I thought about the doorway of the Sheraton. ‘I’m not sure she is any more. In any event, the accent’s always been on the friend part of it.’

‘So you tell yourself, I’m sure,’ she murmured. ‘Tell you what, call me at the studio on Monday, when we’ve both had time to think about it. Unless you’re too busy, that is.’

‘I’ll do that,’ I promised.

Alex was silent, all the way home, and for a while after that. I switched on the TV and caught up with the news. The weekend offered a break from stories of parliamentary sleaze, but the news bulletins were dominated by a disaster on Mount Everest, where storms had killed up to eleven climbers, while the main sports headline was Manchester United’s victory over Liverpool in the FA Cup final, thanks to a late goal by Eric the Red. I’d forgotten that the game had been on telly, live.

My preoccupation wasn’t lost on my daughter. ‘You like Mia, Dad, don’t you?’ she ventured, finally.

‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Of course I do, she’s brilliant.’ She hesitated. ‘I like Alison too.’

‘And so do I.’

I was watching the third rerun of Cantona’s volley when she pulled over the footstool I never used and placed it between me and the screen. ‘Pops, can we have a grown-up talk?’ she asked.

‘I thought we always did.’

‘Don’t try to get out of it,’ she scolded, impatiently.

‘Sorry. You first then. Go ahead.’

‘Something’s worrying me.’ That gained my full attention: I reached round her with the remote and switched off the TV. ‘It’s been a long time since Mum died, hasn’t it?’

‘You know it has. Eight years; you were five when it happened.’

‘And now I’m thirteen. Does that make me different in some way?’

I was puzzled. ‘No, why should it?’

‘Are you worried about me,’ she pressed on, ‘about my emotional development?’

‘No. Come on, kid, stop throwing big words at me. What’s your problem?’

‘This is. We’ve come all this way together, Dad, and you’ve been brilliant. But I know you’re lonely too. Have you finally had enough of bringing me up on your own?’

My reaction was instant. ‘No way!’ I protested.

‘Or do you think I need a mum?’ she asked. ‘Because if you do, you’re wrong. I don’t need anybody else; just you. If you think you’ve met somebody you really want, that’s good. But if you’re thinking it’s what I want, you’re wrong. Honestly, I don’t think I’d like to share this house with another woman, not even Alison.’

Another woman! This was my baby talking to me, but that’s how I’d better get used to thinking of her. I reached out and took her hand. ‘That’s me told, good and proper. For the record, I haven’t been running auditions, honest. I promise you, if I ever think about getting married again, and you’re still living at home, I’ll let you pop the question to whoever it is. In the meantime, though, does it make you feel awkward when Alison stays the night?’

She looked at me as if she was the adult and I was the child. ‘Pops,’ she sighed. ‘I watch EastEnders. I know what sex is. If you must know, you bringing someone home made me feel more grown-up. It makes me feel that you’re starting to treat me more like an adult. But,’ she said, firmly, ‘if you bring different people home, don’t expect me to keep one of them secret from the other.’

I leaned back in my chair and looked at her, a little awestruck. ‘God,’ I whispered, ‘what did I do to get you?’ She opened her mouth to answer, but I held up a hand. ‘Enough! Let that stay unsaid at least. Go on,’ I told her. ‘Get your glad rags on. We’re due at the Roseberry at seven thirty.’

As she left, I ran my hand over my chin and decided that I’d been a bit too far from my Philishave that morning. On my way to my bedroom, I noticed for the first time that the light on the phone was flashing, indicating that I had a message. In fact, there were two: the first was from Alex’s sole surviving grandparent, Thornton Graham, my father-in-law, asking whether he could visit next day. The second was from Alison. ‘Bob,’ she’d begun, but gone no further before hanging up. I called her back from my bedroom extension. She sounded impatient when she answered.

‘Sorry,’ I said.

‘What for?’ she snapped, then took a deep breath. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I should be apologising. You caught me on my way out the door, that’s all.’

‘You rang me.’

‘Yes, then I lost the bottle to say what I meant to.’

‘You want to try again?’

‘Mmm.’ She’d begun to sound like herself again. ‘It’s another sorry, for my ridiculous performance at the Sheraton, flouncing off like that just because I catch you with a poppet on your arm. I wanted to warn you before she finds my knickers drying in your bathroom, that’s all.’

I laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I checked. Alison,’ I said, quickly, before she took me seriously, ‘do you want to know who she is?’

‘If you want to tell me.’

I did. ‘She caught the six o’clock train home,’ I finished, ‘after she’d promised Alex a copy of the hit single of the year, on top of the autographed piccie.’

‘And now I feel like an idiot,’ she moaned. ‘Thanks a bunch.’

‘Just as well we’re not serious about each other, eh?’

‘I wasn’t kidding about that, Bob.’

‘Me neither. Now that’s off our chests, do you want to come out here tomorrow night?’

‘Let’s see how hung-over I am in the morning after a session with Leona.’

‘Okay,’ I told her. ‘Call me when your head clears.’

Before changing to go out, I phoned Thornie to confirm his visit. Alex was pleased when I told her; we had virtually no extended family (she didn’t know that she had an uncle on my side) and that made her cherish her grandfather and aunt even more.

He was an early riser, was Grandpa Graham. Alex and I had barely cleared away the breakfast things when he arrived, at ten thirty, having driven all the way from Carluke, by a slightly longer route than necessary. He never drove past the accident site; instead he took the A198 to Dirleton Toll, and stopped off at the cemetery to lay flowers on Myra’s grave, before heading for Gullane.

Alex was looking out for him, and went to greet him as his car pulled up outside. I strolled out after her. ‘Hey, Thornie, how you doing?’ I asked, as we shook hands. He was sixty-eight, but his grip was still strong, a relic of his younger days as a steel worker, before moving up to management, and a reminder that he had spent most of his retirement on Lanark golf course. ‘Have you brought your clubs?’ I asked, rhetorically, I assumed, for he always did whether I’d told him to or not.

‘No,’ he replied, taking me completely by surprise.

‘What’s wrong?’ Something had to be.

He nodded towards his granddaughter, who was leading the way down the path. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

The day was warming up, and the early summer that often comes to Scotland in May was holding firm, so I decided that the garden was in play again. ‘Alex,’ I said, ‘you’re on coffee duty… proper coffee too, not instant.’

‘Aw, Dad.’

‘No arguments. It’s your turn. And don’t use the stuff in the packet either. I bought some beans in the deli; grind them and use them.’

Thornton came to help me as I fetched the chairs from the shed, and set them around the patio table. As he unfolded the third, I took a closer look at him; I couldn’t miss the dark circles under his eyes, a new addition to his weather-beaten features, and noticed for the first time that his breathing was laboured. ‘Tell me,’ I murmured, as we sat.

He looked at me, and smiled. ‘Did it ever occur to you that statistics are always about other people?’

It hadn’t, since I lived with crime stats, and targets, but I nodded nonetheless.

‘I thought that, until I heard someone on telly discussing road accident figures after my daughter had died, and I realised that she was one of them. In time, her mother fell ill, and became one too. Even after that, though… we’re bombarded with statistics, so many that we disregard them. For example, there are the figures about smoking, and what it does to people. Not to you yourself, though, always other people. I often used to wonder whether it was one particular cigarette that did the damage, and eventually I decided that it was, and that the odds against you pulling that one from the packet were still pretty long. When I go to the bookie’s, Bob, I always back favourites, yet I’m not a rich man, so I should know that they don’t always pay off.’

By that time, I knew what he was going to tell me, but I waited, I let him take his time. ‘Mine’s finally come up, son,’ he said. ‘I’ve drawn the fatal fag. I’ve been diagnosed with lung cancer.’

I looked up at the blue sky, expecting to see dark clouds moving across it, but it was clear and unblemished. ‘What are they going to do about it?’ I asked him. ‘Surgery?’

‘They say no. They say it’s a big tumour and that it’s already spread to my lymphatic system; when that happens, the knife isn’t an option, they say.’

‘Who’s saying this, exactly?’

‘It seems to be the unanimous view. I asked to see a surgeon as well as the physician who examined me first, but she told me the same thing; so did my GP. Instead, they want to give me chemotherapy, and maybe radiotherapy as well.’

‘Good,’ I exclaimed. ‘That means they’re being positive about your chances.’

‘That’s the buzz word, Bob,’ he murmured. ‘Positivity. They said that about Mina, even as they told me she was going to die within a week. But, now that I’m a statistic myself, I’m more interested in them, ye see. I really interrogated my GP, like you do with a baddie, but he stuck to the party line, then he started to go on about prolonging life. So I went to the library. You can get on this internet thing there. It’s got a lot of information, and the library people show you how to look for it. What it told me is that statistically… back to that word again… I’m a rank outsider, twenty to one against lasting even a couple of years. I’ve never backed a twenty-to-one shot in my life, son. And that’s with the treatment,’ he added, ‘which is no picnic, as I saw when Mina was ill. The chemotherapy makes you sick without other drugs to control it, and they don’t always work.’ He touched his silver head. ‘The radiation makes you sick too, and it makes your hair fall out. So what will I be if I have it? A baldy old man that can’t stop throwing up, and can’t get any further than the practice putting green on the golf course.’

‘You’ve got to try, though,’ I insisted.

‘Why? Jean, and Alexis, and you are all I’ve got to live for. But I don’t want any of you, least of all that wee one in there, to see me like that. I wouldn’t wish it on you, and I’ve got too much pride to want to look in the mirror and see a bloke I don’t recognise staring back at me. So I’m going to take the other option. They call it palliative care; that means giving me painkillers and such as and when I need them, and keeping me as comfortable as possible, while the disease runs its course.’

‘And how long will that be?’

‘That’s the beauty of it,’ he chuckled, an action that triggered a long, racking cough; it hurt me just to hear it, so God knows what it did to him. ‘It might be longer than if I had the treatment. They can’t say for sure that it won’t. However, when I pressed my own doctor, he guessed three months, maximum.’

I was struggling to take it in. Three days earlier, I’d looked, close to, at Marlon Watson’s broken body and accepted it as part of my daily routine, yet this, out of the blue, was overwhelming. ‘Jesus, Thornie,’ I murmured, feeling close to tears. ‘What are we going to tell Alex?’

‘Well, what are you going to tell me?’ she asked as she emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray, with a coffee pot, three mugs, a milk jug and a packet of the chocolate ginger biscuits that I thought I’d stashed out of her sight.

‘That Grandpa’s going away for a while,’ Thornton replied.

‘Away?’ she repeated, looking at him, full of curiosity as she held the tray for me to unload it. ‘Where?’

‘Places I’ve never been. I’ve decided to go on one last great journey.’

‘To where?’ she persisted.

‘That’s the beauty of magical mystery tours,’ Thornie had been a Beatles fan from their earliest days, ‘you never know where you’re going until you get there.’

‘How do you know you’ll like it?’ She was intrigued.

‘That’s called faith, love. But I will. That’s why they’re always magical. Think about it. If anyone organised crap mystery tours, how long would they stay in business?’

She laughed, and hugged him. ‘Were you a hippie when you were young, Grandpa?’

‘Lassie,’ he chuckled, and only just caught another paroxysm, ‘when I was young we didn’t have hippies. We had ration books and national service. It’s only now I’m old that I’m getting a chance to catch up on that stuff.’

‘Will you send me a postcard?’

‘Sure. Now give me some of that coffee, Alexis, before it gets cold. It’s the only reason I come here, you know, your coffee.’

The truth sank in, and hit me hard: he’d come to say goodbye. I had to get up from the table and go back indoors, quickly, before my daughter saw my face. I went to my bedroom, knowing that she wouldn’t follow me in there, even if she did wonder why I’d left the two of them. It took me a few minutes to pull myself together. Before I went back outside, I changed my shirt, giving myself a cover story if she was wondering why I’d gone so suddenly.

I didn’t need it. When I rejoined them, Thornton and his granddaughter were in full flow. ‘What’s this she’s telling me?’ he said. ‘About you turning into a Lothario?’

‘Certainly not,’ I protested. ‘He was a very shifty type, the original.’ And what was I yesterday? I thought.

‘I must listen to this new friend of yours, Alexis.’

‘I don’t know if you can, Grandpa. She’s on a local station.’

‘But you never know, the signal might reach Carluke, even if it’s not supposed to. They can’t put up walls to keep radio waves out.’ My mobile sounded. ‘Any more,’ he continued with barely a pause, ‘than you can keep them from reaching those things. They can be switched off though, Bob.’

‘Not this one, Thornie. It has to stay on.’

‘You should nag your father into smelling a few of those roses,’ I heard him say, as I flipped it open and headed for the foot of the garden.

‘Yes,’ I grunted, irritably.

‘Is it a bad time, boss?’ Jeff Adam asked.

‘It’s as good as it’s going to get for a while,’ I replied, ‘but not your problem. You’re the guy in the office on a Sunday while I’m in my garden. What’s up?’

‘That Transit van’s been found,’ he announced.

‘Progress, thank Christ. Where?’

‘Newcastle, but don’t get excited. It’s not going to be any use to us; any personal traces that might have been in it are destroyed. It was found in the early hours on a piece of open ground near St James’s Park, set alight. The fire brigade turned out, but it was practically melted by then. They’re taking no chances.’

‘Do we know who “they” are yet? Any joy with the auctioneers?’

‘Afraid not; we’ll get nothing from there before Monday. So no progress, I’m afraid, other than we can stop looking for the van.’

‘I wouldn’t say that, Jeff. The very fact that the thing was still in Newcastle, that tells us something. Unless they went all the way down there to borrow it for the job… and that’s unlikely: it would have been easier to steal something local… then Tyneside is where they’re from.’

‘Does Tony Manson have a Tyneside connection?’

‘Not that I’ve ever heard of. Maybe that’s the problem; maybe somebody there wants to connect with him. But that’s something I’ll ask him when I see him tomorrow. While you’re on, is all quiet with Bella Watson?’

‘Yes. Steele and Mackie are still down the drains, but they’ve had nothing to report. Big Lennie’s still there, so that’s hardly surprising.’

He was right. ‘Fuck it,’ I said. ‘Pull them, Jeff. Tell them to stand down. It’s a waste of overtime. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

I ended the call and went back to the table. My coffee was stone cold, so I made a nonsense of the expensive beans by sticking the mug in the microwave to warm for a few seconds. Thornton and Alex were still chatting and laughing, and I was pulled back to the realisation that this peaceful family scene was never going to be repeated. I’d been expecting to play golf with my father-in-law, so I’d made no plans to entertain him. I phoned the clubhouse, and managed to get the last table for Sunday lunch. The dress rules required a jacket and tie, but Thornton was clad appropriately. Just after twelve, I sent Alex off to dress like a lady, and he and I were left alone again.

He spelled it out for me. ‘This is how I want it to be, Bob, her last memory of me. Unless there’s a remission, and they’ve barely mentioned that notion, I won’t see her again. She thinks she’s grown up, but she’s not ready to handle Grandpa dying in a morphine haze, and I don’t want to see her cry. You can come, son, when it gets near the end. Jean’ll need your support. But not Alexis; not my wee girl. Okay?’

‘Okay, Thornie. It’s your death; it’ll be as you wish.’

‘Good lad. One thing though; make sure they play “Magical Mystery Tour” at my funeral. I wasn’t kidding; that’s how I think of it.’

Indoors, the phone rang, then stopped. I assumed that Alex had picked it up.

‘How are you, son?’ he asked.

‘Me? I’m fine.’

‘And the girlfriend?’

‘Her too.’

‘And the other one?’

‘Someone I met in the course of an ongoing investigation, then spoke to again, yesterday.’

‘Then brought her out here to meet and confuse your daughter.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, I probably shouldn’t have done that. We had a talk, though, and I think she’s all right.’

‘Of course Alexis is all right! It’s you I’m bothered about. You’re vulnerable, Bob. You haven’t a clue how to handle women, and I don’t want to see you get hurt. You’ve had enough o’ that for any man’s lifetime. Be careful, lad. That’s all I’m saying.’

I nodded, and he said no more, until Alex rejoined us, in a navy blue dress with a matching short-sleeved jacket, an outfit that I hadn’t seen before. She might not have been old enough for me to give her a credit card, but I had an account in John Lewis and she was able to charge things to it.

‘That was Alison on the phone, Pops.’ She smiled. ‘She said that her head’s clear and she’ll see you later.’

I didn’t offer to drive to the golf club. It’s less than a quarter of a mile from the cottage and that would have seemed distinctly odd to Alex. So we walked, round the corner, along the path beside the Anglican church and through the car park. Thornton was steady on his feet, but I let him set the pace, and it was slow. He covered it up, though, by pausing every so often, to admire the church, to point out a tree in blossom, and to question Alex about some of the big houses on the skyline. Even then, she knew a lot more about the village than I do.

He was still eating well, though. He always had done, and when I saw him tuck into Mrs Mann’s famous steak and kidney pie, I could understand why he had rejected the offer of chemotherapy. It would have been torture to him.

We had a table in the bay window; as we ate he was able to look out across the first and eighteenth holes of Number One golf course, at the steady stream of players starting and finishing their rounds. ‘Anybody who’s a member here is a lucky man,’ he declared. ‘Will you put my name forward?’

‘Of course I will,’ I replied, taken by surprise.

‘Then please do. I know that the waiting list here’s as long as God’s arm, but it does no harm to have ambitions in life. The day you run out of things to look forward to, you might as well be dead.’

My spirits were lifted. Thornie might be making preparations, but he hadn’t given up. Whatever he might have said earlier, he had a few quid on at twenty to one.

‘Isn’t that right, Alexis?’ he continued. ‘What are you looking forward to?’

‘Getting that CD from Mia,’ she replied, instantly.

He laughed. ‘I was thinking more long-term.’

She shrugged. ‘Being older. Being sixteen so that Pops doesn’t have to get someone to be with me all the time he’s not there. Leaving school and going to university. Being a lawyer and having my own money.’

‘What about boyfriends?’

She frowned. ‘I haven’t seen anyone I like yet, Grandpa.’

‘Good answer. There’s no harm in being hard to please. But what about exciting things? When I was your age I wanted to play for Rangers. I made it too, but it was only Cambuslang Rangers, not the big team.’

She shifted in her seat; Alex didn’t show diffidence very often. ‘I’d like to be a singer,’ she admitted. ‘Next year I’m going to try to get into the High School musical.’ That was news to me. ‘Mrs Medine, the music teacher, thinks I’m good enough.’

‘Then go for it, my love, but remember this: never let your dreams cloud your judgement.’

As we walked home, steadily, along the main street, the weather was breaking, and storm clouds were gathering in the west. Thornton decided that he would head for home, before the worst of it hit. We stood on the green to see him off; just before he turned the corner he waved, and that was the last his granddaughter ever saw of him.

I was still shocked, profoundly, by everything that had happened, when Alison arrived a few hours later, although by that time I’d made some phone calls and found a seconder and additional nominees for Thornie’s membership application.

She cheered me up, as soon as she stepped through the front door, by walking straight into the kitchen and looking round, including behind the door, then doing the same thing in the bathroom and, finally, the bedroom.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked her, puzzled.

She grinned. ‘Checking for another woman.’

‘No women have been here today,’ I promised, ‘other than Her Upstairs with her headphones on. Just one elderly gentleman, her granddad, but he’s gone now.’

‘I didn’t know she still had one.’

I almost said, ‘Not for much longer,’ but stopped when I realised that it wouldn’t be fair to load her with a secret to be kept from Alex. It was going to be tough enough for me to do that. ‘Yes,’ I replied, instead. ‘She’s the apple of his eye, and vice versa.’

I led her back into the kitchen and opened a bottle of New Zealand pinot gris that I’d been persuaded to try by the nice lady in the upmarket grocer opposite the golf club, to go with the chicken salad that I’d knocked up. ‘How did the girlie night go?’ I asked as I handed her a glass.

‘It was the quietest we’ve ever had,’ she confessed. ‘Leona wasn’t drinking, since she’s great with child, and I was still a bit morose after making such a tit of myself in the Sheraton.’

‘Get over that,’ I told her. ‘I’ve never had a woman throw a wobbly at me before. I’m beginning to see it as flattering.’

‘Well, don’t. If you want to screw little Miss Radio Star, you carry on. I’ll get over that too. In fact, why don’t you put your name on that “Two’s Company” dating thing they have in the Scotsman. I’ll write the ad for you. “Thirty-something vulnerable widower, GSOH, own teeth, two cars, one nice, one crap, seeks twenty-something lady with ample tits with a view to companionship, hill walking, fine dining and lots of shagging.” You’ll be amazed by the responses you get.’

‘Vulnerable,’ I murmured. ‘You said “vulnerable”. It’s the second time that word’s been used about me today.’

‘But you are, my dear. It’s part of your attraction. You are so patently lonely and bereft that every woman who sees you wants to give you a great big hug, then carry on from there. If you like, I could take the word out of your matchmaking ad copy and substitute “big dick”, but it wouldn’t get nearly as many replies.’

‘I really don’t have a clue, do I?’

She took my arm and led me to the living room. ‘No, Bob, you don’t. It’s just as well you’ve got your daughter to look after you. She’s the best minder you could possibly have. Nobody will take advantage of you while she’s around.’

‘That’s good to know. So back to last night; sounds as if you had a real fun time.’

She shook her head. ‘No,’ she murmured. ‘I hate to see my pal being taken to the emotional cleaners, but she is, by that shit of a husband. She’s vulnerable too, Bob. You’d make a great couple, if it wasn’t for Roland.’

‘I doubt that. She married a politician. That shows a lack of judgement in my book.’

She giggled. ‘Don’t be cruel to my friend.’

It was time to eat so I called for Alex, but had to go upstairs and pull the headphone jack from her CD player to get her attention. She had been singing along to something by Reba McEntire… yes, I hear you ask, what the hell was a Scots thirteen-year-old doing listening to Reba?… and her face flushed when she realised I’d heard. ‘You’re a cert for the school show,’ I told her, ‘but country music might be a bit risky for the audition. Something more mainstream, maybe. How about Kim Wilde?’

‘She’s your generation, Pops.’

Whether she wanted to get back to band practice I knew not, but she went upstairs again almost as soon as supper was over, leaving us to watch a crime drama on television that soon had us laughing at its ineptitude. The storm had passed over, so we gave up on it, and took a couple of beers outside.

‘What does GSOH mean?’ I asked her, in the twilight.

‘Good state of health, man. You do have your own teeth, don’t you?’

I bared them in a wolfman grin. ‘Vulnerable, eh?’

She put her head on my shoulder. ‘Afraid so. Sometimes, I wish I loved you, Bob, but if I did, I’d only wind up getting hurt.’

‘I’d keep you safe.’ As it turned out I couldn’t, but that was a few years down the road.

‘Nobody’s safe,’ she whispered. ‘Not one of us. You should know that.’

I did. Thornie’s visit had reminded me of that. I held her to me, as if I was shielding her… but equally, I might have been hiding behind her.

We turned in early, and fell asleep quickly; deeply too, for when the mobile sounded on the bedside table, Alison didn’t stir, and for me it seemed to be part of a dream. It wasn’t though, and as I came to, I realised why I’d been so slow to react. Of course, it wasn’t my ringtone; it wasn’t my phone, it was hers. I shook her, but all she did was mumble and roll over and into me. So I took the call myself.

‘Alison’s phone,’ I growled. ‘This better be serious.’

‘It is,’ a male voice replied: a voice I knew, Detective Superintendent Alastair Grant.

And he knew mine too. ‘Bob? Is that you?’

‘Yes. Now hold your fucking horses and give her time to wake up.’

I switched on the light and watched her climb slowly out of sleep. I waited until she could focus on me. ‘It’s your gaffer,’ I told her. ‘He says it’s serious.’

‘What time is it?’

I had no idea. I looked at my radio alarm. ‘One twenty-two.’

‘Shit.’ She took the phone from me. ‘Yes, sir.’ I watched her as she listened. I was thinking that she’d been excessively rank conscious for someone sitting up naked in bed in the middle of the night; the situation would have made me laugh, but for the look on her face.

‘I understand,’ she said, eventually. ‘Yes, I’ll get there as soon as I can.’

By the time she’d pushed the ‘end call’ button, I was out of bed and reaching for my dressing gown on its hook behind the bathroom door. ‘What’s happened?’

‘There’s been another stabbing, fatal this time, in Jamaica Street. He thinks it may be linked to last weekend’s.’

‘Jamaica Street?’ I repeated. ‘That’s not your area.’

‘No, but it’s just round the corner from that pub, the Giggling Goose.’

I knew why she’d been called. ‘That’s a gay bar, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. Mr Stein’s told the boss to get involved; he wants me to meet up with the Gayfield Square CID team.’

‘Why the fuck’s Grant not going?’ I complained, as she headed for the bathroom. ‘You haven’t been involved in the Grove Street investigation.’

‘Because he’s been at a family party in Perth, and he’s staying there overnight.’

‘Who’s in charge from Gayfield?’

‘DCI Pringle. I’ve never worked with him before. Do you know him?’

‘Yeah. Dan’s a sound guy,’ I added. ‘He’s old school, and he looks a bit like PC Plod, but underestimate him at your peril. You get ready, and I’ll make some coffee.’

She was showered and dressed inside ten minutes. Her hair was still damp, but it would dry in the car. She was flustered. ‘Be cool,’ I told her as she took a wolf-sized bite from a slice of toast, ‘and don’t go charging in there. As far as Dan’s concerned, it’s his crime scene; you’ll be there more or less as an observer.’

‘Fine by me. All I’ve done is read the paperwork on our inquiry. A fat lot of use I’ll be.’

I handed her a mug of Nescafe, strong, and heavy with sugar; I didn’t want her nodding off at the wheel. ‘You don’t need to be any use. Keep your head down, take notes and compare the scene with the photos you’ve seen of the other one. Were there any exceptional factors about that?’

‘One that struck me: the witness statement from Grove Street. I told you that the guy, Robert Wyllie, kept changing his story, yes? He started off by saying that he and his mate, Archie Weir, were attacked, no more than that, but finally admitted that they were out to rough up a gay bloke. However, he maintained that they never actually got that far. What he claims is that their target rumbled them.’

‘That he didn’t act in self-defence?’

‘Not according to Wyllie; his final account reads as if they were lured into Grove Street. He says that the man was heading up Morrison Street, then took a quick turn. They followed him but he was nowhere to be seen. They went a few yards and then he was on them. Wyllie was stabbed first, in the leg. He went down, Weir started to run away, but the man with the knife pursued him and went to work on him. Seven stab wounds in all, two in the back, one in each arm and three in the abdomen. He turned back towards Wyllie, who was still on the ground holding his leg, but just then the fourth person came round the corner and the attacker ran off.’

‘Okay,’ I said, as she gulped her coffee, pulling a face at its sweetness. ‘You have that background knowledge, they don’t. So go there and find out what they do have. Another live witness would be a good start. How’s the guy Weir, by the way?’

‘On a ventilator. They don’t expect him to make it.’

‘Mmm. Not good.’ I took the empty mug from her, and kissed her; on the forehead, to avoid smearing her lipstick. ‘On you go now. You’re a star, and you’re going to leave us all behind.’

‘Thanks,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll see you.’ I thought she’d go then, but she stayed in my arms. ‘Not for a while, though. I’ve got to be careful; waking up with you could be habit-forming.’

I’d been thinking the same thing. I locked the door after her, then went back to bed, but I was done with sleep for the night. I lay there, aware of Alison’s scent on the duvet and on the pillow, my mind working, contemplating the crime scene that she was driving towards. My curiosity wasn’t idle. I found myself hoping that by the time they got there it would have been wrapped up, plenty of eye witnesses and an arrest made, either a gang killing or a dispute between a couple of macho guys that had gone too far, and nothing to do with the Grove Street attack that sounded as if it was going to become a full-scale murder inquiry before long.

But if it wasn’t, if the evidence pointed to a link between the two, then it would be a single homicide investigation, crossing divisional boundaries. I had no intention of volunteering, but I knew there was every chance that Alf Stein would decide that it fell within the loose remit of my unit and thus would dump it in my lap.

I could see the headlines as I lay in the darkness… ‘Gay Blade Strikes!’… and I didn’t fancy it at all.