Fallen Gods

Twenty-five

Of all the excellent restaurants in which she ate regularly, Alex had to admit that the Roseberry was her favourite. It was an emotional as much as a culinary thing. She had studied in Glasgow. Her professional life had begun in Edinburgh and had then taken her to London, for a period yet to be determined. For all that, there was something about the bay-windowed bistro on Gullane's main street that reminded her where her home really was.

She still owned her flat in Leith, although it was rented to a Curie, Anthony and Jarvis colleague during her London secondment. There, she had been found a very pleasant apartment in bustling Spitalfields. Yet she knew within herself that one day she would return to the village in which she had been raised. She even knew the house that she would like to buy, should the opportunity arise.

"Will you be selecting the wine tonight, Mr. Skinner?" asked Ronald, the Roseberry's front-of-house partner.

"Not a chance," Alex answered him cheerfully. "I will, and we'll have a bottle of that nice Chablis, thanks." She looked at her father as the waiter headed off towards the kitchen. "You'd better not have anything too heavy tonight, if you're having your big medical tomorrow.

Did you get it set up?"

"Yup. I called a cardiologist Sarah knows and told him the story. He and another consultant are going to give me a total going-over at the Murrayfield Hospital at five tomorrow evening. I've told Mitch what I'm doing; he agrees it's sensible. We'd probably have had to do it anyway, if the committee's doctors had refused to examine me."

"How do the family solicitors feel about you using our firm for this one?"

"I haven't even told them; it's none of their business. If your firm had a private client department, I'd probably be on its books by now, given your connection. You don't, but this is a litigation matter.

It's like golf. Who would you choose to hole a ten-foot putt to save your life?"

"Not you," Alex laughed, 'that's for sure."

"Right. You'd go for Tiger Woods. In a sense my life's at stake, but the game here is litigation. So by the same token, I'm going for Mitchell Laidlaw."

"Then you'll win. You're The Man, Mitch," she exclaimed, gallery-style, then paused. "But Pops, just suppose the consultants find an underlying abnormality. Suppose they decide they can't pass you fit to go back to work. What would you do?"

"That's not going to happen."

"Answer the question."

Bob looked down at the menu on the table, as if he was studying it. "I don't know," he murmured. "I've never contemplated retirement; I've never imagined a life outside the police. I've got a professional future that's mapped out for, oh, the next fifteen years anyway, and I've never given any thought to the idea of it being taken away."

"Come on, Pops. You must plan on living beyond sixty-five. What will you do then?"

He looked up and shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe I'll write. Maybe I'll just join the seniors' section and play golf every day, till eventually they carry me off the course." He frowned. "Or maybe… and this is something that has floated through my mind on occasion… I could find a visiting chair in criminology at some university or other."

"Pops, you could do that now, without any difficulty, in Britain, and probably in the States as well. And maybe, just maybe, you understand, you should think about it. You've given more to the police service in little over half a career than almost any other man has in a whole lifetime. But it's taken you over. Nothing and no one gets in its way, not even your marriage. I want to see you fulfilled and happy as you grow older, not lonely, bitter and driven."

"You're telling me to chuck it too?"

"No, I'm telling you to be broad minded enough to embrace the possibility."

"Alex, I've got things to do yet."

"Like being chief constable, you mean? Pops, you couldn't sit in Uncle Jimmy's chair for more than six months, and you know it."

"Yes, I do, but there are other things, other avenues."

"You mean like the Inspectorate?"

"Maybe."

"I don't know if I can imagine you as Her Majesty's Inspector of Constabulary."

"Fortunately, my darling, you're not the Queen." He laughed. "Not yet, at any rate."

He made to go on, but Ronald arrived with a bottle of Chablis; he opened it and poured a little for Bob to taste. He nodded, and the waiter filled both glasses. "Ready to order?" he asked.

"Another five minutes?"

"Sure."

"What were you going to say?" Alex asked, as he left.

"That I'll make you a deal. I'll retire in twelve years, maximum; sooner if I feel that I'm burned out. And I will think more about the university idea, I promise. But first, I have to get through this medical and I have to crush these bastards who are trying to get me out of my job. Now let's eat."

He nodded to the hovering Ronald, who made a smooth landing at their table. They ordered starters of haggis parcels, then baked sea bass.

"You realise," said Bob as he left, 'that we've talked about nothing but me… and my poor, dead, disowned brother… since you got off that plane this morning. What about you? What about this actor?"

"Another time, "Alex answered, abruptly. "We'll keep on talking about you for now."

"Why? Have you got something to hide? Is this guy someone I'd know?

Or is he someone I'd disapprove of?"

She picked up her napkin and bunched it as if she was going to throw it at him. "Pops, there is no actor; there is no one. That was just a story I made up to stop being endlessly quizzed about my sex life."

"Who's been quizzing you? Not me."

"Sarah for a start, and various friends; I got fed up with it after a while, so I came up with an imaginary lover, just to keep them at bay. I'm trying celibacy for a while, as a way of life; it's fun too. There's something nice about being unattainable. You can really get involved in the conversation at dinner parties for a start without smouldering across the table at some bloke. Been there, done that, thrown away the tee-shirt." She spread her napkin on her lap and leaned back as Ronald served the starter.

"So," she went on, as she picked up her first knife and fork, 'to get back to this afternoon, are you still planning to go through to Mother well tomorrow?"

"Yup."

"Should you be doing that?"

"What harm am I doing? I called Rod Greatorix before we came out and told him everything we learned from Brother Aidan this afternoon, and

I'll do the same if I get anything tomorrow. I'm not keeping anyone out of the loop. If any formal statements need to be taken, the Tayside boys can follow up and take care of it. I haven't heard any howls of protest so far. This is shaping up to be a complex investigation, and they don't have the biggest CID in Scotland."

"Lucky Tayside, eh. Having Bob Skinner helping them out? How does it feel to be reporting to Andy?"

"I'm not, exactly. But listen, kid, just about everybody'll be reporting to Andy one day."

He was into the second of his haggis parcels when his cellphone rang.

An elderly diner frowned at him across the restaurant; he shrugged a half-apology and took the call. "Bob." Sarah's voice was so clear that she could have been calling from the phone in the Roseberry's cloakroom.

"Hi," he said, cautiously, even a little curtly, remembering their last conversation. "How are you?"

"Fine," she replied. He focused on her tone; there was no trace of anger there, but there was something, nonetheless, a distance between them that had nothing to do with geography. "We're going to the lake for a while, but Jazz wanted to say hello first. Here he is."

There was a pause, a couple of seconds no more, before a young, bright and heartbreakingly familiar voice came on line. "Dad!" James Andrew shouted. "Hello, Dad."

"Hello, son," Bob said, grinning inanely as Alex looked at him across the table. "Are you still enjoying America?"

"I'm going to the lake."

"So your mum told me. Have you been behaving yourself?"

"No," said Jazz, cheerfully.

"What?"

"Punched Matthew Walker; made his nose bleed. He kicked me first, though."

Bob stifled a laugh. "Still, son, that's no excuse. Christ, he's the minister's son. Did you say sorry?"

"Yes. Mom made me." The Americanism registered with Skinner, disturbing him.

"Well, don't do it again or you'll have me to deal with. You be a good boy from now on. Now put your mother back on."

"He's just made it to the lake by the skin of his teeth," said Sarah as she reclaimed the phone. "Mark says hello too; he'll send you an e-mail." He heard her take a breath. "Bob, we need to talk."

"Yes," he agreed, 'we do. There's something I have to tell you."

"Yeah, I have something to say to you too. Without shouting at each other, yes?"

"That would be nice, for a change."

"Where are you?" He told her. "That won't do," she said.

"No, hardly. I'll call you from home, when I can."

"Soon?"

"It can't be before tomorrow night. I have things to do tomorrow, through till seven."

"Okay. Call me when you're ready; I'll make sure I'm here all afternoon."

"Fine."

He was about to end the call when he heard her speak again. "Sorry?" he said, putting the phone back to his ear.

"I asked how your pacemaker's doing, that was all."

"Fine. The wound itches every so often, but otherwise I don't know it's there."

"That's good. That's the way it should be. When do you see the doctors?"

"Tomorrow."

"You'll sail through, I know you will."

"So do I."

"Bob," she asked, 'do you miss me even a little?"

Her tone was even, matter-of-fact. Suddenly, he felt as if the glass wall between them had become steel. "Honey," he replied, 'that's a question I force myself not to dwell on. If I did, there's no telling where it would end. Let's speak tomorrow."

As he put the phone back in his pocket, he became aware of his daughter frowning at him across the table. "What was wrong with that conversation?" she asked.

"I don't know. What do you mean?"

"I mean three words I didn't hear. I. Love. You."