Fatal Last Words

Nineteen

In his younger, single, days, when he was lower down the ranking structure, Andy Martin had been known to break the occasional speed limit, until marriage and fatherhood, accompanied by his appointment as assistant chief constable of the Tayside Force, had lightened his touch on the accelerator. But he drove northwards slowly, even by his newer, moderate standards, on his way back home to Perth.

Martin was troubled, more troubled than he could ever remember. He had been in dangerous situations during his police service and had handled them calmly, even ruthlessly when required, without suffering any significant psychological after-effects. He had known difficult times in his personal life too, but none of them had ever left him feeling as he did as he eased his family saloon across the Forth Road Bridge and on to the M90.

He was struck by the contrast with his mood on the previous evening, as he had driven down the same road, bound for the ACPOS dinner. He had been downright happy. The half-yearly statistical report had shown that crime in his area was down, and clear-up rates continued the upward trend they had shown since his appointment. On the home front, Karen’s pregnancy had been declared completely normal, and they were looking forward to taking Danielle to Puerto Pollensa on what would probably be their last holiday as a family threesome.

The phone call from Alex had not come until he was almost in Edinburgh. It had taken him by surprise, but in truth he had felt a surge of pleasure at the sound of her voice. They had not spoken since their accidental meeting at her father’s house a few weeks before, their first since their break-up, yet she had been on his mind. When she suggested that he come to see her after the dinner ended at ten o’clock, he had agreed with barely a second’s hesitation. Less than a day later, he found himself wishing that his phone had been switched off.

‘Oh Jesus, Andy,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Couldn’t you have seen this coming? Did she? Was it a set-up?’ He thought back to the night before. He had arrived at Alex’s flat at ten thirty, having taken a taxi from the Merchants’ Hall to his hotel to change out of his evening dress. She had been busy herself earlier in the evening, attending the first night of a Festival show sponsored by Curle Anthony and Jarvis, her law firm, and the inevitable reception which had followed, and the early part of their conversation had been taken up with descriptions of their respective events. She had told him how bad the performance had been, and he had described Sir James Proud’s valedictory speech to his colleagues, a mixture of recollection and humour, which he had ended with a toast ‘to those who fell in battle’, a tribute to Detective Inspector Stevie Steele, who had been killed on duty a few months before.

They had shared a bottle of Drostdy-Hof, a decent South African Sauvignon Blanc, to which, Alex said, she had been introduced by Griff Montell, and she had asked him how he was enjoying command rank, and marriage. He had spent the best part of an hour talking about his work, his wife and his daughter, and she had responded by telling him of the development of her career. In short, they had talked of the present, not of their past, time going by unnoticed until Alex had glanced at her watch and seen that it was five minutes short of 2 a.m. He had offered to call a taxi, but she had countered with the offer of her spare bed.

And then morning had come.

‘Oh hell,’ he murmured as he drove. ‘What am I going to do?’

He considered the options open to him. He could be a man of principle, and confess everything to Karen as soon as he stepped through the front door. But what would he confess? That he had slept with his ex-fiancée, that it had been a terrible mistake? And if he did, what would be the result? His marriage might be over there and then. Would it? Maybe so; Karen was a strong woman and would not be afraid to throw him out. But maybe not; she loved him and she loved Danielle. Maybe she wouldn’t break up a previously happy home because of one mistake. But that home might never be quite the same, he feared. His indiscretion might have been a one-off, and totally out of the blue, but even if she forgave him, the fact of it would hang over them like a cloud for a long time, and maybe for ever.

But then again, what if she asked him whether it would ever happen again? Could he promise that it would not?

‘Do you want it to happen again, Andy?’ he asked himself aloud as he swung round a long curve, and saw the blue water of Loch Leven on his right, and the castle where Mary, Queen of Scots, was imprisoned after her fall from power. For an instant he thought of her, and saw her with Alex’s face.

She had said, in so many words, that she would be his mistress. He considered such a relationship, secret meetings, stolen time spent together. . Queen Mary and the Earl of Bothwell. And he knew it would not work, for the very reason that Alex had cited for not letting him call a taxi in the middle of the night: Edinburgh was at heart a village, with a gossip mill so efficient that most secrets were not kept for long.

And anyway, would he want it?

‘No,’ he declared, shaking his head. Whoever had been to blame for Alex and him breaking up, it had happened, and he had moved on, to build a life that was happy if not completely fulfilled. He had gone to Karen because she made him feel secure and gave him stability. No, not the old Andy, not the one who had fathered Alex’s aborted child, but when he considered it, he did not want to be that man again. A small grin crossed his face. If that made him a boring old fart, then so be it.

So what would he say to Karen? Nothing at all, he decided. She managed the household and she would see the hotel charge on the credit card statement when it came in, and verify it against the bill, which he would give her, as he always did. . and note, instinctive cop that she still was, that he had not had breakfast.

As that realisation crossed his mind, he saw a sign ahead for a motorway service area. He flicked his indicator stalk and took the exit.

He slipped right off the roundabout at the top of the ramp and into the car park. He had trouble finding a space, for it was almost full, a side effect of a music festival that was occupying many of his officers that weekend. He had paid a call on the site twenty-four hours earlier, then had left the district commander to get on with it.

A look into the cafeteria convinced him that he would be more comfortable in his car. He bought a bacon roll and a coffee to go. . as a cover story rather than because he was hungry. He shoved the till receipt into his wallet and carried them back outside.

He put the coffee beaker in the dashboard holder, and switched on the radio as he began to attack the second stage of his breakfast. While he had been in Edinburgh, he had been tuned to the local station Talk 107, but the signal strength had deteriorated. He switched wavebands, and tuned to Tay AM. The volume had been set high, and suddenly the cockpit was filled by a powerful, uncompromising guitar sound, which Martin thought he recognised but struggled to place. By the time he had rifled through his formidable mental musical catalogue and identified it as that of George Thorogood and the Destroyers, the track was fading, to be replaced by successive ads, for a furniture warehouse, a double glazing company, and a car sales company.

He blanked out as the sales pitches progressed, his mind going back to Alex and what had happened between them. When the news jingle blared, he barely noticed it, and the first two items failed to reach him. It took a sudden change in the newsreader’s intonation to recapture his attention.

‘This just in,’ the woman said, her smooth accent-free voice suddenly urgent and grave. ‘Half an hour ago we reported that Ainsley Glover, the independent MSP and one of Scotland’s leading authors, was found dead this morning on the site of the Edinburgh International Book Festival. After his press office initially stated that there were no untoward circumstances, Detective Superintendent Neil McIlhenney, the capital city’s CID co-ordinator, is about to make a further statement. We’re going live now to the Book Festival site; our reporter is Rhiannon Purvey, from our sister station, Radio Forth.’ She paused.

Martin was bolt upright in his seat, his bacon roll forgotten and gripped only loosely. ‘In the light of new information which led to a renewed examination of Mr Glover’s body,’ he heard his former colleague declare over a buzz of background noise, ‘his death is now being regarded as suspicious and a full-scale investigation into the circumstances is under way.’

‘Do you mean a murder investigation, Superintendent?’ a female reporter called out.

‘That’s the way it looks, Rhiannon,’ McIlhenney confirmed.

‘Are you following a specific line of inquiry?’

‘At this stage, no, we aren’t. We were advised by the pathologist of this new development only twenty minutes ago. Our first priority is to interview everyone who was in Mr Glover’s company at the Book Festival’s launch party last night. Once we’ve done that, we’ll go forward from there.’

‘Could you tell us how he was killed?’

‘Yes, but I’m not going to.’

‘Neil,’ another voice broke in; Martin thought he recognised it as that of Jock Fisher, chief reporter of the Saltire newspaper, someone who’d been around long enough to be allowed familiarity. ‘Ainsley had a barney with Bruce Anderson at the party last night. I know that for sure because I was right next to them. Does that mean you’ll be interviewing the former Secretary of State for Scotland?’

‘Have I not just said so?’

‘Will you be interviewing him as a suspect?’

Martin could picture the gleam in McIlhenney’s eyes. ‘Jock,’ he said heavily, ‘you and I are both too old for you to be trying to put words in my mouth. If you were as near Mr Glover as you say you were, then we’ll be interviewing you as well. If you’d prefer that to be under caution we’ll oblige you, otherwise it’ll be as no more than a witness, just like Dr Anderson.’

The journalist chuckled. ‘You can keep your handcuffs in your pocket. Do you have any idea of a motive?’

‘At this stage no, but that’s one of the reasons why we’re interviewing everybody. That’s all I can say for now, ladies and gentlemen. DI Samuel Pye is the lead investigator. Any further information will come from him.’

‘Do you expect an early arrest, Superintendent?’ Rhiannon Purvey asked.

‘I don’t have any expectations at this stage, only hopes. It remains to be seen how quickly they’re fulfilled. Now, if you’ll excuse me. .’

Andy Martin reached out to switch off the radio, whistling softly as he did so, then took his phone from its hands-free socket and trawled through his contacts list for Neil McIlhenney’s mobile number. He pushed the call button.

‘Andy,’ the superintendent exclaimed briskly. ‘Have you just been listening to the radio?’

‘Yes indeed. What happened to him?’

‘I can’t speak right now.’

‘I understand; too many people in earshot. But I do need to talk to you.’

There was a brief, loaded silence. ‘You mean as a witness?’

‘Yes. Look, I’m halfway home just now; I’ll call Karen and tell her I’ll be later than I thought, then I’ll head back to Edinburgh.’

‘You don’t need to do that. Give Sammy a call when you get home and let him have whatever information you’ve got.’

‘No, this has to be face to face; you and me. Maybe Mario, too, but that’s it.’

‘Mario’s in Australia, on holiday with Paula. How about Bob, although he won’t be available for a while; he’s picking his kids up from the airport.’

‘Then it’s just the two of us for now; no Sammy, not yet at any rate.’

‘Is it that important?’ asked McIlhenney, a trace of doubt in his tone.

‘It could ruin your whole fucking day,’ said the deputy chief constable grimly. ‘That’s how important it could be.’