Funeral Note

Bob Skinner

I was in something of a daze all the way back to Gullane. As my granny used to say when I was very young, my head was full of bumblebees. Physically I knew where I was and where I was going; spiritually and morally, I hadn’t a clue. When I married Aileen and put my name to the paperwork, I imagined that I was signing up for a stable life as a faithful husband, putting my wife above everything else, as I expected she would put me.

Within a forty-eight-hour period that ideal was dust; my certainties were doubts, my vows broken. So was my marriage.

I’ve been there before, so I knew it. Sarah had told me some home truths, and I’d confessed some stuff to her that I’d never articulated to anyone before, not even to myself. The things she’d said about my emotional instability, they were undeniable, and she’d painted a Dickensian picture of my Christmases yet to come, that actually was one I’d seen in my darker dreams.

As I drove home to our kids, I thought of what she’d said.

‘Myra is dead, and you can no longer use her as a template for a living partner.’

True on the first count, and I suspected I was guilty as charged on the second. Shame on you, Bob Skinner.

‘You are far bigger than any police force, not the other way around.’

Well now, I’d never made that comparison, but force me to the truth and I’ll have to admit that for almost thirty years I’ve seen the force and myself as indivisible. Maybe that’s why Aileen thought she could force me to toe her line.

Had she manipulated me into marriage, as Sarah thought but hadn’t quite said? Was ours more a political alliance than anything else? I still can’t answer that, but what I will recognise and admit to now is that it was one of convenience on my part. I’d been tired, I was beaten up by endless crises and confrontations, I saw life with Aileen as a place to hide and I crept into it for shelter. I’d been strong, but I’d become weak. Was that before or after she’d cut my hair?

And something else Sarah had said, with real anger.

‘None of our children have ever mentioned the woman to me, not once.’

I hadn’t dwelt on that at the time, but when I considered it, away from Sarah’s vehemence, I saw what she meant. I tried to recall a single time I’d seen Aileen hug one of the kids, or kiss them, or even ruffle their hair as parents do, but I couldn’t. Not even Seonaid, who is a mistress of cute.

‘Love me, love my kids.’ It isn’t a clause in the contract when a parent remarries, but it’s implied.

Yes, Aileen and I had some truths to face, that I recognised. Would one of them be the fact that I spent the night with my ex-wife? Should I tell her that? Hell, no. How cruel would that be?

‘Coward,’ I whispered, as I turned into our street.

The kitchen clock read ten past eight when I stepped through the door. Trish was there, supervising Seonaid’s breakfast. ‘Daddeee!!!’ the wee one shouted, then she jumped down from her seat and bounced towards me, all eyes and blond wavy hair. I swept her up in my arms and hugged her.

‘How’s my doll?’ I whispered in her ear.

‘I’m not a doll, I’m a girl,’ she scolded. ‘Like Lex.’ When she was starting to talk, that was as close as she could come to her half-sister’s name, and it had stuck.

I sat her back on her chair. ‘That you are, Seonaid,’ I said. ‘That you are.’ I glanced at Trish. ‘Where are the boys?’

She smiled. ‘Still asleep; there was a sandcastle contest on the beach yesterday evening. I gave them both a late pass, after I brought Seonaid home. Their team won; Mark designed, James Andrew and two other boys built.’ She paused. ‘Would you like some breakfast, Bob? I could whip you something up.’

I almost told her that I’d eaten already, but veered away from that. I was sure she’d be wondering where I’d slept, and I didn’t want to feed her speculation. Not that she’d have asked. She’s been with us for years, through thick and very thin; she’s both loyal and discreet.

‘Thanks, but I’m not hungry,’ I replied. The truth, if not unbridled.

‘Coffee then?’

I nodded, then remembered Sarah’s medical advice. ‘No thanks.’ I stopped myself in the act of reaching for my mug, and went to the fridge instead. I took out a carton of milk and poured myself a glass. I drank some, then smiled at my daughter. ‘If it’s good enough for Seonaid, it’s good enough for me.’

She beamed back then laughed. ‘You’ve got a white moustache, Daddy.’

. . thus pointing out to an adult that wherever I’d been I hadn’t been able to shave.

I licked my top lip. ‘Any calls?’ I asked Trish.

‘No, Bob, none.’

That was a relief; I thought that Aileen might have phoned to say goodnight. Then it passed and, perversely, I was annoyed that she hadn’t.

She did ring, though, twenty minutes later, when I was in mid-shave. Trish doesn’t answer when I’m home, unless she’s asked, so I snatched it up on the fifth ring.

‘You’re in, then,’ she said.

‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘Didn’t you expect me to be?’

‘I thought you might have gone to Andy’s last night, for a grumbling session, council of war, whatever.’

‘I don’t grumble, my dear,’ I told her firmly. ‘And there is no war until you and Clive fire the opening shot.’

‘Then you’re no tactician,’ she shot back. ‘In your shoes, I’d be getting my retaliation in first. As it is, you’re too late. I’ve put my name to an article for tomorrow’s Sunday Herald explaining why a unified police force is essential for Scotland. And they’ve done an interview with Toni Field to back it up.’

‘Hey,’ I exclaimed. ‘She’s a serving police officer. I thought you told me we weren’t allowed to get into the political debate.’

There was a moment’s silence; I’d caught her off guard. ‘She’s not debating,’ she snapped, when she’d worked it out. ‘She isn’t arguing with us, not like you are. It’s an interview and she’s answering some questions, that’s all.’

‘I thought you didn’t like the woman.’

‘I don’t.’

‘But she’s useful to you so you’ll go along with her. She’s your fucking poodle and you’ve let her off the lead for a bit.’

‘Wrong breed, Bob. More like a Doberman.’

‘Then I won’t try and tame her. I’ll just shoot her down the first time she shows her teeth.’

‘That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it? Aggression.’

‘Only when threatened,’ I countered. ‘You should know that by now. You can stand me up at the gates of hell and I won’t back down. Or maybe you thought you’d smoothed that edge away too. You told me once I should be the sort of chief constable I want to be. Too fucking right; I certainly won’t be the one you want.’

I wasn’t making it any better, was I?

‘Why did you call, Aileen?’ I asked.

‘Not to start a fight,’ she said. ‘To tell you that I’m going to stay in Glasgow tonight as well. The chauffeur will take Paula home, but there’ll be a reception after the concert that I really should stay for.’

‘And you’ll want to check the Sunday Herald first edition. Yes, you stay there, that’s fine.’

‘It’s probably best that I do.’

‘Agreed. And maybe the night after that as well. And so on.’

‘We have to talk, Bob,’ she murmured.

‘Why? We’re lousy at it, unless the discussion’s going entirely to your satisfaction. Aileen, I’ve had enough of crap like this in my life. If I’m not the guy you thought I was, live with it, don’t put pressure on me to comply and don’t take it personally if I won’t. I don’t have strings, so don’t try to pull them.’

‘Why are you always,’ she hissed, ‘so fucking sure that you’re right?’

‘Because in my professional life that’s generally been the case,’ I replied. ‘Personally, domestically, the opposite’s been true, for the last quarter of a century. You’re the latest in a whole series of mistakes, Aileen. I’m sorry if it’s hurt you. Now I am off to spend a lovely day with my kids.’

‘To hide behind them,’ she sneered. ‘Your kids!’

‘No,’ I laughed, seeing things more clearly than I had in years, ‘to give them what they need and deserve: my love and attention. If you’d been prepared to do that it might have worked for us, but that’s not what you’re about, is it? I don’t blame you for it; we are what we are.’

I hung up, I finished shaving, and I went downstairs, feeling much more calm than when I’d climbed them. The boys were having breakfast by then, so I took Seonaid out to the garden, with a ball, and we spent some time working on her close control. On impulse, I called Sarah on my mobile. I felt the need to apologise for inflicting myself on her, but she wouldn’t let me. As we talked, I looked down at the little girl we’d made together and realised that I’d never felt closer to either of them. Then she told me again that she still loved me and I had to admit that I’d never got that out of my system either.

When we finished I knew that things were going to be difficult for a while, but that they were going to be a hell of a lot better too.

Mark and Jazz came out to join us. We chose teams, two-a-side, youngest against the oldest, and I made sure that Seonaid won. That wasn’t difficult; Mark can beat the world at any game on computer, but put him on grass and he’s rubbish, bless him. Once the sun had climbed a little higher, I decided that we’d all go to the beach, not the busy one that we can see from the house, but the secluded one. Gay people, men mostly, are known to go there sometimes for the peace and quiet to which they’re entitled. There was a time a few decades back when my force used to give them a hard time. That doesn’t happen on my watch, and anyone else who considers pestering them finds out very quickly that it’s a bad idea.

As I sat on the edge of the dunes and watched the kids play, I began to imagine a day when I wouldn’t have to bring my two mobiles with me, or even one of them, when it would be them, me, and nobody else. It might not need imagination in the not too distant future, I realised, if the legislators had their way with the best interests of our nation.

‘Retaliation in first,’ I whispered, feeling a grin spread across my face. Compulsory or not, mobiles can be useful. I dug my personal one out, scrolled through my phone book till I reached ‘S’ and dialled the number I’d been after.

‘Editor’s office,’ a voice chirped.

‘Mrs Crampsey, please. Tell her it’s the chief constable.’

June Crampsey has been managing editor of the Saltire newspaper since Xavi Aislado, her predecessor and its co-owner, took himself off to Spain about ten years ago. She and I get on well, and I’ve always looked after her, for three reasons: Xavi is a mate, her dad is a retired police officer and she’s a bloody brilliant journalist.

‘Bob,’ she said as she came on line. ‘What have we done wrong?’

‘You’ve almost missed out on a bloody good story,’ I told her. ‘Your Glasgow rival is running it tomorrow. It’s all about a secret political pact to turn Scotland into a police state.’

‘What?’ she exclaimed.

‘Okay,’ I chuckled, ‘that might be a slight overstatement, but given the wrong hands on the tiller at Holyrood, the potential is there. This is what it’s all about.’

I spent the next twenty minutes briefing her on what was happening, and giving her my view of it. Most of it was directly quotable; the rest of it, the more florid phrases and the direct attacks on the First Minister and Aileen, was for attribution to ‘a senior police source’. The world would guess it was me, but June would never confirm it.

We were both slightly breathless when we were done. ‘I owe you one, Bob,’ June said.

‘I might take you up on that,’ I replied. ‘I might need a job soon.’

‘Any time.’ I believe she meant it. ‘When can I put it on our online edition?’ she asked.

‘Any time after seven thirty this evening. My wife and the First Minister will be at a concert in Glasgow this evening. I’d like to ruin their half-time cocktails. It wouldn’t do either of us any harm if you fed it to the broadcast media at that time also.’

‘Will do. I must get in touch with Xavi,’ she added. ‘He’s going to love this.’

As I ended the call, Mark wandered across. He’s a perceptive kid; misses nothing, except for any ball he ever takes a swing at. ‘What are you doing, Dad?’ he asked.

‘Crossing the Rubicon,’ I told him, as I slipped my phone back into its pouch on the strap of my knapsack.

‘What does that mean?’

‘Doing something that you can’t go back on. The Rubicon’s a river in Italy: in ancient Roman times if you crossed it with an army, it was a declaration of war on the state. Julius Caesar did.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘Nothing. He won.’

He frowned. ‘Will you win?’ he murmured.

I smiled, reached out and ruffled his hair. ‘I have done already, son. I’ve done what I believe to be right. If I hadn’t, that would have been a defeat.’

I rose and we walked towards the receding tide, out to the spot that James Andrew had chosen for his latest sand sculpture. He was working away, in spite of, rather than with, his sister’s assistance.

‘Can you tell what it is yet?’ he asked as we approached.

‘You sound just like Rolf Harris,’ I told him.

He stared at me. ‘Who’s Rolf Harris?’

Wrong generation, Bob. ‘A very famous man,’ I said, lamely.

‘Does he build sandcastles?’

‘Probably.’

I dug four drinks from my bag and handed them round, then gave each of the kids a banana, Seonaid’s favourite food since she’s been old enough to stuff one in her mouth. I cast an eye over Jazz’s work in progress. ‘A car,’ I said. ‘It’s going to be a car.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘What kind?’

‘That’s beyond me.’

‘Like Alex’s,’ he revealed, proudly. ‘With the roof down.’

His older sister had acquired a new convertible coupe, to celebrate her assumption as a partner in her firm. It could only have been her car that he would have chosen.

‘How long can we stay, Daddy?’ Seonaid asked.

I checked my watch. I’d told Trish we’d be back at one; that gave us more than two hours. ‘At the very least,’ I declared, ‘until you’ve had a test drive in your big brother’s car. If you come for a paddle with me, maybe the boys will be able to finish it faster.’

She didn’t see the logic in that, but she took my hand as we walked towards the water’s edge. ‘I like it when you’re home, Daddy,’ she said, looking up at me.

‘I like it too. I promise that I’ll spend more time at home from now on.’

Tempting fate is always a bad idea; when you do it with your kids it’s criminal. My daughter had barely put a toe in the water before my police phone rang. ‘Bugger!’ I snarled, quietly. I took a few paces backward as I fished it out of its hiding place. I checked the number before I answered, and recognised it as our force communications centre, our hub.

‘Yes?’ I snapped, unreasonably. ‘Chief Constable.’

‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ a woman began. I didn’t believe her. ‘Sergeant Christie here. I’ve got a caller on the line who insists on speaking to you, and to you alone. He says it’s most urgent and the nobody else can deal with it.’

‘Have you told him that wasting police time is an offence and that wasting mine can be positively dangerous?’

‘I’ve done my best to dissuade him, sir,’ Christie assured me, ‘but I felt I had to call you just in case it was genuine. He doesn’t sound nearly old enough, but the caller says he’s your grandfather.’

Jesus, I thought, what next? I took a deep breath to stop myself from roaring abuse at the woman, and as I did, an outside possibility occurred to me.

‘Is that exactly what he said?’ I asked.

‘No, sir, not quite. He said, “Tell him it’s Grandpa.” Those were his exact words.’

‘What a surprise,’ I murmured. ‘Since it’s family you’d better put him through. Understand also, we do not record this call. Got that?’

‘Loud and clear, sir,’ Sergeant Christie assured me.

A moment later, the background noise changed. I waited for another few seconds to ensure that Christie had cleared off, then said, ‘Mr McCullough, I presume.’

‘Yes,’ a voice replied, one I knew from what I’d assumed would be a one-off meeting a few months earlier, ‘it’s me.’

‘I’m not sure I welcome this,’ I told him. ‘I’m on the beach with my kids at the moment, so it’s a wee bit intrusive.’

‘Give them my apologies, won’t you. Mr Skinner, if you think I’d be phoning you without a bloody good reason, then the sea air’s going to your head. I’d an intrusion myself this morning, from my granddaughter, on behalf of her boyfriend.’ The man sounded agitated. That was a surprise; Cameron McCullough had struck me as a man who was never ruffled.

‘Look,’ he continued, ‘when I sent you that message via young Haddock, it was no more than a goodwill gesture, a sign that I am out of that life and that young Cameron should be allowed to get on with hers.’

‘Mr McCullough,’ this was definitely not someone with whom I’d ever be familiar, ‘you’re out of the life because circumstances made it so. For example, those two brutes who used to do your dirty work are fertilising a cemetery, because they, and you, crossed the wrong man a while back, and there are no obvious replacements available. If you’ve seen the light, it was a police officer who was shining it on you. People like you don’t reform, you do what’s expedient. If you expect me to pass your retirement announcement on to Brian Mackie, the new Tayside chief, or to Andy Martin at the Agency, you’re wasting your time. I’m very happy for young Sauce and Cheeky, but you are still going to be under police scrutiny for the rest of your life, and if you make one slip, you will be put away.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know, man,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m not fucking naive.’

‘Then why are you calling me?’

‘Because this is no longer something I can have our Cameron involved in, or even her lad. It’s dangerous for her and it’s way above his rank and station. This has to be between you and me.’

‘If that’s how you want it. .’

‘It is,’ he insisted. ‘First off, though, are you recording this?’

‘No; I’ve forbidden it, specifically. You have my word on that. But I can’t promise that other agencies aren’t listening in.’

‘I’m secure,’ he retorted sharply. ‘I swept my place this morning and this is a throwaway phone.’

I laughed. ‘This from a man who assures me he’s straight.’

‘I value my privacy, Mr Skinner, in every aspect of my life.’

‘Fair enough. Now go on.’

‘Okay. We’ve established that I tipped you off about Kenny Bass. I did so for the reasons I mentioned a minute ago, but I’ll admit that there was one other. The little bastard really annoyed me. He came to me, in my hotel, and he had the fucking temerity to tell me that he’d moved a load of contraband tobacco into Scotland, too much for him to handle in Edinburgh, and to ask me if I wanted to take some of it off his hands. The bloody cheek of it! Me! Smuggled fags, for Christ’s sake! In my hotel!’ he raged. ‘My legitimate place of business! I turned down his generous offer and I told him to get the fuck down the road and never come back. It niggled me for days afterwards, until finally I thought, fuck it, and decided to sort the pipsqueak out, but do it constructively, if you get my drift.’

‘I get it,’ I told him. ‘Hence your goodwill gesture.’

‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘but I had to be careful. I didn’t want to end up on some Edinburgh detective’s informant list; those things can leak out. So I passed the message the way I did. I didn’t expect any thanks for it, mind; I don’t envisage being on the Queen’s honours list any time soon. I didn’t expect to hear any more about it other than a line in the paper saying that Bass had been sent off on holiday. So when our Cameron came to see me this morning, it threw me right off balance.’ He paused. ‘What the fuck do you mean, Skinner, using my granddaughter in that way?’

‘Eh?’ I exclaimed, astonished. ‘You were the one who used her in the first place. . Grandpa.’

‘The hell I did,’ he protested. ‘I just gave her a wee message to pass to her boyfriend to pass to you. I didn’t intend for her to be a conduit for a police investigation, to be carrying a fucking questionnaire from you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Truly sorry. I mean that. There was nothing to stop me sending my head of CID up to see you, with Andy Martin for company. I wish I had now. In fact, I still could. Would you prefer that?’

He got the message. ‘No, no, no,’ he conceded, sharpish. ‘You’re right; you were showing discretion, I suppose. It’s just. . when she mentioned the name Freddy Welsh to me, it set off all sorts of alarm bells.’

‘So you know him?’

‘Yes, but I had no idea that a small-timer like Kenny Bass would have been involved with him.’

‘So what about Welsh?’ I asked. ‘What makes him a man to be feared?’

‘He isn’t. It’s the people he does business with that are.’ He paused, for a few seconds. ‘You really don’t know?’ he murmured. Then he laughed, quietly. ‘You know something, Mr Skinner, you’ve restored my faith in human nature and my belief in the frailty of man. I thought my record might have been in danger, but it’s intact. I’ve still never met a copper who’s as smart as he thinks he is.’

‘I’m under no illusions,’ I told him. ‘People go out of their way to show me how limited I am, so join the list. But bear this in mind; if I’m that fucking stupid I might be reckless enough to name you as the informant in the report that we’re about to make to the Crown Office on Kenny Bass. I’ve got a police officer implicated in this thing, thanks to Mr Welsh, whatever he is, and I’m not pleased. So you be bloody careful whose tail you try to pull. Now, don’t piss me about any further. What do you know about Welsh? You tell me or I’ll have you lifted within the hour and brought to my office. . and yes, there will be photographers outside.’

I’ll swear I heard him growl, like a cornered bear. ‘Okay,’ he murmured, at last, ‘but only for our Cameron’s sake. That’s how this thing started after all. I know Freddy Welsh personally through my main company, the CamMac group. As you’ll know, I’m a developer, building houses, offices, small factories, but I don’t employ a permanent construction workforce. Freddy Welsh is a building contractor, on a reasonable scale. Not huge, but big enough to take on most of the projects I do, or parts of them.’

‘Did you launder money though his business. . when you were in the life, that is?’

‘Hell no. Freddy’s accountant lives up his arse. Little chance of that. No, like mine, Freddy’s company, Anglesey Construction, he calls it, is completely legit. But there’s another side to him. As a young man, Freddy did some military service as a regular; he learned his trade in the army. . he’s an electrician. . and he learned some other stuff too. He did a tour in Ireland, and in Kuwait, and while he was there, he became the battalion armourer. He carried the nickname with him when he left.’

‘What nickname?’

‘The Armourer. That’s what they call him, and that’s what he does. He supplies weapons.’

‘To whom?’ I asked, grammatical to a fault.

‘To anyone who wants to buy them,’ he replied, ‘for whatever purpose.’

‘You mean he’s an arms dealer?’

‘Yes, but not in the way you understand. Let’s say you’re a figure in the other world, and you are planning an operation, an armed robbery, a kidnap for ransom, a hit, anything that needs shooters. It’s a fact of life, that when a gun is fired on a job, it creates a piece of history. It leaves a trace. Jails around the world and death rows in many a place are full of people who either didn’t know that or didn’t take it seriously enough. They use a weapon, they pass it on, someone else gets caught with it, it’s traced back to the original user, and he’s done. Freddy Welsh takes that problem away. His specialty is the supply of weapons that are absolutely clean. Give him a shopping list and he will fill it; he will source what you need. When the job is done, if the customer wants, he will take that weapon back, and he will rebuild it, change its characteristics, whatever, so that effectively it’s become a new firearm all over again. Either that or you use it the once and when you’re done just throw the thing away.’

‘What sort of weapons are we talking about here?’

‘You name it,’ McCullough replied. ‘You want an American Derringer, something you can hide in the palm of your hand yet blow somebody’s brains out, he’ll get you one. You want a heavy machine gun? It’s yours. Gatling gun? Probably. He sources them all from around the world, and he supplies them, cash and carry.’

‘From where?’

‘Nobody knows. Nobody asks. His product is too good, so nobody ever rocks the boat.’

‘Who are his customers?’

‘Everybody,’ he said, slowly.

‘You mean organised crime?’

‘I mean, everybody. If the CIA decided that you knew too much, they’d probably get the gun that killed you from Freddy. If it’s that serious, he’s where you go. That’s probably why you’ve never heard of him.’

‘Have you ever used him?’

‘Me?’ He chuckled. ‘Please, Mr Skinner, you’d never catch me anywhere near Freddy Welsh other than on a building site.’

‘No,’ I murmured, ‘I don’t suppose I would. Your two deceased associates though, that might have been another matter.’

‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘The book is closed now, okay. You and I, we never meet or speak again, unless of course you and your highly placed wife happen to be guests at one of my hotels some time, and I’m there. If that happens, you can buy me a drink.’

‘Don’t let your life depend on it,’ I told him. I ended the call, put my phone back in its place and sat down on the sand, feeling its dampness seep into my shorts as I watched Seonaid jumping over small retreating waves, and as I pondered.

‘Freddy Welsh,’ I murmured. ‘The Armourer and a second-division smuggler like Kenny Bass. What’s wrong with that picture? Unless. . I wonder what else might have been on Kenny’s truck, apart from those fags,’ I mused aloud, ‘and I wonder how much Jock bloody Varley knew about it. You’re weighed in for this,’ I whispered, quoting Welsh’s words to his wife’s cousin. ‘For what, Jock?’ I asked myself, deciding as I did that nobody but me was going to put that question to Mr Bass, and that ‘No comment’ would not be an acceptable reply.

On another day, I’d have driven straight to Saughton to confront the toerag, but I decided that pleasure could keep for a few hours, while I enjoyed another. I lured Seonaid out of the water with the promise of another banana, and together we rejoined the boys. The car was almost finished; it wasn’t a bad likeness of Alex’s coupe, right down to the kidney grille, even if the upholstery was sand. It had wing mirrors. Mark’s idea, James Andrew explained; built around twigs they had found at the high-water mark, and an improvised steering wheel made from a piece of driftwood.

They gave their sister the honour of the first drive. I thought the seat might collapse, but the sand was packed tight, and it took her weight. It even supported Jazz when he stepped over the edge and into the passenger seat. I took a few photographs on my family phone and sent the best of them in an MMS to their mother, with a note that said, ‘Being a dad, when the phone allows.’

The work one allowed for another hour, by which time we had started the walk back home. . or rather three of us had, for Seonaid decided that she’d rather ride on my shoulders. When it rang I was able to reach it without having to set her down. The incoming number wasn’t available for display; hardly surprising since the caller was the deputy director of MI5.

‘Where do I find you?’ she asked. ‘At work or at play? Don’t bother pretending,’ she added, grinning, I imagine. ‘I have technology in this building that can tell me exactly where you are.’

‘Who’s that, Daddy?’ Seonaid chirruped. I put a finger to my lips to hush her.

‘Ah,’ Amanda said, ‘I see.’

‘Yes, but don’t worry, I can still listen.’

‘Okay. Your call yesterday, and those items you sent; it seems we have a situation on our hands, one that needs handling, urgently. This isn’t one that can be passed down the line, Bob, not too far at any rate. Who’s been involved in this investigation, since the body was discovered?’

‘The legwork’s been done by a young detective constable. He was reporting to me about something else, but I asked him what he’d been up to on Mortonhall Man. . that’s what they call him. When he told me, I reckoned it might be one for you. His line manager’s in the loop, though. DI Becky Stallings; she’s one of my best, ex-Metropolitan; I can call her in on this. Will I do that?’

‘No,’ she replied, ‘not at this stage. I would like to brief you on this, personally. Once you’re up to speed, you can advise on what happens after that.’

‘Fair enough,’ I told her. ‘When can I expect you and where do you want to meet? My place or somewhere anonymous, like the airport hotel?’

‘Sorry,’ she chuckled, ‘communication breakdown; I should have said “we” rather than I. You never get involved with our regional offices but you know we have them. I have a very bright and very promising man in charge of our Glasgow location. He’s heading in your general direction as we speak. Now that we’ve established where you are, would you mind very much if he came to your home? We can trust your wife’s discretion, I know.’

‘That’s more than I can,’ I retorted. ‘In any case,’ I added quickly, ‘she’s not here; only the kids and their carer. But yes, he can come; I’ll tell Trish he’s an insurance salesman.’

‘He doesn’t look much like an insurance salesman, but that will do well enough. How soon can he arrive?’

‘We’re about twenty minutes away from home, maybe less if Little Madam gets a pony ride all the way. Any time after that.’

‘Good. He was heading for your office, but I’ll tell him to divert to your home address. He should be with you within the hour.’ She paused. ‘By the way, Bob, I’m not sure why, but he’s absolutely bricking it over the prospect of meeting you.’

‘He should be,’ I said. ‘He’s buggering up my quiet family Saturday. What’s his name?’

‘Houseman. Clyde Houseman.’