Funeral Note

Lowell Payne

I’d done my homework on McGuire before I ever met him; I had him marked as a rich kid, maybe a black sheep, a lad who didn’t need the money but had joined the police force for a laugh and a fight at the weekend without the risk of being locked up for it, then had found that he was good at it.

It didn’t take me long to realise that I’d taken him too lightly. Yes, he does have a tendency to flippancy, and a light touch when dealing with subordinates, but anyone who marks him down as a soft touch is likely to wake up regretting that mistake. Mario is one of nature’s nice guys, but I could tell that he also has a formidable temper and no visible tolerance level for fools.

He and Bob’s ex seemed to get on very well. I had heard of her, from Alex, and I knew that she was back in town. At first I thought she’d be keeping her distance from the police community, but that would have been pretty much impossible, given her job. From my brief observation of her, I have to say that I like her. She’s sexy, beautiful and stacked, but that has nothing to do with it.

I judge people by their eyes; I believe they tell the story of what’s behind them and hers appealed to me. I read them as intelligent, kind, and warm, those of someone who at that moment was enjoying life very much. I found myself wondering how she and Bob had split up; she seemed like a good match for him. When I met him first, at Jean’s dad’s funeral, he was with a DI from his force; that was quite serious for a while, but I never thought it would last, because their eye signals weren’t quite right.

I realised from watching her at work that Sarah is also very professional, and that McGuire is too. I didn’t step forward to look inside that van, and I stayed well away from what they brought out of it. Maybe that’s why Mario’s a DCS, bound for ACC rank, and I’ll be stuck at chief inspector till I retire.

To be honest, I don’t envy him his position; I’m happy where I am. His house, though, that’s another matter, a bloody great duplex on top of one of the new high-rises that dominate the Leith waterfront, not far from the Scottish Government building. It goes with the car, Paula’s new Lexus.

And Paula? She goes with everything; tall, immaculate hair, archetypically Italian looks, and she has great eyes that go mellow every time she looks at the big guy. She was very pregnant when we met, but she hadn’t given in to looking fat and dumpy, as my Jean did when Myra was on the way. She knew how to dress to manage it, probably with the help of a personal shopper at one of those big Edinburgh stores. She had on a maternity day dress that must have made the till ring like a one-armed bandit scoring the jackpot.

She also knows how to make a sandwich. Even now, I salivate when I think of the plate she brought out for us.

I was halfway through mine when Mario’s phone rang, or rather played some garish Italian-sounding song. I know that ringtones have to be distinctive these days, but there are limits. He took the call, from DI Pye I gathered, then went bug-eyed as he reacted to what he was being told.

‘Guess what?’ he said when he was done. ‘That van along there belongs to Freddy Welsh’s company.’

I was beginning to wonder whether Mr Welsh had been in it when that fucking awful tune sounded again, and I learned that wasn’t the case.

‘DC Montell,’ I heard him say. ‘Tell me why you won’t let me eat my lunch?’

I watched him again as he listened, saw his face change again, the black eyebrows come together until they were almost, but not quite touching. ‘That’s reason enough,’ he murmured. ‘Thanks, Griff.’

He laid the phone on the table and turned to me again. ‘Jock Varley’s been weighed in, just like Cousin Freddy promised. That was him in the van, and, we can assume, his wife. Just as well we didn’t wait for them at their house.’