Lethal Intent

Thirty

'Do you think you'll ever go back to your career?'

Louise McIlhenney smiled. 'That depends,' she replied. 'It depends on my husband, it depends on Lauren and Spencer's needs, it depends on my health, it depends on me getting any offers to go back, but most of all it depends on how I feel after I'm a mum. I know the modern trend is to leave it late before starting a family but I'm an extreme case. I'm over forty: at an age when some women are starting the menopause I'm having a baby.'

Paula Viareggio shivered, sending her silver hair rippling across her shoulders. 'Rather you than me,' she said, 'at any age. But you don't look forty plus, you look younger than me, for God's sake.'

'No, I don't. I've been an actress for twenty years, so I'm good at makeup. You might accentuate your hair colour, but that's all you do. Where I see a sign of grey, and there's plenty under this lot, I cover it up. I don't let Neil see my hairdresser's bills: he'd have a fit if I did.'

Her husband laughed. 'I know who your hairdresser is,' he exclaimed. 'That's enough.'

'Come on,' Paula retorted. 'Don't try and kid me that men's hairdressers are cheap.'

Mario McGuire held up a hand. 'There's a guy in Leith, near the docks, who'll still cut your hair for a fiver; and it's two quid for OAPs.'

'And would you go to him?' his partner challenged.

'Not even if I was stone bald,' he admitted, cheerfully. 'But by the same token, neither would I dream of going to a barber who drives a Ferrari, the kind that you girls are talking about.'

'Charlie Kettles does not drive a Ferrari.'

'Charlie's pals would laugh him out of town if he did, as you well know, but there's others who do.'

'So? They run successful businesses. So do you and I, and we're not ashamed of it.'

Mario's smile vanished for a moment. 'There are times when I'm embarrassed by it. It's not something that I chose; it was wished on me by my grandfather and latterly by my mother, when she decided to retire to Italy. But the businesses employ a lot of people, and I feel responsible for them. Okay, we're planning to change things, but when we do, I only hope I don't have Papa Viareggio haunting me.'

'Me too,' Paula agreed. 'But you handle things the way they are just now; having Alex Skinner act on your behalf wherever possible is a good idea.'

'It is for her firm; it costs plenty.'

'What does Alex drive these days?' asked McIlhenney, casually.

'A nice wee yellow two-seater, last I saw,' Mario told him. 'Nothing flash. But speaking of Alexis, her name came up in conversation this afternoon.'

'Oh, yes?'

'I'll tell you later.'

Paula frowned and leaned across the dinner table. 'Is that our cue to withdraw to the drawing room?'

Mario looked around him. 'This place is open plan; we're in the bloody drawing room. But there is something I want to talk to Neil about.' He paused. 'We could always go to the pub, I suppose.'

She rose to her feet. 'Indeed you will not! Come on, Lou, let's retire to the kitchen for our port and cigars. Better still, we'll load the dishwasher and open that second bottle of Barolo.' She began to place the dinner plates and cutlery on a tray, while the two men took their glasses and walked over to the armchairs in the opposite corner of the big loft.

'What's up, then?' Neil asked quietly as he sat down. 'Who was talking about Alex?'

'Greg bloody Jay, that's who. He swanned into my office this afternoon, like the Archangel Gabriel on an undercover mission for God. I don't know what he was trying to do, impress me, threaten me, warn me or what, but what he did succeed in doing was piss me off. He went on about some new job of his… that my best pal knows about, apparently, but hadn't got round to telling me about… and then he told me to give Malky Gladsmuir a wide berth. He thinks Malky's his snout, not mine.'

'And will you?'

'Like hell I will. Malky's in for a personal visit tomorrow; in fact he'd have had it by now if you and Lou hadn't been coming for dinner. Anyway, once Jay left, I had Sammy Pye tail him. You know where he went?' Mario paused in his tirade. 'But then I suppose you do know.'

'St Andrews House?'

'Got it in one.'

'What's he doing there?'

'Whatever Tommy Murtagh tells him to do: he's replaced Sir John Govan as security adviser.'

'How long have you known this?'

McIlhenney glanced at his watch. 'For approximately nine hours; I haven't had a chance to tell you since then.'

'Apology accepted.'

'I didn't know I'd offered one.' He took a sip of San Pellegrino. 'Do me a favour,' he said. 'Don't go off at half-cock over this. For example, don't do anything too painful to Gladsmuir.'

'Why not? I'm not having the bastard thumbing his bloody nose at me.'

'Maybe not, but just hold off for a wee while, okay?'

'Are you up to something?' McGuire growled.

'Let's just say that the Jay problem is being addressed. If you think that Jay pissed you off, you have no idea what he's done to Bob Skinner.' McIlhenney leaned back in his chair and watched a wicked smile cross his friend's face.

'Is that so?' Mario mused. 'In that case, far be it from me to get in the way of his vengeance.'

'Good. I was hoping you'd see it that way.'

'I'm not daft. I want to hold on to my ambitions, for a while at least'

McIlhenney was taken by surprise. 'You? Ambitious? I thought that all your Christmases had come. You're in the division you've always wanted, you're in a relationship that's exactly right for you, with neither you nor Paula making any demands of each other. On top of that, you're got the option of buggering off to run the family business any time you like. What the hell more do you want?'

'I want Dan Pringle's job when he goes.'

'Mmm. You do, do you?' McIlhenney murmured. 'I've wondered, but it's the first time I've heard you come right out and say it. What about Alastair Grant? He's got seniority now that Jay's out, and Maggie's back in uniform.'

'I'll take my chances; but in the meantime I won't do anything to undermine them, don't worry.' McGuire glanced up, quickly. 'Enough about me, though: how about you, pal? Are you all right?'

'I'm fine. Why do you ask?'

'I thought you were looking knackered, that's all.'

'Ah. I haven't been sleeping too well, if you really want to know. I think I must be worrying about Lou and the baby. Plus, I've got a lot on my plate.'

Mario laughed. 'Pull the other one,' he said. 'I've done the SB job, remember. I'd have thought you'd caught your quota of terrorists for the year. It's not your fault that Murtagh gave them away.'

McIlhenney scowled at him. 'I wish I had performance targets like you divisional guys. Just when you think you've pulled yourself out of the morass, something grabs your ankle and you're back in there.'

'Something I should know about?'

'Something I can't tell you about, officially.'

'Unofficially?'

'Not in detail.'

'Spooks?'

'No comment' McIlhenney fell silent for a few seconds, then looked up once more. 'What do you know about Jay's connections?'

'What kind? Masonic?'

'Maybe, but I was thinking political. I mean, the guy walks out of a successful but unspectacular thirty-year police career, one of a hundred or so across the country, with no flair and no distinguishing features, yet next day he's in an office at the heart of the Executive with a lot of real power in his hands. Clearly he didn't apply for the job; he was put there. It would be good to know how that happened.'

'I'll ask around, but don't expect much. He didn't leave too many friends behind when he was transferred out of Leith.'

'Ask quietly.'

'Of course.'

McIlhenney nodded. 'While you're at it, there's something else.'

'There always is. Go on.'

'Albanians.'

'Balkan gangsters; terrible football team. Do I get any points for that?'

'That's just your starter for ten. I'm looking for some.'

'Is this what you can't tell me?'

'Could be. Let's just say there are four of them, and there are a lot of soiled underpants around down south.'

McGuire let his head fall against the high back of his armchair and raised his Barolo to his lips as he gazed at the loft's vaulted ceiling. 'Albanians,' he whispered. 'They're not exactly thick on the ground around here.'

'I didn't think they would be.'

'But there is one.'

McIlhenney sat a little more upright. 'Yes?' he murmured.

'There's a restaurant, in Elbe Street; it hasn't been open all that long. It's called Delight, would you believe? and it's supposed to be Turkish. The guy who owns it has a funny name: he's called Peter Bassam. One of my people was there for a meal a few weeks ago, and she got talking to him. She'd just been to Turkey on holiday, and she asked him what part of the country he was from. He said that although he'd lived in Ankara for many years, he was from Tirana. He laughed and said that he'd opened a Turkish restaurant because he didn't think he'd have any customers if he put "Albanian" over the door.'

'Have you been there?'

'No. She said it was okay, but not exceptional.'

'What wasn't?' asked Paula, walking towards them with Lou. In her left hand she had a bottle of mineral water, which she gave to Neil as she topped up Mario's glass with her right.

'The Turkish place in Elbe Street'

She shuddered. 'Sheep's eyeballs and all that! No wonder it's only the Turks who eat there.'