Lethal Intent

Forty-nine

Stevie Steele had never found it more difficult to concentrate on the job. Fortunately his workload was light and he had been able to afford himself the luxury of dwelling upon a turn in his life that would have been astonishing only a month or two earlier.

The night before, he and Maggie had celebrated with a bottle of cava from the fridge, and a home delivery from Pizza Hut. They were still shell-shocked from their discovery, and had ended the evening in helpless laughter at the prospect of a pregnant chief superintendent in uniform.

Although a smile was never far away, he had managed to keep a straight face at the office for most of his shift, even in the face of the apprehension of a thief in a Father Christmas suit who had tripped over his own hem when running out of the Cameron Toll shopping centre with a snatched handbag.

However, his new-found contentment was swept to one side when his door opened just after five fifteen, as he was finishing his paperwork and making ready to leave. He had expected Mary Chambers, calling to wish him good night, or perhaps to ask him what had made him so bright and breezy. Instead, George Regan stepped into the small room.

A glance at the sergeant's face told him that the reality of his loss had begun to catch up with him. His eyes were hollow and his hair, normally impeccably groomed, was untidy. Instead of the usual grey suit, he wore a heavy jacket over a sweatshirt, jeans and trainers.

'Hello, mate,' said Stevie quietly. 'How goes?'

'Bloody terrible, thanks. I'd to get the doctor to Jen yesterday afternoon; she broke down completely and he had to sedate her. She's on industrial-strength Valium now; walks about like a zombie for most of the time.'

'And you?'

'I'm trying to stay off the helpers, other than the odd beer or two.'

'Want one now? I'll come to the pub with you, if you like.'

'Cheers,' said Regan, gratefully, 'but I'd better not. I don't want to be away too long. I just called in to tell you that we've arranged the funeral. It'll be next Wednesday; twelve noon at Warriston Crematorium. Family flowers only, by the way.'

'Can we make a donation to charity instead?'

'If you want; something that benefits children would be nice.' He sighed. 'I'm done, Stevie,' he murmured. 'Looking at Jen, I just feel so bloody helpless; I don't know how to stop her crying, man.'

'Maybe if you joined her, George, just for a while.'

Regan looked at him. 'If I start to cry, I might never stop; that's what scares me.' He slumped into a chair. 'I've tried everything else, mind. I even pulled your report from big Tarvil and staked out the Castle Terrace car park for a couple of nights, with the daft notion that I might find someone who'd seen something on Sunday. I'm not implying that you didn't do a proper job,' he added quickly. 'I suppose I just hoped I'd get lucky.'

'Of course you did. I told Tarvil he could give you the report. No joy?'

'Of course not. I found a couple or three people who'd been there around that time, but none of them had seen a damn thing… because there was nothing to see. The silly wee bugger just tried one of his stunts, Stevie, that's all there is to it, and broke his parents' hearts in the process.'