Lethal Intent

Fifty-seven

However hard he tried not to, George Regan could not help thinking back to the previous Saturday afternoon. His son had pleaded with him to take him to Easter Road, but he had been tired, and in any event the prospect of Hibernian battling it out with Aberdeen did not excite him. So, in the end, he had given him his bus fare and his ticket money and had let him go on his own. He knew as he gazed idly and unseeing at the television that he would regret that piece of selfishness for the rest of his life.

Saturday was the worst day so far: it was the weekend, and the house should have been full of George junior, of his noise, his boisterousness, his vibrancy. He had never known such quiet. He closed his eyes, but that was worse: he imagined himself in the coffin with his boy, and the vision made him wrench himself from his chair.

He strode through to the kitchen: Jen was cooking, her usual response to times of crisis. It was her hobby, the thing that made her happiest. 'What are you doing?' he asked her.

'I'm making a beef casserole. It'll be more than we'll eat ourselves, but I'll put it in the freezer so that it'll be done if we have visitors. After that I thought I'd make a rhubarb crumble.'

'Fine, love, but before you do that can we get the hell out of here? This place is doing my head in.'

She looked at him, her eyes slightly heavy, the effect of her sedatives, he guessed. 'Mine too,' she admitted. 'Maybe things will be better after the funeral.' He knew that they would be worse, but he let her have her illusion. 'Where do you want to go?' she asked.

'Uptown?'

'In that snow?'

'It'll be okay. The main roads are cleared, and the traffic won't be as bad as usual.' He had a sudden, positive thought. 'I'll tell you what. Let's go to a travel agent and book a break for Christmas. I don't fancy spending it here, so let's go somewhere with a bit of sun.'

'Are you sure? He'll be with us, George, wherever we go.'

'Aye, but at least the wee bugger'll be warmer.'

She sighed. 'If that's what you want, let's do it. Give me a minute, while I change and put a face on.'

George knew that it would take more than a minute, but he smiled and nodded. As Jen went upstairs, he pulled on his rubber boots and went outside to scrape the snow off the driveway as best he could, and to start the car, so that the heater would be effective when they were ready to leave.

He had just cleared the last of the tarmac when he heard his mobile ring. He patted his waxed cloth jacket, looking for it in one of its deep pockets, until he remembered that he had left it on the kitchen table. He bustled back to the door, risking Jen's wrath by bringing snow into the house, as he grabbed the phone and pressed a key to receive. 'Yes,' he barked.

'Is that Detective Sergeant Regan?' a prim female voice asked.

'Yes, who's this?'

'It's Miss Bee, Betty Bee. If you remember, we met in the car park the other night, although I'm sure that I'm only one among many people you've spoken to.'

'I remember you. What can I do for you?'

'You can accept my apologies, for I believe they're owed to you. Normally I have excellent recollection; I don't know what came over me this time. I can only suppose that I took your question too literally. You asked me, if you recall, if I had seen anyone in the street after I drove out of the car park. I told you that I hadn't, and that remains the case. However, I've just remembered something else that might be of interest to you. I'm only sorry that it didn't come to me sooner.'

Out of the corner of his eye, Regan saw Jen, standing in the kitchen door. She was looking at him curiously, and seemed about to ask who was on the phone, until he put a finger to his lips. 'What was it?' he asked.

'It was a man. He wasn't in the street, though; he was in the car park itself. I was on the last of the down ramps, close to the barrier, when he came running up towards me. I really do mean running, as if someone was chasing him, only there wasn't anyone else, there was just him.'

'How close did he get to you?'

'Not close enough for me to be able to give you a detailed description, I'm afraid. I caught him in my headlights for an instant, but he swerved off to the side, into the dark.'

'Was it your impression that he didn't want to be recognised?'

'Mmm.' Betty Bee paused. 'That might have been the case.'

'Can you tell me anything about him, race, size, age, even if they're approximations? Could he have been a teenager?'

'Definitely not. His clothes were wrong for one thing: he wore a long overcoat, hardly a young person's garment. I only had the most fleeting glimpse of his face, but I don't think he was that young. He was a white man, dark-haired and solidly built. That's all I could swear to.'

'In the circumstances, that's pretty good. Thank you very much.'

'Does it help?' she asked.

'Honestly, I don't know. But it's interesting. How can I get back to you if I need to?'

She recited a mobile number; he wrote it down, then read it back to confirm that it was correct. 'Thanks again,' he said. He ended the call, staring out of the kitchen window as he pondered its potential significance.

'What was that?'

He looked across at Jen. 'Maybe nothing, but it's got my brain working again. If you don't mind, darling, I'm going to postpone that trip to the travel agent till later. First, I want to talk to my boss.'