Lethal Intent

Eighty-two

Danielle Martin was cutting teeth; she had given her mother a difficult day, and so when Andy had arrived home, he had found himself concentrating on her and her vocally expressed needs.

Finally, the infant had settled down to sleep, and her parents had settled down to supper. Karen could see that he was distracted; as an ex-police officer, she knew the signs. 'CID, is it?' she asked, eventually. 'Have you got a stalled investigation?'

He blinked, fork in hand and looked at her. 'Uh?'

'You were back in Dundee, Andy.'

'I'm sorry, love,' he said. 'I don't like bringing it home with me. But this is a thing I've been working on for Bob, and I'm keen to talk to him about it.'

'I see. That's what these hush-hush meetings have been about, is it? Your forces have a cross-territory job on and you two are sticking your noses in. Honest to God, the one of you's as bad as the other. You're both deputy chief constables, you have perfectly competent criminal investigation departments, but can you leave them to get on with their work? Can you hell.'

Andy smiled at her lecture. 'No, Kar, you're wrong, honestly. This has nothing to do with either of our forces… not directly at any rate. We have a political problem, one that needs careful handling or it could affect all of us.'

She shrugged as she poured him more wine. 'If it's that important, what are you waiting for? Call him.'

'I tried earlier on, but I couldn't get hold of him anywhere. He even had his mobile switched off and that's a rarity.'

'Maybe Sarah's come home and they're having a passionate reunion. That'd be nice.'

'You may wish, but don't hold your breath. Anyway, what makes you think he'd turn his phone off for that?'

She laughed, then reached across to the sideboard from her seat at the table, picked the cordless telephone from its socket, and handed it to him. 'Go on,' she urged him. 'Try again, and then maybe you can appreciate the dinner that I went to some trouble to cook for you.'

He took it from her and dialled Skinner's cell-phone; this time it rang out.

'Yes?'

There was a weariness about his closest friend's voice that set him on edge at once; he had known him in many moods, but he had never heard him sound like that. 'Bob, it's Andy. Are you okay?'

'Yeah, sorry, mate. I'm on the move, that's all.'

Martin could hear background noise: people calling out, their voices filled with urgency. 'What's up?' he asked.

'The proverbial balloon,' Skinner sighed, 'but I can't talk about it. Switch on the telly, and I reckon you'll find out soon. What do you want?'

'It's this Murtagh thing: I'm almost certain that Brindsley Groves is his father. The official version's a load of crap: his mother never married, so she was never widowed by any tragic works accident. Groves did his MBA at York, where she lived; Tommy was born around the time he went back to Dundee and joined the family firm.'

'That's very interesting, but really, Andy, I cannot deal with this just now.'

'Will I speak to Neil?' Martin asked.

'No, please don't. He has his hands full as well.'

'Okay, I'll leave it till tomorrow, if you insist, but there's one other thing I wanted to ask you. I checked out the current beneficiaries of the Groves family trust. There are four: Herbert Groves, Brindsley's son, Rowena, his daughter, Tommy Murtagh, and someone called Chris Aikenhead. Do you have any idea who he is?'

It was as if Skinner had been given an instant shot of a powerful stimulant. 'What?' he exclaimed, his voice back to full strength. 'Andy,' he continued, 'if you're desperate to talk to someone tonight, get hold of Stevie Steele, wherever he is. Your investigation and his have just bumped into each other.'