Murmuring the Judges

12

Brian Mackie closed the door of his office and sat behind his desk, looking out on to the early-morning Haddington traffic. He took a small address book from his desk and opened it at the letter S, then picked up his telephone and dialled a number.

‘DCI Afhtab speaking.’The voice at the other end had a strange mixture of accents; it was strongly Glaswegian, but with Asian lurking underneath.

‘Morning Salim, Brian Mackie here, from Haddington.’

‘Ah Brian,’ said Afhtab cheerily. ‘No’ Edinburgh any more then?’

‘Not any more. I’ve been promoted out of Special Branch just like you.’

‘Superintendent it’ll be, then. Congratulations. What can Ah do for you?’

‘I want to consult the Criminal Intelligence Unit you’re running now. Can you give me some assistance?’

‘Of course I can. I’ll deal wi’ it myself; I need to practise using the technology. Who’s the target?’

Mackie paused, as if to restrain Afhtab’s eagerness. ‘The name is Bernard Grimley. He used to own a pub on the South Side of the Clyde, before he sold up and bought a place through here. I’ve asked my lads, but he’s not known to them.’

‘I’ll check. What’s he lined up for?’

‘I can’t say, Salim. It’s sort of unofficial, like in the old days. In fact I’d be grateful if you didn’t keep a record.’

The Chief Inspector laughed. ‘Ah don’t know. Special Branch habits die hard, right enough. You got a secure fax there?’

‘Yes. Right in this office.’ Mackie turned and read the number from a machine on a small table behind him.’

‘Okay. Leave it with me. I’ll ask the Oracle and send you a report. . one way or the other.’

‘Thanks, mate. I’m due you one.’

‘Guinness’ll be fine.’

Mackie put down the phone and went back to the reports in his in-tray. He worked his way through them in half an hour, then made a call to confirm a lunch appointment with the Area Manager of the Bank of Scotland. Just as he agreed the time, the fax behind him rang and a connection was made.

He watched until the machine had finished excreting a single sheet of paper, picked it up, and read it through. He was smiling thinly to himself as he dialled the Head of CID’s direct-line number.

‘Martin.’ The Chief Superintendent’s voice sounded tired, Mackie thought.

‘Andy, it’s Brian. About that other matter you asked me to look into yesterday. There’s nothing known locally, but I’ve had some feedback from Strathclyde. It’s not going to help Alex, I’m afraid.’

There was a sigh. ‘Ach well. Give me it anyway.’

‘Grimley is known to our colleagues, right enough. He ran a pub called the Fireman’s Lift, in Jeffrey Street. It was a right thieves’ kitchen, and was known to be a contact place for Loyalist paramilitaries over from Northern Ireland on fund-raising trips.

‘Both Special Branch and CID had the place under constant observation, and this resulted in a number of arrests. They also picked up several leads which led the security forces to Loyalist arms dumps in and around Belfast.

‘The single link in all these successes was Bernard Grimley. For most of the time he owned that pub, he was a police informer, until he stopped co-operating around three years ago.

‘Our colleagues reckoned that he’d lost his bottle. When he sold the place it was on their advice. They were scared that sooner or later someone in Ireland, or Glasgow for that matter, would put two and two together and come up with the right answer.’

‘Ahh,’ Martin growled. ‘That cracks it for Alex’s case, I fear. I have a feeling that Mr Grimley’s going to end up quite a bit richer.’

‘Unless you tip off the UVF,’ said Mackie, drily.