Murmuring the Judges

64

‘Rory Newton?’ the woman exclaimed. ‘My bakery foreman? Of course you can see him. Come on, and I’ll take you along.’

Jennifer Tate, the general manager of the Piershill superstore, was a bustling, blue-suited woman in her mid forties, who radiated charm and efficiency. Her mezzanine office, in which the two policemen sat, had a panoramic view of the shopping alleyways and the checkout counters.

Dan Pringle shopped there often with his wife, and had always been impressed by its cleanliness, its product range and its efficiency. Now he knew that it was literally under the eagle eye of such an impressive supervisor, he understood why it stood out.

She led them past the fresh fish counter, a unit which prepared pizzas with the customer’s choice of topping, and a cold storage area for dairy products, up to twin doors at the back of the store, close to the bakery shelves.

‘Rory,’ she called out, as she pushed them open and held them for Pringle and Stevie Steele. They stepped into a spotlessly clean kitchen area, where white-uniformed staff were preparing dough for the ovens, and film-wrapping newly baked loaves, bread rolls, scones and buns.

‘Mr Newton?’

A tiny woman, in a white coat and trilby hat, turned towards her, diffidently. ‘Rory’s no’ here, Mrs Tate.’

‘Is he on his break, Molly? Should we try the canteen?’

She shook her head. ‘No, a dinna’ think so. He’s been awa’ for about an hour, like.’

‘Did he say where he was going?’

‘Naw. It was funny, like. The radio was on like ayeways, an’ the news came on. Bakey was listenin’ tae something I think, and his face went a’ funny. He went ower tae the phone, made a couple of calls, then he jist took aff his coat and hat and walked oot the door.’

Jennifer Tate turned and looked, astonished, at Pringle. He turned and looked, knowingly, at Steele, then reached into his pocket, took out a mobile phone and called the Fettes number.

‘Alan Royston, please,’ the sergeant and the general manager heard him bark, his face like thunder.

‘Alan, Dan Pringle here. Did your office release the name of the Colinton murder victim?’

He waited.

‘On DCI Gibson’s authority, you say?’ He sighed, and shook his head. ‘Okay. Do you know whether it’s been broadcast on radio yet?’

There was another pause.

‘Aye, that’s what I thought.’ The superintendent’s grin had a savage look to it. ‘Do me a favour, Alan, will you. Call Gibson back, tell him to find the longest grass he can and hide in it, before Bob Skinner catches him.

‘No. On second thoughts, tell him to take sanctuary in the nearest church. Big Bob would just set the bloody grass on fire!’