Snow Storm

9

Victor checked into the Balmoral, where, as previously planned, Sacha and Boris were waiting for his arrival. It was good to see his sons, though he was wary of showing this too much. Odd that being the product of a useless bastard father, he should then be so standoffish with them, packing them off to the west for an expensive education on the quiet. The wife had been upset of course, but what did she know of the lives of men. The distance would toughen them up, give them skills that would be useful when the time came. She would wrap them in cotton wool, safe from the outside world but this was not realistic. This was not how the business worked.

Things changed however. Business evolved and moved on. They were learning how to network; indeed it could be said were ready networking with their future peers, ready to move things to the next level when their chance arrived.

Sacha had run towards him when he entered the suite, throwing his arms round him. Victor had patted the boy on the head. He wore his heart on his sleeve, the younger of his two sons. Boris was more composed, accepted his father’s hand with a manly grip and a confident expression. The west agreed with both. They had filled out with good food but kept trim on the rugby pitch.

“So what’s new boys?” he asked, unable to find a suitable opener. That was always a source of some awkwardness. They were, when all was said and done, from different backgrounds, different worlds. At Boris’s age he had been in the gulag, working on some networking of his own. He was not well fed and did not look like a rugby player, or for that matter know what the game was. The way things had been back then, he would probably have eaten a rugby player.

“I’ve started doing Italian and I made it into the first team at fullback.” Sacha began, as his father nodded his approval while watching Boris in his peripheral vision as he shrugged his shoulders and went back to doing something with that tablet they were all so interested in these days.

“…and if you mix hydrogen and oxygen in the correct amount you can make it explode with the mother of all bangs.” Sacha was saying now. It wasn’t that Victor had no interest in what his son was saying, more just that he was content to listen to the boy’s voice. It gave him the sensation all was well, with this part of his world at least. They were out of harm’s way. At least for now.

The rage was there again at this thought. He knew this could be channelled, could be the very thing that ensured the status quo remained, but that his thoughts must be marshalled in such a way that they did not overtake him.

They ordered dinner and the boys watched the new Bond film on pay per view while he attempted to clear his mind of all obstructions. Soon this would all be resolved. And then, all being well it would all be his. All of it. Just keep one eye on the prize he told himself.

He looked again at the boys. They had no idea what they were to inherit.

Sam Jones hadn’t really known what to expect through in Glasgow, at the hub of all things drug related. If she was honest, she hadn’t expected the home of the SCDEA to be quite such a hole in the ground. Maybe she’d expected too much, watched too many cop shows set in the good ole U S of A but a slightly more up market location and a building with a bit more presence wasn’t much to ask, was it? A carbuncle opposite a car hire depot on an industrial estate was hardly a shining beacon of law enforcement worthy of a forward thinking country was it?

To be fair, most of what she’d seen of Glasgow involved nights out in bars a sight trendier than the ones through in the Burgh, and Gayfield Square was a similar monstrosity. Glasgow did look a lot more city scape than Edinburgh but even so she hadn’t expected something straight off the set of Blade Runner which it turned out was just as well. It looked a lot like they’d taken over a contact centre. Hardly glamorous, which was a bit of a surprise considering the way these arseholes liked to strut about the place.

That Wilson one looked like someone had put vinegar in her coffee. Black, the small one with the big attitude needed a charisma transplant and Edwards, well, he was just sleaze incarnate. These two put Campbell to shame, although if ever anyone was deserving of a boot in the balls that one was. Ever since she’d given him the brush off at the Christmas night out it was like he was on a mission to expand the bounds of pedantry. Cock. She wondered if you could sue someone for sexual harassment on the grounds of looks and thought alone and then dismissed this idea as possibly a bit too 1984.

Edwards just seemed to take himself a level too seriously though. The way he ran his fingers through that clearly high-lit hair of his. He really did give her the dry boke.

She wasn’t sure how Burke remained so calm about the preening egos on display. Maybe he didn’t have much fight in him. Maybe he was just more of a middle manager than anything. He did look pretty pasty, spent too much time indoors you might say. Still, she’d have thought he’d have a little get up and go about him; all those stimulants he seemed to be on.

At first glance she’d put his age around 27-28. She’d been a bit dismissive of him when he introduced himself; thinking he was an overfamiliar colleague having a go at giving her the chat as soon as she walked through the door. The job could be a bit like that and she was fairly used to it anyway, mainly finding it annoying. It hadn’t helped that he’d introduced himself simply as Burke. It was two days before she figured out he was actually the boss, and only then because Campbell had gleefully filled her in while trying to introduce her to the more social side of the station as he put it. “Funny kettle of fish” was all he’d really been able to confide, before adding that “there were some rumours floating about” and changing the subject back to an offer of an after-hours drink in The Cask and Barrel. Again, she’d declined.

He drummed his hands on the wheel as they made their way down a slip road on to a mind numbingly gridlocked M8.

“Timing’s never been my strong point,” he told her, messing around with a radio that had now lost the station, struggling as it did with the difference between east and west coast. He gave up and chose the CD already in the machine instead, which sounded like Green Day on a rough day, before they’d sold out. “I don’t suppose you like stiff little fingers do you?”

“Sir?” was all she said in response.

“The band.” he replied, looking slightly alarmed.

“Oh.” she said, knowing full well. “No.”

He switched it off, looking slightly dejected. Maybe it was a dose of Seasonal Affective Disorder that made him this way. She was sure he hadn’t had those bags under his eyes six months ago.

“I suppose we should talk about the case then.”

“Yes sir.”

“Well?”

“Sir?”

“Every second word doesn’t have to be sir.” He said. “This isn’t Full Metal Jacket. What are your thoughts on the case so far? I’m genuinely interested. After all, detection is what I do, supposedly, when I’m not being condescended to of course. So feel free to enlighten me; do you for instance subscribe to the Campbell hypothesis, stating that all this is the result of a drug war raging between two rival scumbag factions? Oh screw it. I need to smoke this thing.” He began rummaging in the glove box while at the same time trying to keep the steering wheel steady. They didn’t teach that on the advanced driving course. He pulled out an e-cigarette and put it to his lips, inhaling and then breathing what looked like a huge sigh of relief, blowing water vapour against an already condensation covered window. “This isn’t an infringement of your human rights by the way. It’s perfectly legal.”

“Batter on.” She heard herself say.

“It’s just a tad embarrassing.” He confided. “Anyway, you were saying?”

“I was?”

“Well no, but you were about to be I’m sure. So what’s the story? Is Campbell right?”

“Honestly?”

He shrugged in response.

“I’d prefer you didn’t tell him this.”

“Goes without saying.”

“I do.”

Burke nodded his head slowly in what looked like contemplation, though for all she knew he could have been thinking nothing at all. Some people had mastered the art of merely looking thoughtful, much like her dad had mastered the art of looking as though he was listening when her mum rattled on about whatever DIY tasks she had in store for him on his holidays. “Assuming this is the case of course, it does imply that this might not exactly be the summit of the body pile.”

“True.” She agreed.

“In which case, I would imagine it’s only a matter of time before someone starts running a book on it.”

It was true. Campbell had already broached the subject this morning.

“What number should I put you down for?”

“I’d say another two anyway. Although, I’d prefer it didn’t happen.”

She nodded in agreement before remembering herself. These were, after all, human beings. It was far too easy to get caught up in looking at them as stats for clear up rates.

“Purely from a selfish point of view.” Burke admitted. “These sudden puddins are getting in the way of my day to day duties as defined by she who must be obeyed, AKA Mrs Burke.” He smiled. “Which reminds me, I’ve got to pick up a Christmas tree from Gorgie City Farm before I go home or there’ll be hell to pay. Anywhere I can drop you on the way?”

“Gorgie should be fine for me.”

“Really? Where are you headed anyway?”

“Marchmont. It’s a nice night for a walk.”

“If you sure.” He said. “Still living that student life eh?”

“I try.” She replied

It was dark by the time they pulled up on Gorgie Road and she hit the frosted pavement. It felt like the air was damper now, as though the cold would cling to you and sink into your bones.

She knew she was trapped in the student life, in a specific point in time, through her own choices.