Thursday legends

18

'That's it, then?' said Dan Pringle. He was gazing at a colour print of a computer-generated portrait. The subject was a man, in early middle age, with mousy receding hair. The pointed nose, small eyes and tight little mouth gave him a slightly rodent-like appearance.

'That's it, sir,' Detective Sergeant Jack McGurk confirmed. The Superintendent looked up and felt a pang of jealousy; the newly promoted McGurk was still in his twenties; almost a quarter of a century lay between them in age, fitness, enthusiasm and prospects.

Not that Pringle was dissatisfied with the way his career had gone; Divisional CID Commander was pretty good by most standards.' But twenty-five years earlier, when he had stood in McGurk's shoes, his sights had been set higher, on Andy Martin's office at the very least, and beyond, on the loftier heights of the Command corridor. He had been wounded when young Martin, new in the superintendent rank, had been catapulted into the Head of CID post by Roy Old's death, but he had recognised that the man was on his way somewhere, fast, and more than that, that he was possessed of a level of energy and a quality of leadership far beyond his. So he had kept his disappointment to himself, and had been rewarded by Bob Skinner with a recommendation for the award of the Queen's Police Medal.

Now here stood another young Turk in front of him. He looked up into McGurk's eyes — a long way up, since the lad was six feet five — and saw that they were bright, lit with more than enthusiasm. He shuddered, faintly, as he felt an army walk over his grave.

It's nearly time to hand on the torch, he thought. Rose, McGuire, Mackie, Mcllhenney, Steele, even Neville, and now this boy; hand-picked, all of them, by Skinner and Martin. They 're the future and, in a very short time, Dan, they '11 be the present. The Chief, Jim Elder, John McGrigor, me… maybe even Big Bob himself; we 're being lined up to march off into the sunset with our fat pensions and our gongs. Ah shit, it's been fun, though.

He forced himself to listen to McGurk as he continued. 'The pathologist said that she was confident of the general shape of the face and of the prominent features. The cheekbones were too badly smashed for her to be certain of their shape; she said that conceivably the face might have been longer, but that this is her best shot at it.'

Pringle grunted. 'Okay. Get it along to the Evening News office, as fast as you can; ask the desk sergeant to whistle up a bike. Then speak to Alan Royston at Fettes and tell him it's on its way. He can get on to his contacts at the paper and get it a good show; the front page, I hope.'

'I could call the News myself, sir. I've got a contact there too.'

The Superintendent's eyebrows rose. 'Is that so? Well, take some advice from your old Uncle Dan, and forget about it. Alan Royston's the force Media Manager. He's a civilian, a specialist, and he's our only contact with the press. The DCC and the Head of CID are red hot on that; they both believe in controlling the flow of information, and the best way to do that is to have it come through a single source. I see their point too; if every bloody DS was free to play his own games with the papers, it'd be bloody anarchy.'

McGurk nodded, making a mental note to make his relationship with his journalist brother-in-law purely social in the future. 'Understood.' He took back the portrait from Pringle and headed for the door.

As it closed behind him the Superintendent picked up his telephone and dialled the Head of CID's office. To his surprise, Andy Martin answered the call himself. 'Where are Karen and Sammy Pye?' Pringle asked

'They're checking vets in Edinburgh and West Lothian, to help Maggie with her investigation. Alec Smith was shot full of animal tranquilliser before his killer started to burn bits off him.'

'Jesus. Just like bloody Daktari, eh.'

'It wasn't Judy the fucking chimp that did that to him, I can tell you.' Martin paused; a grim silence. 'What have you got for me. Dan? An ID on the floater?'

'No, worse luck, but his likeness should be in the News this lunch time. Sarah's done us a picture. We'll give copies to the dailies as well, and television.'

'I've seen what she's done. I've been sent a copy. Mr Average, isn't he?'

'Aye, but he's someone's Mr Average.'

'So what are we doing about finding him?'

'Now we've got the e-fit, we're going to canvass houses from Roseburn up to your place, up to half a mile distant from the river, initially. I know that sounds a lot, but we'll use the Voters' Roll and eliminate households where there are no males registered.'

'A single woman might still know the man. Shouldn't you knock all the doors?'

'Give me Neville and Pye when they've finished the vets and I could. Otherwise I have to set priorities. It's holiday season, Andy; I've got my deputy, a DI, and two DCs on leave.'

'Okay,' Martin conceded. 'If you still need Karen and Sammy by then you've got them.'

Pringle beamed. 'Thanks, Andy. I was half-joking when I said that.'

'Why? It's a reasonable request. I don't want anyone ever to be able to say that your investigation is less important, or has a lower priority than the Alec Smith job. One's an ex-copper and the other's a nameless stiff who's been dead for three days without being missed, but we have the same duty to them both, and they have the same claim on my CID resources.'