Thursday legends

3

Andy Martin stared at the wall. He had become familiar with it since moving into his town house in Dean Village. One or two friends and colleagues had asked him why he had bothered, since his new home was less than half a mile from his Haymarket flat; but those who really knew him needed no explanation.

Since his break-up with Alexis Skinner, the detective had been focused almost completely on his work. Sure, there had been the odd night out with his team. Sure, Bob Skinner and he remained as close as ever, and if Andy suspected that his friend was secretly pleased that the engagement was over, neither of them ever discussed the matter. Sure, on more than the odd occasion, he had dipped into his old address book for dates and the odd one-night stand, instant flings which more than anything else had served to show him that he had virtually no friends outside the job. And even they, or most of them, tended to be just that bit more distant now that he was high on the ladder, and on the fast track for Chief Officer rank.

He had never thought of himself as a lonely man; now he realised that, before Alex, he had been just that and, without her, he was once more. The Haymarket place had become intolerable for him. The part of him which mourned her loss saw her in every shadow; but the part of him, the stronger part, which could never forgive her, could never forget either, never forget the shock of discovery or the choking, blinding, deafening rage which had overwhelmed him when she had told him, in that damned house, that she had aborted their child.

So he had sold it, to a young, upwardly mobile couple, as they had been once, and had moved into the modern three-storey end-terraced house with a living room on the first floor, a small balcony overlooking the Water of Leith, and with at least one bedroom more than he felt he would ever need. And the wall had become his companion.

Of itself, it was nondescript, without windows, painted in a pale pastel colour, a barrier between his solitude and the busy life of his neighbour, a pleasant, middle-aged woman with a senior job in the Scottish Government administration, two daughters and a Vauxhall. But since moving in he had hung it, and most of the others, with his collection of paintings by contemporary Scottish artists, acquired over the years from galleries and sale rooms in and around Edinburgh, and on one or two occasions, from exhibitions at the city's respected College of Art.

Each one had for him its own personality, and said different things to him. They were his friends, although they were still acclimatising, blending into their new surroundings as he moved them around, finding the arrangement within the room's differing patterns of light which showed all of them at their best. 'Maybe now they're right,' he said aloud as he sat in his armchair and gazed at them. It occurred to him that he had not felt as peaceful for months, not for more than a year, when all was serene with Alex and him, before their conflicts had arisen; yes, maybe now they were indeed right.

The ladies liked them too; he grinned at the recollection of his pleasure at showing his collection to someone for the first time. Sally, an old flame, had been bowled over by them — literally, as it had turned out — only a week before. So had Jane, a month or so back. Karen Neville had never seen them, though, and he doubted if she ever would. The others were… safe; Karen was trouble waiting to happen.

He and the spectacular sergeant had come together in the wake of violence and of two vastly different personal tragedies. They had both meant it to be a one-off, but there had been a repeat performance, then another, and another, until finally he had allowed the relationship simply to fade away, before it reached the point at which he would have been obliged to move her out of her job in his office. He liked Karen, and undoubtedly they were great together under the duvet, but the memory of Bob Skinner's indiscretion with a member of his personal staff was too strong for him to push away.

The paintings seemed to gaze back at him; he grinned as he wondered if they might be trying to tell him that they needed a wider audience. There was the girl next door for a start. Rhian Lewis, the older of the civil servant's two daughters, was a medical student at Edinburgh University; she was tall, blonde and athletic, and she had that look in her eye. He had seen her running at weekends; once, indeed, he had overtaken her on the Water of Leith Walkway, and they had jogged back to Dean Village together.

Yes, Rhian would like the collection, he was sure; and the paintings would like her. But… the girl next door? Fraught with problems, he told himself at once. And she was so young; younger even than Alex. He'd be a real idiot to make the same mistake twice, would he not?

'Yes,' he said aloud. 'A real idiot. No more twenty-anythings for you, Martin. You'll play in your own age group from now on. Starting this weekend.' He pushed himself up from the chair, picked up his cordless phone from the coffee table, and dialled a number, plucked from his memory. 'Hi, Janey,' he began, as the call was answered. 'Andy. You doing anything tomorrow night?'

'Washing my hair,' the woman on the other end of the line said, tersely.

'On a Saturday night? That sounds like the bum's rush to me.'

'You could be right there, Mr Martin. Tell you what, why don't you ask that Sindy Doll I saw you with in George Street last weekend?' The line went dead.

'Ouch,' he said, staring at his handset. 'You get away with nothing in this bloody city, do you?' he complained to the paintings. He started to dial Sally's number, but paused. Two weeks on the trot could lead to a third, and so on; these things could come about almost by default. He and Sal had been live-ins a few years before and, nice as she was, he didn't fancy going there again.

'Bugger,' he swore, and began to whistle tunelessly, an old Sinatra song about lonely Saturday nights. And then he had a brainwave. He picked up his Filofax and flicked through its telephone listings, until he got to the 'Macs' section. He found the number at once; scrawled in over the one which it had replaced, and dialled it up.

The ringing tone sounded four times, before it was replaced by a honey voice. 'Yes?' she said, cautiously; the tone of a woman living alone. 'Ruthie?' he asked, although he knew that it was her. Ruth McConnell, Bob Skinner's secretary, a Kim Basinger lookalike with legs which went all the way up to her bum; gorgeous and currently single.

'Yes?'

'It's Andy Martin. Listen, this is a bit of a cheek, so don't worry about blowing me out, but I'm at a bit of a loose end tomorrow night. I wondered if you fancied dinner.'

Only three or four seconds, but seeming twice as much. 'Andy, I'd love to,' she answered. He could tell from her tone that she meant it; he could tell also what she would say next. 'But I can't. I'm going through to Ayr tomorrow to visit my Mum. She's just come out of hospital.'

This is not your day, son, he thought. 'Ahh, too bad,' he said. Still, there had been that hint. 'How about next weekend?'

'That would be great.'

'Okay then. I'll see you sometime and you can give me directions for picking you up.'

'In that new car of yours? Yes, please.' The anonymous Mondeo had gone as part of his personal make-over, to be replaced by a sleek red MGF.

He ended the call feeling vaguely uncomfortable, as if he had boxed himself into something, slipped the small telephone into the pocket of his shirt, picked up that afternoon's Evening News and wandered out on to his second-storey balcony. The summer sunshine hit the river side of the house in the late afternoon and evening; next door, in the garden below, Rhian, in tee-shirt and shorts, was sprawled in a chair, reading. His appearance through the patio door caught the corner of her eye. She looked up and smiled at him. 'Hello, Andy,' she called up. 'Nice night, isn't it.'

'Sure is.'

She put down her book and stood up, long tanned legs unfolding. 'Social life let you down?' she asked. He laughed. 'That's perceptive of you.'

'Mine too. Take me for a pint then; a walk up to Rutland Place would be nice.'

Andy Martin was rarely caught off guard. 'I suppose it would,' he said, cagily. 'Ahh, what the hell, you're on. See you outside.'

The girl ran indoors and he was turning too, when a figure appeared on the next balcony. It was Juliet Lewis, Rhian's mother, dark-haired, shorter than her daughter, but trim nonetheless; he was quietly relieved to see that she was smiling. 'I should apologise for my forward daughter,' she said. 'She didn't give you much chance to say "no", did she?'

The burly, fair-haired policeman grinned back. 'She's right; it's a nice evening for a walk.'

'She's in safe hands, at least.'

That's all you know, lady, Martin thought.

'Let me be as forward as Rhian now,' she went on. 'It's Margot's eighteenth tomorrow, and I'm having a party for her. If the weather holds we're going to have a barbecue; if not, I'm cooking indoors. If you're free would you like to join us, rather than sit up there exposed to the cooking smells and annoyed by the music?'

Jesus, he thought once more, when you least expect it…

'That's very thoughtful of you, Juliet,' he said. 'Yes, thank you, I'd like that.'

'Good. Around seven, then.'

Rhian was waiting when he stepped outside into the street. She had changed from her shorts into black jeans, but was still in the loose-fitting tee-shirt which she had worn in the garden. 'Hi,' she said, brightly. 'We could always run to the pub, I suppose, but we'd hum a bit when we got there.'

'No,' he said, looking at her and reminding himself again just how young she was. 'Let's just stick to walking pace.' They set off out along the narrow street which led out of their part of Dean Village and on up towards the city's West End.

'You're a police officer, aren't you?' the girl asked, as they crested the rise into Belford Road.

'That's right.'

'So my mum was right. She thought that's what you were.' 'She's well informed. I try to keep home and work separated.'

'Mum's usually in the know about the police; it's part of her job. What do you do? You're not in Special Branch, are you?'

He laughed; her brightness was infectious, just like Alex. 'If I was, I couldn't tell you.'

'Or if you did, you'd have to kill me?'

'It's not that cloak and dagger, honest. But no, I'm not in SB; not any more.'

'So what are you? An Inspector, like that man in the TV series?'

'No. Actually I'm a Chief Superintendent. Detective.'

She looked at him, apparently impressed. 'God. You must be older than you look. That's next to Chief Constable, isn't it?'

It was his turn to laugh. 'Not quite. I'm Head of CID. There are three people between me and Sir James.'

'Sir James? I thought that man Skinner was the Chief Constable.'

'Bob? He hates even the notion that he might be one day. No, he's the Deputy Chief. I report to him.'

'I see.' She looked him in the eye. 'So how old are you, then?'

'What do you think?' 'Thirty-five.' She was only a year out. 'That's near enough. How about you?' 'What do you think?'

'Looking at your mother, you can't be much older than Margot.'

'Thank you, sir, on her behalf. I'm twenty-one; Mum's forty-four.'

'As if I'd ask you that.'

'You just did, Mr Detective, by implication.'

'So what about your father?' Martin asked.

'Gone to the other side,' she answered.

'Ahh, I'm sorry to hear that. What was it?'

'Latent homosexuality — he's living in Brighton with a chiropractor. He's a gynaecologist; I think it got to him eventually'

Andy gasped, stopped in his tracks and looked at the girl. 'Christ,' he murmured, slowly, 'what age were you when you were born?'

'About fifteen, my mother says.'

Which makes us the same age, he thought.

'And you're going to be a doctor, like your father?'

'Yes, but not quite like him. I think I'll specialise in proctology. Better career prospects, I reckon; after all, everyone's got one of them.'

'You're quite a girl,' he said, once he had stopped laughing. 'Do you always go on like that to guys you've just met?'

'Only if I think they're up for it. Besides, we haven't just met. We've been neighbours for months, and we're jogging companions.'

'Running, my dear,' he corrected her. 'That might have been jogging for you, but it was running for me.'

'Don't kid me, Mr Andy. You might be a bit of a bufry, but you're as fit as a fiddle; you were scarcely breathing hard that day you caught me up. And I saw you out cutting your grass last week. There's not an ounce of fat on you.'

He tapped his head. 'It's accumulating up here, though. Come on, enough about me. How long till you graduate?'

Rhian's stories of Edinburgh University School of Medicine lasted the rest of the way up to their destination. As they approached the two-storey pub in Rutland Place, across the street from the Caledonian Hotel's grand main entrance* they could see that the usual Friday night throng had developed inside. There seemed to be space available, but the doors were guarded by squat men in dark blazers. 'Damn,' Rhian muttered. 'Do you think we're going to get in?'

'Stick with me, kid.' Martin led her towards the main door; one of the bouncers stepped across his path.

'Full up, pal,' said the man, with the air of one who did not expect debate.

Andy looked him in the eye. 'Police.'

The bouncer stood his ground. 'Aye, that'll be right.'

'Aye, it will,' the detective agreed, speaking barely above a whisper. 'I can see in there well enough. They can take two more, so do it the easy way. Believe me, you don't want to try the other.'

The man considered his options for a few seconds, then stepped aside.

'Can you talk your way in anywhere?' Rhian asked.

'Not the New Club. In the bomber jacket and the chinos that would be a bit difficult; but pubs, sure. The guy on the door just fancied himself a bit; on an authority trip, that was all. Now what'll you have?'

Indeed, the bar was not quite as busy as it had appeared from the street; they found a couple of high stools by a shelf along the back wall and perched themselves there. 'Right,' said the girl briskly, after a first sip at her pint of lager. 'You've had my story, now let's have the rest of yours. What happened to Mrs Martin?'

He wrinkled his nose. 'That role is currently vacant.'

'Indeed? Then you're holding regular auditions, from what I've seen on Sunday mornings. But you don't seem like the playboy type.'

'I like to think I am; don't shatter my illusions, please.'

She hesitated. 'Ahh, I see. "Shut up, Rhian, and mind your own business." Okay. Sorry.'

He shook his head. 'No, no. I didn't mean to cut you off. The fact is I lived with someone until about nine months ago. She was going to be Mrs Martin, but it didn't work out.'

'What happened?'

He shrugged his shoulders. 'She caught me screwing someone else,' he said, quickly.

Rhian gazed at him. 'If you'd looked me in the eye when you said that, I'd have believed you. It's just as well you're a copper, not a crook, for you're a really lousy liar. Let me guess. It was the other way around?'

His vivid green eyes fixed on hers. 'Nothing to do with it,' he murmured. 'There were things we couldn't reconcile, that's all.'

'And you've been blaming yourself ever since?'

His gaze did not waver. 'No. I'm not that much of a romantic. I've been blaming her ever since, and I always will.' He drank deeply from his beer. 'It's time to move on, though. I know that.'

She drained her glass and looked at him. 'Fine. Let's go to Mather's.'

'You're a bit of a girl, aren't you?' he chuckled.

'No,' she shot back. 'I'm a lot of a girl. Just what you need, officer; you've been brooding for long enough.'

They eased their way out of № 1 Rutland Place and crossed Shandwick Place to Mather's, different surroundings altogether, more of a traditional man's pub. Initially, he felt uneasy about taking her in there, but he had learned enough about his enticing neighbour to know that the alternative was to let her go in alone.

The two fair-haired newcomers drew a few looks as they stepped into the dull, high-ceilinged bar, and a few smirks too. As they walked up to the bar, Andy looked around slowly and deliberately, and recognised half a dozen faces; men-about-town of a certain sort whose paths had crossed his, over the years. Two of them nodded in his direction, the others looked away, arousing his suspicions at once. He made a mental note to pass their names on to Dan Pringle, the divisional CID Commander for the area.

'Eighty shilling?' Rhian's question reclaimed his attention. She had a five-pound note in her hand.

'Yes,' he answered, glancing across at the barman, 'but you can put that away. I don't accept drinks from members of the public… and certainly not from students.'

'Hey, I'm a liberated lady.'

'Maybe, among your generation; to me you're just a kid.' As he passed his own fiver across the bar, she frowned and looked away from him; the first crack in the shell of her self-confidence. 'Hey, I'm sorry,' he offered at once. 'I didn't mean to put you down.'

That look in her eye came back at once. 'Don't flatter yourself. You haven't picked me up yet.'

They stood at the bar in Mather's while they drank and talked. Rhian tried to prise police stories from him, but he steered her gently on to other topics. For all her assurance, she was too young for many of the tales that he could have told her. Fleetingly, the thought came to him that if he did, the temptation which she represented would go away at once, but he rejected it.

Instead he talked all the usual small-talk, music and movies, all the harmless stuff which he used to build a screen between his companion of that and other evenings, and the real Andy Martin. Only Alex knew him, and she had rejected him; it would be a long time before that man came back. Better casual affairs and loneliness than experience that pain again.

'Am I starting to bore you?'

He blinked and smiled at her. 'Far from it. I was somewhere else for a minute, that's all.'

'No, you weren't. You were in Bert's Bar all along, and my glass is empty… but it's okay, I think it's time to go. A pint and two halves is enough for me.'

He finished his third and last pint of the evening, and they left their third and last port of call, walking out into William Street, into the still, mild summer evening. She took his arm as they turned into Walker Street, quiet at ten-thirty, even on a Friday night. She was silent on the walk home, along Rothesay Terrace and down the hill towards the Village.

'Thanks, Andy,' she said at last, as they arrived at their neighbouring homes. 'This has been nice… even though you have been blocking me out all night.'

'I haven't,' he lied; she was perceptive, this girl-woman.

'Oh no? Ask me in for a coffee, then.'

He looked at her, temptation on legs, in the gloaming of the June Scottish night, lit by the blue glow of the northern sky. And then he thought of the paintings. 'Do it,' they seemed to whisper to him.

'Okay,' he said. 'Would you like a coffee?'

She seemed to twinkle at him. 'Well, just the one…'

He unlocked the door and stood aside for her; the houses in the terrace were identical in lay-out, so she headed straight upstairs to the first-floor living area, above the garage, laundry and store rooms. He flicked a light switch and watched her as she stopped, as soon as she reached the top and stepped into the living room.

She was gazing at the paintings as he stepped up beside her. 'How do you like my friends?' he asked.

'Andy, they're really lovely. Are they all originals?'

'Sshh,' he said. 'You'll offend them, just by asking that. Stay here and get to know them; I'll give you the guided tour once I've made the coffee.'

He stepped through to his kitchen and made a pot of filter coffee, then brought two mugs back to the living room. 'I guessed no sugar, okay?' She nodded as he set them on a low table. She was standing by the cabinet which held his hi-fi equipment, holding a CD case.

'Who's this?' she asked.

'Mary Coughlan. Irish; what you'd call a torch singer.' He picked up a remote, and pressed a button; a few seconds later a smoky voice sang out into the room. 'Right,' he said. 'Andy's art gallery.'

He walked her round the pictures one by one, explaining the history of each and of its artist. The collection was a blend of modern and traditional art, oils, acrylics and watercolours. 'They're all beautifully framed,' Rhian commented.

'Most of them have been refrained to my taste. I can't paint for toffee, so I sort of see that as my stamp on them. Many artists will put any old cheap crap around their work, so there's plenty of scope.'

She turned to face him. 'So this is the man you've been keeping back from me all night. A secret lover of art and very sexy music' She put her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

'Hey, hey,' he whispered. 'Rhian, this isn't…'

She pressed herself against him, provocatively; he was rock hard, no disguising it. 'Mmm, like I said. Not an ounce of fat.'

'Come on kid,' he protested. 'Don't rush your fences.'

'Ahh,' she said, softly. 'So the fence is there to be cleared…'

'I didn't say that. Look, you're very attractive, and all that-'

'But I'm only a kid. Don't kid yourself. You wouldn't be the first man I've slept with…' She paused.'… or the oldest either.'

'No, but I'll be the first who lived next door.' 'What's that got to do with it?' 'Ask your mother.'

'It's got nothing to do with her. Andy, I'm past my twenty-first. I'm a grown woman… damn well-grown at that. Now shut up and kiss me again.'

Oh shit! said the voice in his head. His hands, which had been together loosely at the small of her back, slid up under her tee-shirt. Her skin felt silky and smooth,' as he drew her close against him. Her lips were soft, her full breasts loose, her nipples hard, rubbing against him even through two layers of clothing.

He gave himself up to Trouble, and in that moment didn't give a damn.

Andy Martin had long held the irrational theory that telephones are a malevolent life form, one which chooses to interfere in its creators' business at pivotal moments, out of cussedness. But when his cordless phone rang out, he thought that, for once, it might have decided to save him from himself.

•

He extricated himself from Rhian's embrace. 'That's probably your mother,' he muttered, as he picked up the handset.

The girl shook her head. 'Probably one of your Saturday night women,' she laughed.

'Martin,' he said into the receiver. It was a woman, but one of the Monday-to-Friday sort. 'Andy,' a familiar voice replied. 'It's Maggie.'

He looked back across the room and put a finger to his lips. 'Yes, Chief Inspector Rose. What can I do for you?'

'I'm at a crime scene: a suspicious death.' He heard her pause. 'No, let's forget police-speak, a murder. I'm sorry to bother you with it, but I guessed you'd want to know about it.'

'Why's that?'

'Because it's a right nasty one… and because the victim's an ex-copper.'

'Shit. Where are you?'

'North Berwick. A house called Shell Cottage, in Forth Street.'

'I'll be with you inside an hour. I've had a couple of beers so I'll need to round up a driver.'

He ended the call and looked at Rhian. 'Sorry, love. It's the job; I've got to go and look at a body. You see? You don't really want to be involved with me: this sort of thing happens all the time.'

'Don't worry. It happens to doctors too. Can I come with you?'

'No way,' he answered, firmly. 'Then I'll wait for you.'

'No.' He frowned at her. 'Seriously, you should go next door. If for no other reason than that this could take all night.'

'Ann,' she sighed. 'In that case, I'll see you tomorrow. I could take all night too.'