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Thirty-three

  'Before I accepted this job,' said Bandit Mackenzie, 'I asked my wife if it was okay with her. She said that it was, not for the pay rise, but for the chance to move to Edinburgh. She thought that running the Drugs Squad here would be like running the marriage-guidance office in a convent. It hasn't taken long for her to know different'

  Neil McIlhenney laughed. 'What is it with you Weegies?' he said. 'There's a lot of money in this city; crime follows money, especially the drugs business. The profile might be different here… more coke-sniffing yuppies than in Glasgow… but it's active and it's profitable. Some very good coppers have had your job over the years and none of them have managed to shut it down completely. There's always someone new appearing on the streets.'

  'That's what my wife's finding out.'

  'Is she giving you a hard time?'

  'The beginnings of a hard time. When we were wrapping up Jingle Bell's operation I had a few late nights. Now we're on this operation, I can see a lot more stretching out before me. I got in at three thirty this morning, and she was awake and waiting for me. Thank Christ we're living through here now, or it would be even worse. As it is, it's a matter of time before she starts to suspect that I'm porking Mavis.'

  'Why would she think that? Have you got a track record?'

  'No, but I might as well have. My wife's a very suspicious woman; she was sure I was having it away with Gwen Dell, my sergeant through in Lanarkshire. She was always dropping hints about us. Eventually I got fed up with it, so I bought a pair of very flimsy knickers off a stall at Barrowland market and left them under the passenger seat of my car. They were gone inside a week; she never said another word about it after that.'

  'Jesus, that's a high-risk strategy.'

  'It would have been, if I hadn't written "I love you, Cheryl" on them with a red marker pen.'

  'What's your wife's name?' asked McIlhenney, casually.

  Mackenzie opened his mouth to reply, but caught on, and laughed. 'Nice one,' he said.

  'Have you got kids?'

  'Three; two girls, and a boy in the middle. You?'

  'Two and a half; Lauren's twelve, and Spencer's ten. The third one's due around next Easter.'

  'How did they take to your new wife?'

  'Great, especially Lauren. It's nothing to do with having a famous stepmother either. It gave her a chance to get her childhood back. After Olive died she decided that she had to look after me; that meant doing everything for me, except for the ironing. She was smart enough to let me do that. As for Spence, he's your average action man, a friendly, open kid. He accepted Lou from day one, and that was that.'

  'It must be terrible to lose your wife so young. I don't know if I could cope with it'

  'You would, because you wouldn't have any choice, but I hope you never have to.' He leaned across Mackenzie's desk. 'Did you get any leads last night?'

  'Nah,' his colleague replied. 'Not a sniff. We went to three clubs, but they were all quiet. We saw a deal go down in one of them, but we let it pass. It was small-time stuff, a bit of hash, and Mavis recognised the dealer. We can go back and get him any time.'

  'Or trace him back to his supplier?'

  'We know who that is already: it's an Irish team through in the west. If the Albanians had muscled in on them, we'd have found some bodies by now, or noticed a couple of people missing. How about you? Have you picked up anything?'

  McIlhenney hesitated for a second. 'Maybe. We had dinner with Mario and Paula last night, and he mentioned somebody. There's no reason to doubt that the guy's legit, but I've got Alice checking him out. If it's worth following up, I'll take it to the boss.'

  'Haggerty?'

  'I don't report to him. Besides, he and your pal Green have got their hands full going round the charities and the social workers.'

  'Rather them than me: it's like getting blood out of a stone, persuading the do-gooders to talk about their punters… sorry, their clients.'

  'Willie Haggerty can be more persuasive than he looks.' He stood up. 'I'd better be getting back to my place. Are you and Mavis out on the razzle again tonight?'

  'I'm afraid so.'

  'Don't be afraid. There's worse ways to spend a night than clubbing with a big leggy female. You could be on the pandas in Muirhouse.'

  Mackenzie sighed. 'Cheryl would prefer it I was,' he said. 'At least then she'd know when I was coming home.' He looked up. 'Where's the best place in Edinburgh to buy sexy knickers?'

  'Wouldn't know, pal,' McIlhenney replied, cheerfully. 'I don't wear any.'

  Thirty-four

  Mario McGuire had done a police driving course early in his career. It showed as he carved his way through the traffic, along Seafield Road and then into Sir Harry Lauder Road, heading for the Jewel and the Edinburgh bypass.

  Dan Pringle sat beside him, staring straight ahead but seeing nothing. 'They said they couldn't revive her,' he whispered, as they roared on to the A1. 'What does that mean, do you think?'

  'They probably needed more equipment than they had in the ambulance,' McGuire suggested lamely. 'Don't worry, Dan. They'll have given her oxygen and everything.'

  'Oh, Christ, I hope so.'

  'Who was it that phoned you?'

  'Ray Wilding, my assistant. There was a general 999 call; one of the officers who responded realised that it was my daughter. There was a photo on her desk and when they gave her my name as next of kin, he twigged who I was and called my office.'

  'So nobody's called your wife?'

  'I don't suppose so. Do you think I should?'

  'It might be wise.'

  Pringle took out his mobile and selected his home number; McGuire concentrated on the road, trying not to listen, but he found it impossible.

  'Elma, hello, it's me. I'm on my way to the Royal. No, I'm fine, but there's been an incident with Ross, at the university. No, no, don't panic now; I'm just calling you because I thought you'd want to know. Aye, okay, if you want to come that's fine.'

  'Tell her you'll have a car pick her up,' said McGuire.

  'What? Aye, okay. Elma, just you wait there. I'll get a panda to pick you up. It won't be long. See you there; and don't worry.' He ended the call and looked round, helplessly. 'Who'll I call, Mario?'

  'Wilding. Just tell him to fix it; nearest available car to your house, pronto, then to Accident and Emergency.' He braked, and swore, as he saw that the lights at Sheriffhall roundabout were at red, and that there was a small queue of traffic.

  Fortunately it took less than two minutes to clear the junction, for Pringle was almost jumping out of his seat in his agitation. 'Nearly there, Dan,' Mario told him, as they headed through Gilmerton, ignoring the speed limit.

  At last, the road signage told them that they had reached the new Royal Infirmary complex. They took the second entrance, and headed straight for the A amp;E unit, ignoring the car park signs. McGuire jerked to a halt a few yards away from the entrance, on a yellow line.

  'You can't park there, Jimmy,' a security guard called out to him, before he had time to close the car door.

  'Police,' he snarled, fixing the man with a glare that made him decide that he had more pressing priorities in his life. When he turned back towards Pringle he saw that he was gone, running past an ambulance that stood there, reversed into the wide doorway. It had no crew but its engine was still running.

  He broke into a trot to catch up, reaching his colleague just as he arrived at the admission desk. 'Ross Pringle,' he heard him bark at the receptionist. 'She was brought here. Where is she?'

  The young man looked up at him. 'Ross Pringle? We havenae had any guys brought in for a while. There was a girl just now, but that's all.'

  'Where did they take her?'

  'They just rushed her straight through to the emergency room.' He pointed towards a doorway facing the entrance. Pringle turned and ran towards it, with McGuire at his heels, ignoring the receptionist's shout: 'Hey, yis cannae go in there!'

  They burst through the double doo
r as if it was made of paper. The area beyond was divided into a number of cubicles. Three were occupied by patients whose injuries were visible and superficial; they were all unattended. The curtains were drawn across a fourth; from behind them, they heard the sound of quiet voices.

  The realisation came to McGuire that they should hold back, but it came too late. Before he could stop him, Pringle stepped forward and swept aside the curtains.

  Six faces turned to stare at him, but he was unaware of any of them: all he could see was the slim figure lying on the table. She had dark hair, close-cut in a page-boy style. She was barefoot, and wearing pyjamas. The jacket was open; her small breasts were uncovered and several coloured stickers were attached to her chest, leading to a monitor, on which a fluttering heartbeat showed. They could not see her face, for most of it was covered by an oxygen mask.

  Nobody spoke. The medical staff continued to stand there as if frozen, gazing at the newcomers. If Pringle was aware of their presence, he gave no sign of it. His eyes were fixed on the table, and on his daughter.

  And then he seemed to slump into himself; his knees buckled, and he might have fallen if McGuire had not caught him by the elbows and supported him. 'Come on, Dan,' he murmured. 'Let's just go next door and take care of you.'

  Pringle said nothing, for he was incapable of speech, but he allowed himself to be steered into the next, empty, cubicle and sat down on a chair. A white-coated doctor followed. 'The father?' he asked. McGuire nodded. He leaned towards the shocked, ashen figure. 'It's not good, I'm afraid,' he said gently. 'She had a cardiac arrest as she arrived here. We've managed to resuscitate her, but by the time she was found her body had been almost completely starved of oxygen. I wish I could tell you that she'll be all right, but I can't.'

  Pringle blinked and looked up at him. 'What? Eh? Aye?' he mumbled. He turned to his colleague. 'Mario, she's not going to die, is she?' He was begging for an answer that could not be given. McGuire, big and hard as he was, found that he could not bear the weight of those eyes on him. A lump came to his throat; he gazed up at the ceiling, fighting to keep his own control as he heard the first sobs.

  'What am I going to tell Elma?' Dan Pringle moaned. 'What am I going to tell her mother?'

  Thirty-five

  'Have you heard?' Bob Skinner asked, as McIlhenney came into his room, but the sight of his friend's expression gave him all the answer he needed.

  'About Dan's daughter? McGurk told me just now. She's in a deep coma, he said. Bloody awful isn't it? Just turned twenty apparently. The big lad out there's in a terrible state. He was friendly with the Pringles, and so he knew the girl very well. Gas, was it?'

  'So Jack told me. Ray Wilding said something about a faulty room heater.'

  'She was in student accommodation, wasn't she? Surely these things have to be inspected annually.'

  'I've no doubt they are. The university'll be all over it, but I've told Jack to get one of the technicians from our forensics lab out there to examine it.'

  McIlhenney sighed. 'What a bloody week we're having,' he exclaimed. 'First George Regan's lad, and now this.'

  'I meant to ask Dan about the Regan investigation this morning. I'd better give Mary Chambers a call instead.'

  'She'll tell you that they're ready to send the file to the Fiscal as an accidental death. At least that's what Maggie told Mario yesterday.'

  'Mmm,' Skinner murmured. 'I'm glad that's sorted. I'm desperately sorry for George and his wife, but a formal verdict is probably the best way for them to get closure. That could be a long way off for Dan and Elma, though, I reckon.'

  'Maybe, but I'm not so sure he'll recover as well as George Regan. He's older, and he's tired, plus…'

  Skinner nodded. 'I think I know what you mean. Dan's quite a volatile guy under the surface and, let's not mince words, we all know he likes a drink.' He frowned. 'Neil, if it comes to it, you know about bereavement counselling; could you give him any advice?'

  'If I thought he'd take it from me, sure, but given that he and I aren't close, it might be better if you suggested it to him… and to George, for that matter. There's an organisation called Cruse; it's national, but it has branches here. All its people are trained to a pretty high standard.'

  'Do they help?'

  'They helped me.'

  'Give me the details, and I'll pass them on.'

  'You could get the human-resources people to do it,' McIlhenney suggested.

  'I know I could, but there are some things I don't delegate.'

  'There are many things you don't delegate.'

  'So it's been said,' the DCC admitted, with a brief smile. 'Anyway, you wanted to see me. What's up?'

  'It's the Albanian thing, and it might be as well if Amanda Dennis was here.'

  'She and Green are using a room along the corridor. I'll ask her to join us.' He made the call; the two men sat and waited for around a minute, until the door opened and the MI5 officer stepped into the room.

  'Thanks, Amanda,' said Skinner, once she was seated. 'Neil's got something for us. Fire away, Chief Inspector.'

  'Yes, sir. My wife and I had dinner with Mario McGuire…' he looked at Dennis '… he's a friend of mine, a detective superintendent in Leith… and Paula last night, and he and I had a private discussion. Don't worry,' he said hastily, 'I didn't spill all the beans, but I did ask him if he knew of any contacts. He gave me a lead, to a bloke who runs an allegedly Turkish restaurant down in Leith, only he's not Turkish by birth, he's Albanian. He goes by the name of Peter Bassam.'

  'Indeed?' He had Dennis's attention. 'Have you had him checked out?'

  'First thing this morning. Alice Cowan ran him down with the DSS and the Home Office immigration section; she found out that he's here because he's got a German passport, thanks to his grandfather, an SS officer who deserted to Albania from Greece when the Germans got out of there, and sired his mother. He applied for citizenship through the German embassy in Turkey four years ago and it was granted.'

  'So he's legit: he has a right to be here?'

  'Yes, he's a European Union citizen.' McIlhenney smiled. 'But there is one thing about him that caught my attention, thanks to young Alice, who dug deep enough to find it. He calls himself Peter Bassam, but that's not the name on his passport. His given name is Petrit Bassam Kastrati.'

  Skinner chuckled. 'Is it indeed? I can understand why he doesn't use his surname, but why did he change the other, I wonder?' He looked at his colleague. 'Sounds as if he bears investigation. Any ideas?'

  'I've got one. While Alice was doing her research, I took a run down to Elbe Street and checked out his place. It was closed, of course, but he's got a sign in his window saying that he's looking for a waiter.'

  'And you were thinking?' Dennis asked.

  'I was wondering, to be more accurate, whether Sean Green has any experience in that line of work.'

  She looked at Skinner. 'Sean's experience is pretty broadly based. He's been under cover in pubs before now; I'm sure he'd be prepared to play the waiter. Is this a formal request?'

  The DCC considered the question, then nodded. 'I reckon it is. Do you have to clear it?'

  'Only with Sean; I never force people into undercover assignments.' She smiled, fondly. 'He's never turned one down, though.'

  'Okay, ask him. He'll need a new identity, references, and the ability to back them up. How long will that take?'

  'That can be in place tomorrow. But what about the state of his face? Won't that invite questions?'

  'Sure, but that won't be difficult. Couldn't you build it into his cover story, as a reason for being sacked?'

  'Screwing the chefs wife at his former place of employment, for example? Good idea: he could certainly pull that off. It would be quite in character in fact. My only small doubt is that he's been exposed in this city only recently.'

  'We can take that chance,' said McIlhenney. 'Clubbers don't eat Turkish in Leith. They hang out in the yuppie bars in George Street and go on from there.' />
  'In that case, I'm convinced. We'll give him a hair-dye job and spectacles as added cover, just in case, but let's go. He'll need an address, but I can do that. Let's just hope that sign hasn't gone from the window by tomorrow.'

  Thirty-six

  Andy Martin had the greatest respect for his chief constable. Graham Morton had been in post for almost as long as Sir James Proud, although he was still a few years short of the compulsory retirement age, and he was regarded as one of the leading figures in the Association of Chief Police Officers Scotland.

  Nevertheless, Martin was cautious as he faced his boss across the desk of his office in Dundee. 'What line do you think that ACPOS will take over the First Minister's new appointment?' he asked.

  Morton leaned back in his chair, scratched his square, bald head and considered the question. 'I think that at the next meeting there will be a lot of huffing and puffing. I expect that Dees will lead the charge: he says that the moment he heard about it he decided to retire.'

  'And do you believe that?'

  'Not for a minute.' The veteran chief constable chuckled. 'Geoff told me in private six months ago that he was planning on spending Easter with his son in South Africa, and maybe not coming back till the summer. His resignation's been in for a fortnight, and he's persuaded his board, which does not have a Labour majority, to fill the post as soon as possible.'

  'I'm told that Murtagh's planning to take a greater interest in the police service,' said Martin, 'and that this appointment's just an opening shot.'

  'It wouldn't surprise me. Even when he was on the council here, wee Tommy was a bit of a control freak.'

  'You know him well?' asked Martin.

  'Well enough; I was in post all that time, remember. I confess that I was quite relieved when he left to become a Westminster MP for a constituency over in Fife.'

  'What sort of man is he?'

  'Take the following three words: cunning, ambitious and bastard. They just about sum him up.'

  'You missed out "talented".'