Last Resort Read online

  ‘Thanks, love,’ I said, ‘but that won’t help. The interdict itself wouldn’t be secret; it would draw attention to the problem. When I’m ready, I’ll make his eyes pop myself. But there’s one thing you can do. D’you remember me telling you that I had a second DNA test done on Ignacio and me?’

  ‘Of course I do. You used a lab in Glasgow, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s right. I went there in person, and dealt with the director of the clinic personally; I gave him the samples, but I didn’t say whose they were. He assumed that it was police business, and I didn’t correct him: but I did pay with my own debit card.

  ‘I’d like you to have a chat with him; not a threatening chat, mind, just a conversation. Without saying why, ask him to check whether there’s been any unauthorised access to the records of the tests.’

  She was still fizzing with anger. ‘Oh, I will, don’t you worry,’ she murmured. ‘I won’t threaten him with anything; I’ll let him make another assumption, that’s all.’ She paused for a couple of seconds. ‘Dad, can’t I do anything about this man Baillie? Knowing he’s out there, using Ignacio as a weapon against you . . .’

  I understood her frustration. At that moment, I’d have liked to be standing on the guy’s doorstep, with no witnesses.

  ‘There is one thing,’ I suggested. ‘Sauce says that he writes true crime books. See if you can find any, and read them. They might give you some insight into the man.’

  ‘I will do,’ she promised. I heard her draw a breath. ‘Pops,’ she continued, although she sounded hesitant, ‘is there any chance this could have leaked from within the police force?’

  ‘That’s a fair question, love,’ I conceded, ‘but I don’t believe so. Yes, a DNA link between me and Ignacio was established during the investigation into Bella Watson’s murder, when they ran his sample through the national database, but the only people who knew about it were Sammy Pye and Sauce Haddock, who investigated the murder, Arthur Dorward, the forensic team leader, and his technicians . . . and two others. When Arthur saw the findings he reported them directly to Maggie Steele and Mario McGuire, as chief constable and assistant chief. The knowledge went no further than that group and none of those would talk, none of them.’

  ‘Not even the technicians?’

  ‘No chance.’

  Her silence told me that she wasn’t one hundred per cent convinced.

  ‘Trust me on that,’ I insisted.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Certain. Now go on, do as I asked.’

  ‘Okay, I will, but you do one thing for me. Put this distraction right out of your head and focus on what you’re in Spain to do; leave Baillie to me, and get on with considering your future. By the way,’ she added, ‘Andy said he wants to talk to you about that when you get back.’

  I smiled as I pocketed my phone. Andy Martin, my daughter’s partner, and first chief constable of the new unified Scottish police service, had talked to me about nothing else in the weeks since he’d taken up his post.

  I hadn’t ruled out all of the suggestions he’d made, but I was clear that whatever I did would be on my terms, and I wouldn’t be calling anyone ‘Sir’ . . . the truth is, I was never very good at that . . . especially not him, the guy I’d given a leg up to as a raw young detective constable, twenty years before.

  I had made my calls from Xavi’s garden; there was a chill in the evening air, but nothing in comparison to December Scotland. I took a deep breath and then exhaled, gazing up at the stars. I’ve always liked dark skies; maybe, when finally I do retire, I’ll take up astronomy . . . that’s if I don’t buy that boat I’m forever promising myself.

  I heard the squeak of an unoiled hinge from behind me, and turned to see Xavi, standing in the open patio doors, his head touching the top of the frame. I strolled back towards him.

  ‘All well at home?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ I replied, then moved on quickly. ‘Did you call your Mossos friend?’

  ‘Yes, and I caught him in his office, as I thought. I’m sorry it took so long, but here you don’t simply ask for a favour. You make a bargain, and Comissari Canals is a bloody tough negotiator.’

  ‘Even when you’re reporting a potentially stolen car?’

  ‘Particularly so, when it’s me calling him: the managing director calling the police chief.’

  ‘Did he ask the wrong questions?’

  ‘No, he’s a good guy; he’s having a major raid on drug importers next week, and I’ve promised him a splash in all our outlets when he’s ready to go public with the results.’

  I smiled. ‘I know how the game works,’ I said. ‘You and I played it ourselves a few times, in Edinburgh when you ran the Saltire.’

  He nodded. ‘I suppose we did,’ he chuckled, ‘but you always got a hell of a lot more out of it than I did. Come on, let’s have dinner and talk over old times. I feel a lot better than I did before you got here, knowing that I’m actually doing something about Hector.’

  He led the way indoors and through to a long dining room; there was a big pine table in the centre, and it was set for six, although it could have seated three times as many, easily. Sheila was waiting for us, and with her were Paloma, Joe and a woman I hadn’t met.

  ‘This is Carmen,’ Xavi said, leading me towards her, ‘Joe’s partner.’

  She smiled as she extended a hand; she was of medium height and slim, with dark hair and beautiful brown eyes. I knew that she had to be in her mid-fifties, but she’d have passed for ten years younger. In her presence Joe had a twinkle in his eye that hadn’t been apparent earlier.

  ‘The artist,’ I murmured, as we shook hands.

  She nodded. ‘The policeman.’

  ‘Señora,’ I replied, ‘your work is much more distinguished than mine.’

  ‘Wow!’ Xavi laughed. ‘Dad, you’d better watch this guy.’ He caught my surprise at the paternal reference. ‘I thought he was my father until I was in my twenties,’ he reminded me. ‘I’ve never broken the habit completely.’

  Dinner was a quiet family meal, a blend of local and British, with a salad of chorizo and other embotits (thinly sliced cold sausages; there are seventeen varieties in Catalunya) as the starter, followed by roast chicken and chips with fried onion rings on the side. Dessert was Crema Catalana, the local version of crème brûlée, but with more cinnamon; it was home-made, not shop bought . . . as most are, in most restaurants . . . and finished off by Sheila with a blowtorch, to melt and brown the sugar on top. I suspected that she had prepared it in my honour, for it’s quite fiddly to make.

  As we ate, I stuck to sparkling water; I don’t like mixing cava with anything else, and besides, I keep an eye on my intake these days, particularly when I’m away from home.

  As Xavi had promised, the dinner table chat was personal rather than business. Paloma was keen to hear about my family; I told her it was extended, and that my children with Sarah had a much older half-sister, just as she had Ben.

  ‘Does she treat them like brothers and sisters?’ she asked. The question surprised me and that must have registered on my face, for she added, ‘Sometimes Ben treats me as if I was his niece, or even his daughter. Yes, he’s eighteen years older than me, but still he shouldn’t talk to me as if I was just a kid.’

  ‘I suppose Alex does the same, sometimes,’ I admitted. ‘She doesn’t have children of her own, not yet, so she does spoil them, especially Seonaid, the youngest; and she’s very protective of them . . . all of them.’ I had a flash recollection of her fury when I’d told her of the possible threat to Ignacio. ‘It doesn’t bother me; it’s natural. The counter-question, Paloma, is how do they treat her? How do you think of Ben?’ I asked her.

  ‘Oh, he’s my brother, that’s all, and I remind him of that every time he gets stroppy with me.’

  ‘When does he do that?’ Sheila asked, with a trace of annoyance.

  ‘Usually after I’ve beaten him on the Playstation. He’s a bad loser.’

  ‘
Mmm,’ she murmured. ‘I must have a word with him about that; his father had the same unfortunate trait. I’ve never noticed it in Ben before . . .’

  ‘Why should you have?’ Xavi asked, with a grin. ‘Dads and sons, it’s different, but you don’t have a pissing contest with your mum.’

  ‘Good point,’ she conceded. ‘Nor should a grown man with his twelve-year-old sister.’

  ‘You said “he had”,’ I observed. ‘You spoke of your first husband in the past tense. Does that mean . . .’

  She shook her head, firmly and quickly. ‘No, it doesn’t, not necessarily. I’ve thought of him in that way from the moment he walked out the door, seventeen years ago. He never left a forwarding address or got in touch. A year later, when I wanted to divorce him, I tried to find him through his employers, but they told me he’d changed jobs. I had to wait for another year before I could get rid of him legally. I have no idea where he is now, but I’ve never had any reason to think that he’s dead.’

  ‘Does Ben have any contact with him?’

  ‘I’d be amazed if he has. Xavi, you talk about competition between fathers and sons, but Gavin McNeish was downright jealous of Ben right from the start, and it got worse the older he became. I don’t know why I tolerated it for so long.’

  Her frown deepened and then she added, ‘No, I suppose I do. It was his job. He was a long-distance lorry driver, and he had routes that took him right across Europe. He could be away for as long as three weeks at a time, and when he came home he expected to be waited on hand and foot. “Me first”, that was his philosophy. If anybody ever crossed him, or told him he was wrong about something, he’d go into a terrible huff.’

  She sipped some wine. ‘The bugger never spent a penny on Ben either, or on me for that matter. He paid the mortgage and that was it. When he was home, it was my salary that fed him and clothed our son. We never went on holiday as a family; I took Ben to Center Parcs once, when he was ten, but he wouldn’t even go there.’

  ‘You put up with it for too long, my dear,’ old Joe said. ‘I treated my wife with perfect respect, yet she walked out on me and on Xavi.’

  ‘You treated her with total indifference,’ Xavi countered, ‘but I know you had your reasons; we won’t go there.’

  ‘I suppose I did, Joe,’ Sheila agreed, ‘but he was away far more often than he was at home, and when it was just the two of us, Ben and me, it was fine.’

  ‘Why did he leave, in the end?’ I asked.

  She sighed. ‘To this day,’ she replied ‘I don’t know. Another woman? Possibly. The only thing he said was, “Look, Sheila, this isn’t working for me any longer.” Then he packed all his clothes in the cases I’d bought to take Ben on holiday, put all his other things in a box, and went off in the cab of his lorry.’

  She smiled, suddenly. ‘And did me a bigger favour than he could ever have imagined. Not that long afterwards, Xavi came into A&E having fallen off his bike, and we reconnected, twenty years or so after we’d met as teenagers.’

  ‘Wherever the guy is now,’ her husband said, ‘I hope he knows how it worked out. I’ve often thought I’d like to meet him, just so I could shake his hand.’

  ‘I could find him,’ I murmured.

  ‘I’ll bet you could,’ he said, ‘but on balance I think it’s best left as it is.’

  ‘I’ll still be having a word with my son, though,’ Sheila declared, ‘as soon as he comes in. Getting stroppy with his little sister, indeed!’

  Xavi winked; he was more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. ‘If he comes in,’ he murmured.

  ‘Why shouldn’t he?’ she asked.

  He beamed at her. ‘You haven’t met our fashion editor, have you?’

  Seven

  When I was very young, I regarded a direct instruction from my father as a basis for negotiation; since I’ve been an adult my attitude has hardened.

  I’d heard what he said about not going after Mr Linton Baillie, but I knew full well what Pops would be doing if he was in the same country as the man.

  At the very least, I was going to track him down. But first things first; he had asked me to do three specific things for him and they had priority.

  I was at home alone when he called me; that was probably just as well, for Andy would have wanted to know what was up and either I’d have lied and said, ‘Nothing,’ or I’d have told him to mind his own business, or I’d have told him the truth.

  None of these would have been good, but the last would have been the worst of all, because that would have made it official. He always did his best to draw a line between home and work, as did I, but if he knew the substance and implications of the call that I had received, the distinction might have been blurred, and he might have felt duty bound to do something about it.

  Chief Constable Andrew Martin: the badges of his new rank still sit uncomfortably on the shoulders of the black tunic uniform that he’s taken to wearing.

  To be frank, I haven’t quite got my head round the truth that the guy I’ve known since I was a kid is the top cop in Scotland, that he’s in the job that was sure to be my father’s until he stunned the Scottish media, and a few other people too, by withdrawing his candidacy.

  Publicly, Dad offered no reason for his decision. Privately, within the family, he said that when my half-brother Ignacio is revealed as his son, once he’s done his time, the inevitable headlines would make his position untenable.

  I’ve never believed a word of that excuse. My old man’s come through bigger crises than that and swatted them aside. He’ll never admit it, not even in the official memoirs that he’s been offered a lot of money to write, but the day that he was persuaded to put on a chief constable’s uniform, by people who didn’t really know him at all, was the day he started to feel something that he’d never encountered before in his life . . . boredom.

  When the Strathclyde force that he headed, however briefly, passed into history, and his job disappeared, friends and former colleagues felt sorry for him. I didn’t, I felt relieved, because I knew that finally he could get back to being who he wanted to be . . . once he’d figured out who that is.

  I knew that, because I find myself in the same situation.

  My father’s life and my own mirror each other. We were both young achievers, professionally. We were both emotional disaster areas. We both walked away from established relationships, me with Andy, Dad with my stepmother Sarah: in his case that was a major mistake.

  Down the road, we both got back to where we had been, albeit after causing pain to other people. Andy was a lousy husband to his wife, Karen, and I have to accept some blame for that, whatever they both say.

  Dad was as bad with Aileen, in his brief third marriage, because he’d never left Sarah, in his heart. Okay, Aileen gave him grief too, but it doesn’t absolve him.

  Me? As good as I am as a lawyer, I was at least twice as bad at romance.

  But it’s in my professional life that once again I find myself as a reflection of my father.

  As a law student, I had dreams of following him, not by joining the police force, but by becoming an advocate specialising in criminal work, just as he has done as a cop. However, after I graduated, I found myself, not manoeuvred . . . that would be too strong a word because it implies deviousness . . . but steered by him towards a trainee place with Curle Anthony and Jarvis, a big Edinburgh firm, and one which does purely civil work.

  Before I knew it, I was fully qualified and on the ladder to promotion as a corporate solicitor. Before I knew it I’d been made a partner, one of CAJ’s youngest ever, and was winning gongs. Before I knew it, I was ‘Young Lawyer of the Year’, followed by the ludicrously titled ‘Dealmaker of the Year’ . . . whatever the hell that means, for it’s nothing to me.

  All that success, and the big money I was earning, blinded me for a while to an uncomfortable truth: just like my dad, in his big remote offices, in Edinburgh and later in Glasgow, I was bored.

  It dawned on me one night, after dinn
er with Andy at his place beside the Water of Leith. We were discussing our careers and our ambitions. His was quite clear: he wanted to succeed my father eventually as head of the Scottish police service.

  ‘Okay, now you,’ he said, after making his declaration.

  I sat there nestling against him, listening to the little river ripple past beneath the balcony; I looked into the future, and I saw . . .

  ‘Nothing,’ I heard myself murmur. I was as if I’d been disembodied, for a moment, but I returned to myself pretty quick.

  ‘I don’t have one. I can’t have one; all that’s open to me is being head of the Corporate Department, which could well happen in five years. Beyond that, I suppose I’ll be a candidate to chair the practice once Mitch Laidlaw retires, if he ever does.

  ‘But Andy, I don’t want either of those jobs,’ I confessed. ‘That means that all I can see in my future, as we sit here, is another thirty years of fucking deal-making, of helping people with lots of money make even more money!’

  He eased himself away and stared at me, his green eyes wider than usual. ‘I had no idea you felt that way,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Neither had I,’ I confessed, ‘until this very moment.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘What can I do about it? I have commitments.’

  ‘You could have more; we could have kids.’

  That is dangerous ground between the two of us, and I chose not to disturb it. ‘That’s a separate issue,’ I replied. ‘It wouldn’t affect my career, not these days.’

  ‘Then what do you want?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  And I didn’t, not until my father did what he did, and showed me the way forward. One week after he pulled his application papers from the Police Scotland job, I went into Mitchell Laidlaw’s office and achieved what I’d thought was impossible. I took my urbane, unblinking, all-knowing boss completely by surprise.