‘He’s useful to me. Moash hears things around and about; he’d never say a word tae you, other than “guilty”, when he has to, but he talks to me.’
‘And you in turn talk to us?’ Regan murmured.
‘Sometimes. When I think it’s right, and when I know it’s in absolute conf idence . . . which is why,’ suddenly his voice became colder, ‘I don’t appreciate you two swanning in here and waving me over.’
Regan understood. ‘Worry not. We’ll make enough noise before we leave. In fact we might even wind up lifting you.’
The DS fell into character. ‘I mean,’ he bellowed back, ‘that somebody in here’s been buying knock-off gear.’
‘You’re fucking joking,’ Gladsmuir protested. To their surprise, the two detectives found themselves believing that this was not part of the act for the punters; he seemed genuinely surprised, and angered.
‘Wee Moash Glazier nicked a five-hundred-quid mountain bike, and a four-hundred-quid Crombie coat, this morning, in the fog, on our patch.’ Tarvil Singh leaned across the bar; he was taller than Gladsmuir and almost as powerfully built. ‘The owners of these items are not being reasonable about it. They want them back.’
The bar manager’s heavy eyebrows rose. ‘That wee bastard!’ he exclaimed. ‘He came in here wearing that coat. Miles too fuckin’ big for him, but he told me he’d bought it in a charity shop. I says tae masel’, “Aye, that’ll be right,” but I still had it off him straight away. Wee Moash owes me a quid or two, and I told him I was keepin’ it until he squared me away. Haud on a minute.’
He turned on his heel and walked away through a door at the back of the bar. He had been gone for less than thirty seconds before he was back, holding a heavy dark blue overcoat in his right hand, raised up by the lapels, as though it contained an obstreperous customer whom he was seeing off the premises. ‘Here.’ He lifted it over the bar and handed it to Regan, who took it from him carefully. ‘Take it away wi’ yis. I know fuck all about a bike, though.’ He turned and surveyed his customers; finally the scene in the corner was commanding their undivided attention. ‘That said,’ he continued, his voice raised, ‘if I find that knock-off’s been traded in this pub, then the guy that bought it had better get on it and pedal as far away from me as he fuckin’ can.’
Suddenly, the bar was filled with outraged looks and shaking heads . . . and minus one drinker. The door at the far end opened with a creak and began to swing shut again on its closer. Without another word, Regan and Singh turned and headed for their exit, and business as usual was resumed.
‘One more thing,’ Malky Gladsmuir called after the two detectives. They turned in the doorway. ‘You can tell wee Moash from me that the next time he comes in here he’d better have stolen a life-jacket: because he’s goin’ in the fuckin’ river.’
14
James Andrew Skinner had been at Gullane Primary School for only a few weeks, but already, in that short time, he had made a name for himself . . . two names, in fact; one as a five-year-old with a reading age of eight, and the other as the best fighter in his class. His mother had been even more appalled by the second than she had been pleased by the first.
‘He burst a kid’s lip, Bob,’ Sarah exclaimed indignantly. ‘Then when the little boy’s brother . . . his two years older brother . . . came in to stop the fight, he made his nose bleed.’
Bob made himself frown at the five-year-old, who was standing in the middle of the kitchen, trying to look remorseful, but not quite getting there. ‘That’s a bit excessive, Jazz,’ he said severely. ‘No Saturday television, my boy.’
‘Aw, Dad!’
‘Sorry, mate. That’s the way it is.’
He looked at his wife. ‘Why?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Did you ask him why?’
‘No, I did not. Bob, I don’t like being called to the head teacher’s office to receive an official complaint about my son’s behaviour. The evidence was there. Mrs Rogers showed me the tissues they used to wipe the blood off those kids. She said that Jazz attacked the little one, then hit his brother as well.’
He picked his son up and sat him on the work surface. The boy’s blond hair glinted in the light; he was sturdy, and big for his age. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s hear your plea in mitigation.’
‘What?’
‘Why did you hit him, son? The boy in your class, I mean. I doubt if it would be a fair fight; I don’t remember seeing any kid your size in your group when we checked you in there.’
James Andrew shook his head, his jaw set.
‘Hey,’ said his father, ‘not answering me isn’t an option. Now out with it.’
‘No,’ the boy replied.
‘Jazz,’ Bob warned him. ‘No telly for a month.’
He shook his head again.
‘I’ll tell you,’ a voice exclaimed from the doorway.
James Andrew glared furiously at his brother. ‘But not in front of Mum,’ Mark added quickly. When he had been adopted, it had been his decision to christen Bob and Sarah as Mum and Dad, but they had always made sure that the memory of his natural parents burned strong in him.
‘Wait a minute,’ Sarah exclaimed.
‘Ssh,’ said her husband, soothing her. ‘I want to get to the bottom of this. Mark’s a sensitive kid; if that’s the way he wants it, let’s go with him. Remember, he’s the reason this bruiser can read as well as he does; we owe him. Gimme a minute with the boys.’
Finally, reluctantly, Sarah nodded. She lifted Seonaid, who had been watching the exchange with obvious fascination, out of her high chair and tucked her under her arm. ‘Us girls will rejoin you when we’re good and ready,’ she said stiffly, and hefted her daughter out of the room.
Bob knew that she would probably be listening outside, but he carried on. ‘You might as well tell me yourself, Jazz.’
As he looked up at him, his younger son’s eyes blazed with an anger he had never seen in them before. ‘He called me a something stinking copper’s brat,’ he said, his voice high-pitched. ‘And he said Mum was a something Yankee something.’
‘That’s true,’ said Mark. ‘He shouted it so the whole class could hear. I made one of them tell me afterwards.’
‘So you pegged him one,’ Bob sighed.
James Andrew nodded.
‘Just the one?’
‘It was a good one,’ the boy whispered.
As he spoke his father noticed a slight bruise on his temple. ‘The brother,’ he went on. ‘The head teacher said that he tried to stop the fight. Is that all he did?’
James Andrew shook his head. ‘He punched me on the side of the face: from behind.’
‘How often did you hit him back?’
‘Three or four times. Till he started to cry,’ a gleam of satisfaction came into his eye, ‘in front of all the girls.’
‘Why didn’t you tell Mrs Rogers what happened?’
‘Didn’t want to say it. What he said about you and Mum.’
Bob felt an unfamiliar lump in his throat. ‘Well, thank you, pal,’ he murmured, and hugged him. ‘In the circumstances, television privileges are restored.’ He called over his shoulder, ‘Sarah!’
She was grim-faced as she came back into the room, with Seonaid toddling along in front of her. ‘Did you know that I’m a something stinking copper and you’re a something Yankee something?’ he asked her.
He turned back to his son. ‘Jazz, I’m not going to ask for these kids’ names. If this happens again, I want you
