Skinner gave a snorting laugh. ‘Steele’s always got a girlfriend on the go: and I doubt if that would stop him.’
‘It won’t arise in this case.’
‘What won’t?’ Bob’s right eyebrow rose.
His friend caught his meaning. ‘Not that or anything else. Like I said, they’re pals, and that’s as far as it’ll go.’
‘You seem sure.’
‘I am. I know the whole story behind the split.’
‘Is it something I should know?’
McIlhenney smiled ‘No. It won’t be a problem for you. Maggie isn’t into men right now, and that’s all there is to it. She’s fully focused on her career.’
‘Okay,’ said Skinner. ‘That’s good enough for me.’ He finished his Amaretto, pushed himself out of his chair and peered through the curtains into the impenetrable murk. ‘Ouch!’ he murmured. ‘What a night. Thanks again, you two, for giving me a bed.’
‘That’s all right,’ Louise replied. ‘You have an important meeting tomorrow, I’m told. It would never do if you got lost in the fog on the way there!’
4
If wee Moash Glazier had been possessed of a slightly larger vocabulary than the one that he had picked up on his short, sad and furtive journey through life’s shady valleys, and across its rain-drenched plains, then he might well have agreed with the prosecutor who had once described him in the Sheriff Court as ‘an opportunist thief’.
As it was, he had understood the woman to have called him ‘an awfy stupid thief’, and had shouted, ‘Ah’m no’!’ across the room, to the immense displeasure of the Sheriff and at a consequent cost of a further thirty days for contempt, added to his six-month sentence for various offences.
Moash regarded himself as a working man. He supported himself, his greyhound, and his ferret, by stealing any everyday item that had been left unsecured and in his path by a negligent owner, and by selling it on at a knock-down price to unfussy buyers in the pubs that he frequented. He kept on the move; the speed with which he disposed of his haul, and the type of customer he found, meant that his arrest rate was relatively low.
He had a genuine dislike for the unemployed, or at least for those who made no attempt to find work, and he stole from them as readily as from anyone else within his field of vision. Moash applied a simple principle to his business life. He never lifted anything that was sufficiently unusual to attract attention, or so valuable that its owner became seriously excited about its loss. He was also circumspect about those from whom he stole, never forgetting a housebreaker acquaintance who had been unwise enough to have burgled the house of one Dougie ‘The Comedian’ Terry, and who had been the victim of a fatal fall from his own fourth-floor living-room window less than a week later.
His cautious approach did not always keep him out of trouble. Occasionally he would be caught in the act, or with goods still in his hands; he was familiar with the inside of the Sheriff Court and with the hotel accommodation in Saughton Prison. However, since he was never worth jailing for too long, he took such minor blips in his stride. His most serious and most embarrassing mistake came one evening in a bar in Newhaven where he attempted to sell a plumber the tools of which he had relieved him two hours earlier. That had earned him a kicking which he had found much harder to take than a few weeks’ jail time and which had kept him out of action for even longer.
He had not been deterred, though, and had continued to ply his trade, without further serious mishap.
Where others might have been reluctant to go to work in severe weather conditions, wee Moash regarded them as windows of opportunity. People were distracted and tended to be even more careless than usual. Frost made them bundle up in thick overcoats, which could be easily nicked from restaurant waiting rooms, while rain made them keep their heads down, and much less likely to notice him as he went about his business.
Where the sudden fog that had clamped down was nothing short of a public emergency to others, to him it was a gift from above. He had always been able to steal successfully in broad daylight, and a city where nobody could see him was a laden vine waiting to be stripped of its grapes.
Marchmont and its environs had always been one of his favourite pitches. Many of the tall grey terraces still lacked secure entrance doors, and people, especially those idle bloody students that seemed to inhabit the place like rabbits in a warren, were daft enough to think that if something was out of sight in a stairwell or back court, then it was out of the mind of someone like him. Wrong.
He had a girl-friend in Lochview . . . Moash Glazier had no permanent address, but he had two lady acquaintances and split his nights between them, when not enjoying free board and lodging elsewhere. He crept from her house just after six a.m., made his way up across the Pleasance, being careful to give St Leonards police station a wide berth even in the fog, and made his way up Nicolson Street and Clerk Street towards his hunting ground.
He did not like to hang about: ‘in and out quick’ was his motto, in all things. That morning, he was especially lucky. In the first building he visited, he found a pair of almost new, if muddy, boots on a front step . . . ‘Thanks very much, yah daft radge’ . . . a case of tools . . . ‘Aye, that’ll be right’ . . . and an unsecured mountain bike . . . ‘Lady’s tae go by the size, even if it dis hae a crossbar.’
Sixty seconds later, wee Moash Glazier was pedalling along Warrender Park Road, the boots hung round his neck, with their laces knotted together. He knew better than to touch the tools. In any event what he had was easily saleable, and enough to keep his elbow on the bar top for a while. There was no need to hurry. No one was going anywhere that morning, so as soon as he was out of sight of the building . . . after a couple of seconds . . . he was safe. It was only when he started drawing deeper draughts of air that he realised how cold it was. The temperature was around freezing, but seemed much colder in the thick greyness. The roadway was treacherous too, so he took extra care, and went even more steadily than at the outset.
He stuck to the middle of the carriageway, since there was more danger of hitting a parked car than being hit by a moving one; he was almost across Marchmont Road before he knew it, and turned left.
The traffic lights at the junction with Melville Drive shone dim red through the fog; he laughed as he rode through them and crossed over into the Meadows. There was a pathway at the entrance to the broad fields; even if he had known that it was called Jawbone Walk, it would never have occurred to him to wonder why. It was white with frost, and so rather than risk his limbs on it, he used it as a guide and cycled on the grass alongside it.
Moash had stolen more than a few bikes in his time, and as a result was a good cyclist. He could handle the gears on the most complicated modern machine, and on occasion kept one that he had nicked for a few days as a getaway vehicle. For all the cold, as he rode across the Meadows, he was actually enjoying himself. He laughed maniacally in the gloom, then threw back his head, slapped his saddlebag with his right hand, and cried out, ‘Hi ho, Silver! Awa . . .’
He was in mid-yell when something hard hit him full in the chest. He was knocked backwards off his faithful steed, landing on his shoulders on the cold, hard, wet ground and turning a full somersault before coming to rest face down.
Wee Moash was not a fighting man; he knew the basics, but experience had taught him that flight was usually more expedient. But he was so taken aback by his involuntary dismount that he jumped to his feet, fists raised and ready to square up to his attacker.
‘Ya bass!’ he shouted, advancing on the dark figure, stopping in his tracks only when he realised that it seemed to be hovering in mid-air. In an instant his natural caution returned. He took a closer look, the figure was dark indeed, and as he drew closer he realised that this was due in part at least to the fact that it was wearing a heavy Crombie overcoat. It was also wearing black leather shoes.
Moash advanced until he could reach out and touch the thing; he did, and as it swung slowly round, he looked up and into its face.
‘OhmyGoad!’ he screamed. He backed away in panic, tripping over something that lay on the ground and landing heavily on his backside, jumping up again as he felt the wetness soak through his jeans, thinking for a moment that he had pissed himself, until he recognised to his relief that it was only the hoary frost on the ground.
‘OhmyGoad!’ A whisper this time, tinged with awe as his fear evaporated.
