‘No.’
‘Guy,’ she sighed, ‘are you completely unaware of sexually transmitted diseases, or are you just one of those idiots who thinks he doesn’t mix with the sort of person who might have the clap, or worse?’
‘Oh, come on, Lexy, don’t be silly.’
She swung herself out of bed, stood and looked down on him, with a hand on her hip. ‘There are a few things I hate being called. Up there at the head of the list you will find “Lexy” and “silly”. I’m going to take a shower now; if you want one before you go back to your hotel, use the other bathroom.’
She stayed longer than usual under the spray, taking the jet in her hand and directing it as if she was washing every trace of him from her. When she emerged back into the bedroom she was wrapped in her dressing- gown, and her hair was towelled to dampness. Guy was buttoning his shirt, his back to the en-suite. He turned at the sound of the opening door. ‘Have you been washing this man right out of your hair?’ he asked. The question was so near the mark that she felt a burst of guilt.
‘No, not at all,’ she insisted. ‘This mop of mine takes a lot of looking after.’ He smiled and she realised that she liked him much better with his clothes on. She knew also that it would always be that way. ‘I’ll go and rustle up some breakfast,’ she said.
‘Thanks, Alex,’ he smiled as he said her name, ‘but I’ll get some back at the George. I’m still in yesterday’s clothes and I’m due to meet the unfortunate company’s anxious banker at nine thirty in his office. I’ll grab a cab outside. I imagine there are plenty around at this time.’
He picked up his jacket, which he had hung carefully over the chair that faced her dressing-table, and slipped it on. She stepped up and straightened his tie, and let him kiss her lightly, on the lips.
‘Fancy a return game tonight? This time I’ll bring the rubbers.’
Although she had guessed it might be coming, the question still managed to take her by surprise. There was a considered and distinct pause before she replied. ‘Sorry, Guy. I’m busy tonight.’
His reaction was not what she had expected. ‘Ah, too bad: I won’t ask what you’re doing, just in case you tell me you’re washing your hair.’ He reached up and patted her head.
‘I’m seeing my friend Gina,’ she heard herself say.
He nodded. ‘And I’m off to London tomorrow night. As well, I suppose: one-night stands are the best thing for swingers like us, aren’t they?’ He kissed her again, even more quickly, a mere brushing of the lips, then turned and headed for the living room.
She followed him as he picked up his yellow overcoat from the back of the couch, where he had left it on his determined rush towards her bedroom, and as he walked to the door she opened it, and held it for him. He grinned at her, all of his massive self-confidence back in place, then gave her bottom a firm squeeze. Her neighbour chose that moment to leave for work, trying not to look at her as he passed: his name was Griff and she fancied him more than a little, although he was married and they had exchanged barely more than introductions.
‘Thank you, Lexy darling,’ said Guy, in a voice that was louder than was strictly necessary. ‘That was terrific. See you again some time. Call me if you like.’
As she stepped back inside her apartment, she found herself trying to work out what been happening for the twelve hours that had just elapsed. She had been vulnerable and he had been there and useful: at least that was how it had seemed to her the day before. But who had been using whom?
She drew back the living-room curtains: it was winter-morning dark, and the Water of Leith still reflected the sodium street-lamps. ‘You know what, Alex?’ she murmured to herself eventually. ‘Someone got fucked in here . . . all one minute and twenty-four seconds of it . . . then brushed off, and I rather think it was you.’
Forty-seven
Ray Wilding hung up the phone. He had been in for forty minutes, since eight thirty, but there was still no sign of Mackenzie. He had checked with the switchboard to see if a call or a message had come in from Spain; there had been nothing and so he had decided to ring Gary Starr’s ex-wife, to make sure that she would be at home when he and the chief inspector visited her that morning.
Kitty Philips had been terse, but not downright rude. She had told him that she worked afternoons only in a DIY store, and had shopping to do that morning, but that she would be ready for them at ten o’clock. He glanced at his watch. The traffic could be a bitch across town; before long they would be tight for time.
When his phone rang, his first thought was that it might be the chief inspector, calling in to say that he had been delayed. He almost sighed as he answered. ‘Wilding.’
‘Call for you, Sergeant,’ said the operator. ‘A Mr Smith: James Smith.’
He had to think for a second before it clicked: Big Ming. ‘Put him through.’
‘Hullo.’ The voice was gruff, but clearer than it had sounded across the desk in the interview room.
‘Mr Smith, what can I do for you?’
‘Ah’ve been thinkin’, ye ken. Aboot that lad. The one wi’ the finger.’
‘Or, rather, without it.’
‘Whit? Oh, aye. Ah see whit ye mean. Onyway, I telt you Ah thought Ah might hae seen him: well, Ah remember where.’
Suddenly Wilding’s morning was more interesting. ‘Oh, yes? Where?’
‘Ah dae a bit o’ door work sometimes, helpin’ oot a guy Ah know; bouncin’ ken. There’s a place Ah’ve been tae sometimes, an’ that’s where Ah’ve saw him.’
‘What’s this place called?’
‘Ah cannae remember; a lot o’ they clubs dinnae hae big signs outside, but Ah kin take ye there.’
‘Okay. Have you seen this man in the queue?’
‘Naw, naw, naw, naw, naw. He wisnae a punter; it wis his place, like, or at least he wis one o’ the lads that ran it. He wisnae dressed like he wis in Evesham Street either. He wis smart, like, no’ a scruff.’
‘What makes you so sure it was him?’
‘Ah’m no certain. Ah jist think it wis; the lad at the shop looked awfy like him.’
Wilding glanced at his watch. ‘Let’s check it out, then. You come here, to Queen Charlotte Street, at twelve o’clock this morning. You can show me where this place is, and we’ll take it from there.’
‘Twelve?’
‘Are you doing anything else?’
‘Naw.’
‘Just as well, or you’d miss it. See you at midday; do not be one minute later.’
He rang off, and looked up to see Bandit Mackenzie approaching; he looked tired, heavy-lidded. ‘Morning,’ he growled. ‘How’s your day been so far?’
Wilding grinned, and nodded towards the phone. ‘I think it just got better.’
Forty-eight
‘I’m sorry it’s taken so long, Bob,’ Amanda Dennis said, ‘but I wanted to preserve security. Our internal monitoring is reviewed at regular intervals. If I had broken the sequence it would have been noticed.’
‘Won’t it be noticed now?’
‘No, because when it was done I patched in and put a copy on to my computer. The period you want to look at is here.’ She moved her mouse and clicked: within a few seconds, the entrance hall of the Surrey safe-house appeared on her monitor.
As Skinner and Shannon watched, they saw the big figure of Winston Chalmers move quickly and jerkily across the screen, greeting two men. ‘Pause there,’ the DCC instructed, leaning closer. One of the newcomers was instantly recognisable: Piers Frame, immaculate in a single-breasted suit that was probably Savile Row. The other presented a complete contrast: he was stocky, shorter than his companion, and he wore a three-quarter-length country coat, with a hood, pulled forward so that it was hiding his face.
‘Either it’s raining inside,’ said Shannon, ‘or he doesn’t want to be recognised.’
‘Indeed,’ Skinner murmured, ‘and I wonder why that is. He obviously knew he’d be under surveillance in
