Maggie: she blamed me for the break-up for a while.’
‘You’re imagining that,’ Mario protested. ‘Mum’s always had a soft spot for you.’
‘It didn’t stop her from giving me a few frosty looks when it all happened.’
‘Babe, that’s nothing to what she gave me at first. We can both thank Maggie for going to see her and telling her that our marriage had run its course, on both sides. She even told her that I’ll never be one of nature’s husbands, and that you and I are carved from the same stone.’
‘How is Maggie?’
‘Happier than I ever thought she’d be. I’m dead chuffed for her.’ He headed the discussion in another direction. ‘What do you want to do tonight? Movies?’
‘Sure, there’s a new Hugh Grant film on along at Ocean Terminal.’
‘Will it be much different from any other Hugh Grant movie?’
‘Probably not, but they’re funny, as a rule.’
‘Okay, let’s try it. Pizza first?’
She laughed. ‘You and your bloody pizzas; you don’t have to prove to me that you’re Italian.’
‘I have to prove myself to you every day.’
She slid herself along the couch and pressed herself against him. ‘Forget about the days,’ she murmured. ‘Concentrate on the nights.’
He grinned. ‘I do . . . as hard as I can.’ He kissed her softly, tenderly, feeling her flick his teeth with her tongue.
‘Beats old Hugh any day,’ she whispered, as they broke off. ‘Maybe we’ll just watch a DVD.’
‘That’s not a bad . . .’ The phone rang, insistently. ‘Fuck!’ he swore, as Paula picked it up. ‘That is one of nature’s bloody laws.’
‘And another,’ she said, holding it out, ‘is that it’s always for you. It’s Neil.’
‘Hi,’ Mario grunted into the mouthpiece.
‘Bad time?’
‘Almost.’
‘Sorry, but it’s important.’
‘Everything’s important these days.’
‘This is interesting too. I’ve just had a call from Alex Skinner: she wants to meet the two of us tonight, soon as possible, in a police office.’
‘Why?’
‘She didn’t go into detail, but she said that it has a bearing on a live investigation.’
‘I thought we’d sorted all her problems.’
‘So did I, but this didn’t sound like one of them. She told me that she was calling as a solicitor, not a pal. I’ve told her to be at Fettes in half an hour. Can you make it?’
‘I’m afraid so. See you there.’ He made his best ‘sorry’ face for Paula, as he handed the phone back.
‘Don’t worry,’ she told him, ‘it’ll keep. Bring in the pizzas when you get back.’
Ninety-one
They were waiting in the head of CID’s office when Alex arrived, just after seven thirty. She was not alone: the man with her was young, somewhere in the first half of his twenties, if a little careworn. He was taller than either McGuire or McIlhenney, but slightly built. He was well groomed, well dressed and, from his expression, very, very nervous.
‘Thank you for seeing us so swiftly,’ Alex began. McGuire looked at her and saw that this was not the boss’s daughter; this was the razor-sharp young lawyer he knew from his business dealings with what had just become Viareggio plc.
‘This is Raymond Weston,’ she said. ‘He’s here to make a voluntary statement, and I’m here as his solicitor. I know it’s not my specialist field, but I’ve cleared my temporary involvement with my firm, since Raymond would only agree to come here if I accompanied him. Earlier this evening, in the course of what had begun as a social meeting, he told me something that put me in a difficult position as a lawyer, as an officer of the court and, not least, as my father’s daughter. I’ve persuaded him that he must share it with you, but before we go any further, I’d like you to give me an undertaking.’
‘What’s that?’ McIlhenney asked.
‘Raymond is here as a witness, and also, technically, as a complainant. However, what he’s going to tell you will also incriminate him. I want you to promise me that he’ll walk out of here tonight without charge, and with immunity from prosecution.’
‘That’s a big promise,’ said McGuire.
‘I know, but I’m confident you’ll be able to make it.’
‘If you’re that confident, I’ll agree in principle, subject to what Mr Weston has to tell us.’
Alex looked at her client. ‘Raymond, I’m happy with that.’
‘Are you sure? They might still renege.’
‘They won’t. They don’t know it yet, but they need you. Take off your glove.’
Neither detective had noticed that he was wearing a mitten: it was hidden by his long-sleeved raincoat. He removed it and held up his right hand: it was heavily bandaged and the index finger was missing.
‘I’m the man you were looking for,’ he said, ‘the man Gary Starr attacked. There never was a robbery.’
‘We know that now,’ said McIlhenney.
‘I couldn’t come forward at first; I thought I’d be charged with a hold-up.’
‘I can see that, but there was another reason for staying in the long grass, Mr Weston, wasn’t there?’
The tall young man nodded. ‘I’m part-owner of a club in the West End called Secreto. About eighteen months ago, I was approached by a man named Edward Charnwood. He made me a proposition; he said that he had a supply of good-quality cocaine and that he was looking for distributors in nightclubs. He offered me a fifteen per cent cut of everything I sold to my customers.’
‘Why did he approach you?’
‘I have a history. I was arrested a few years ago and charged with involvement in the manufacture of Ecstasy. My father intervened on my behalf, I made a statement and the charges against me were dropped.’
‘You were a Crown witness in the case?’
‘It never made court; the other guy pleaded guilty.’
‘So you accepted Charnwood’s proposition?’ asked McGuire
‘I did. The arrangement was that I’d call in at Gary Starr’s betting shop at eleven sharp every Friday morning, to pick up a supply and to hand over my takings. Starr was Charnwood’s partner in the dealing. They staked me to the first week’s supply and it went on from there. I had to account for all of it, to give them their eighty-five per cent and to show them what I had left if I hadn’t sold out, although most weeks I did.’
‘What prompted Starr to attack you?’
‘Charnwood put his wife into the club one night to check up on me. I didn’t know who she was, so I sold her a bag like any punter. She analysed it and discovered I’d been cutting the stuff, enough to skim an extra fifteen per cent. Next time I went into the shop, Starr was waiting for me. When I put the money on the counter, he grabbed my hand.’ Weston’s face twisted at the memory. ‘He stabbed me with an enormous knife, and he said, “You cut us, we’ll fucking cut you.” I screamed the place down but there was nobody there to hear me. Starr told me that I was getting off light. Charnwood had been planning to follow me home from the club one night and shoot me. He was still holding my hand: I went mad with the pain and hit him with the other one. He let me go and I ran for it. On the way out I bumped into the guy who worked there: I always had to wait for him to go before I went in. That day I was early, so I was waiting outside when he left. I recognised him: he does the door occasionally at the club.’ He looked at McGuire and McIlhenney, from one to the other. ‘That’s my story. Do I have a deal?’
The head of CID looked at Alex. ‘Your client, Miss Skinner, is the luckiest bastard in Edinburgh. One, Gary Starr saved his life: if Eddie Charnwood said he was going to shoot him, he’d have done it. Two, you’re right: we need him in the witness box, not the dock.’ He turned back to Weston. ‘I’d like to be able to do Soraya Charnwood too. Did anyone see you sell her the baggie?’
