Seventy-two
Maggie settled into her chair and breathed a sigh of relief. For much of the day, Stevie’s father had been declaring that he and his mother would stay for another night, to look after her, as he had put it. ‘Stevie would have wanted us to,’ he had said more than once, until finally she had taken him aside and had told him that a house could only hold so much grief, and that in fact Stevie would have told them to go back to Dunfermline and allow her some space.
Margot Wilding had phoned her at eight thirty, expecting to be told that the start of her new job would be postponed, but she had asked her to come as agreed. Her bright presence had brought some light into the morning, but Maggie knew that it would be only a brief respite before the things that had to be done.
Mr Steele . . . she rarely called him anything else . . . had come with her to the undertaker’s in the patrol car that had called for her at noon. She had felt a sense of intrusion then too, but she could not have forbidden him.
Bob Skinner had been right: Stevie’s body had been unmarked, when she had seen him lying there in his coffin.
But he hadn’t looked like Stevie either, only a pale likeness of someone very young, a waxen model, in his cremation garb. Of course she had broken down, and at that time she had been grateful for her father-in-law’s strong support, glad that she had let him come.
Once that desperate part was over she had to put some purpose into her day, by discussing funeral arrangements with the undertaker, settling for Friday, at Mortonhall Crematorium, the easiest for Stevie’s family and friends to access from Fife. There had been a reception to arrange at the Braid Hills Hotel, and she had done that too, ready and willing to use police transport to get there and finally to return home.
Her father-in-law, a good man, no doubting that, had made an evening meal, since his wife was still incapable of anything. They had eaten together, and then the Steeles had left, still a little reluctantly. ‘Are you sure now?’ Stevie’s dad had said, even as she was closing the door on him.
As the day had worn on it had begun to worry her that she did not feel exhausted. But as she sank down into the soft upholstery, and the last of the adrenalin had worked itself out of her system, tiredness caught up with her. She put a hand on her bump and whispered, ‘Just you and me now, kid,’ as her eyes grew heavier.
She had dozed off when the phone rang. She blinked herself awake and picked up the cordless handset from her lap, then pressed the receive symbol. ‘Hello,’ she said drowsily.
‘Margaret, is that you?’ The voice was strained, urgent.
‘Yes.’
‘Margaret, it’s Bet. I don’t know how to ask this . . .’
She was wide awake now. ‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘How did you find out?’
‘From the BBC website; it’s one of the things I check first thing in the morning, before I start my day. Normally I look at the world version, but today I clicked on the UK edition as well, and I saw a news item about a policeman being killed. When I saw the name . . . Oh, Sis, it’s terrible. Why you?’
‘Why anyone?’ She felt the tears threaten again and bit her lip. Yet in the same moment she felt an enormous wave of something that she could describe as relief, at this reminder that she was not alone in the world, that she still had blood out there. ‘It’s the fickle fucking finger of fate.’
‘Well, it should have pointed somewhere else.’
Maggie made a decision. ‘Bet,’ she said, ‘I hardly know you as an adult. Are you a strong person?’
‘I reckon,’ her sister replied.
‘Then let me tell you everything.’
Seventy-three
As soon as McGuire stepped through the door of the old pub, he saw two familiar faces, sitting at a tiny table near the bar, the only people in that small area. They recognised him at once, but that was no compliment for their special skills included instant recognition of almost everyone they had ever seen. Their names were Queenstown and Strivens, and they were fellow police officers, but he had no idea of their rank because that was irrelevant on the Prime Minister’s close-protection squad.
‘Bloody hell,’ said the fair-haired Queenstown, the taller and slimmer of the two, ‘are the Scots invading?’
‘We control this place already, man,’ the big Scot replied, ‘you know that. From the top down, starting with the guy you work for.’
‘Yours is in the back bar,’ Strivens told him. ‘He came in ten minutes ago, bought us a pint and then went off in search of food. Good luck to him: it’s just gone nine so the pies will be pretty solid by now. It must be heavy stuff.’
‘The pies?’
‘Nah!’ Strivens laughed. ‘Whatever brings you two down here together.’
‘Rollover from an investigation, that’s all. The gaffer had to go off and see a mate; he called me and told me to meet him in the Red Lion, Whitehall.’ He glanced around. ‘I’ve never been here before. You won’t find too many places like this left in Edinburgh.’
‘None at all. We’re half-way between Downing Street and the Palace of Westminster. Everyone in here’s a face of some sort or another; the place is an unofficial safehouse for coppers and politicians.’
‘Sorry about young Stevie,’ said Queenstown, quietly. ‘What the hell made the guy rig the place after he croaked himself?’
‘Nutter,’ McGuire growled. ‘Blaze of glory, they reckon. It didn’t happen on our patch, so it’s Northumbria’s job to figure it all out.’
‘God help them, then, with Mr Skinner looking over their shoulders.’
‘Through there, you said?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thanks. Maybe see you next time your man’s up north.’ He pushed his way through a swing door and found himself in a much bigger area, long and narrow, with a wooden-topped bar taking up most of its space, and with its own entrance. His way was blocked by four people, two of whom were high-profile television journalists. Their companions’ faces were familiar also; he knew that they were junior government ministers, but failed to put a name to either. They fell silent and stood aside quickly at his ‘Excuse me, please.’ He guessed that dark, muscular strangers always had that effect on conversations in the Red Lion.
Skinner was sitting at the far end of the room. There was a plate in front of him, clean but for a smear of tomato sauce, and an almost empty glass. McGuire pointed. Skinner nodded. ‘Adnams,’ he said.
‘Two of them, please,’ he told the barman.
When they were filled, settled, topped up and paid for, he carried both pints across to the DCC’s table and joined him. ‘Pies okay?’ he asked.
‘Yes, but not as good as that fucking restaurant I left you in. I was expecting to be taken to Lockett’s, but my friend had a date.’
‘Your friend?’
‘Amanda, Thames House, top floor.’
McGuire whistled. ‘Your message really got through. Who was looking in on us?’ He paused. ‘Can we talk here?’
‘Yes, it’s clean. I checked it with my wee box.’
He glanced at the journalists and their friends. ‘So it really is a safehouse,’ he murmured.
‘What?’
‘Nothing; just something the guys next door said.’
‘Cerberus?’
‘Eh?’
‘The three-headed dog that guards the entrance to Hades ... or, rather, the exit, for who would want to get in? It’s what I call Queenstown and Strivens, because they’re such a unit. Okay, I know, they’re one head short, but it fits.’
