minimalist. The open-plan room boasted a wall of packed bookshelves and a cream leather suite. An archway led to a small kitchen of shining chrome and mahogany panelling.
‘Nice place,’ Fox commented. ‘Been here long?’
‘Couple of years.’ Martin had poured them both drinks – red wine for him, sparkling water for Fox. ‘We downsized when our offspring flew the nest.’ Martin swilled the wine around his glass and tested it with his nose. ‘I admit I’m intrigued – tell me how you found me.’
Fox gave a shrug which he hoped looked modest. ‘I spent the weekend surfing online: Scottish militancy in the 1980s. Your name kept coming up. When I saw you’d written a book on the subject…’
‘Been out of print for years,’ Martin stressed. ‘It was my doctoral thesis.’
Fox reckoned that would be about right. Martin could only be in his mid-forties – tall, toned and handsome. Fox had spotted a tennis racquet in the hall, and a photo of Martin with some trophy he’d won. The book had been published in 1992…
‘Written in the late eighties?’ Fox speculated.
‘Finished in 1990,’ Martin confirmed. ‘But you’ve still not explained how you found me.’
‘Your online biography said you taught at Edinburgh University.’ Fox gave another shrug. ‘But before calling them, I thought I’d try the telephone directory.’
Martin chuckled. ‘Easy when you know how.’ He raised his glass in a toast. ‘But I need to confess, I’ve probably forgotten a lot of that book. My specialism has shifted in the years since.’
‘Scottish politics,’ Fox reeled off, ‘constitutional procedure, parliament and protocol…’
Martin offered up another toast.
‘Probably a wise move on your part,’ Fox concluded. ‘Not so many paramilitaries about these days.’
Martin smiled. ‘The lesson of Northern Ireland – bring your terrorists into the fold. They end up wearing suits and running the country.’
‘Does that hold for Scotland?’
Martin considered this. ‘I’m not absolutely sure. The SNP polished up its act, got itself a leader with charisma to fit the rhetoric. Devolution provided a rostrum. No need for grievance.’
‘Plenty of grievances in the eighties.’
‘And in the seventies,’ Martin added. ‘With roots stretching back much further.’ He paused. ‘I’m sure I can find you a spare copy of the magnum opus.’
‘I’ve already ordered one,’ Fox confessed.
‘Ah, the internet again?’
‘I think it’s a review copy.’
‘That gives it a certain rarity value – my publishers didn’t do much in the way of promotion.’ Professor Martin paused. ‘Is it to do with the bombs?’
‘Sir?’
‘Peebles and Lockerbie? Surely no one thinks the SNLA and its ilk are back?’
‘One of my colleagues asked much the same thing. But I doubt anyone’s looking in that direction. It’s certainly not the reason I’m here. I want to ask you about Francis Vernal.’
Martin took a sip of wine and was thoughtful. ‘A man I wish I’d met,’ he eventually commented. ‘His speeches read well, but to hear him was something else – a few recordings exist, you know. And some film footage, too.’
Fox gave a nod.
‘Has something come to light? Some new evidence?’
‘It’s more in the way of a personal interest.’
‘Not official, then?’
‘Semi-official, let’s say.’
Martin nodded and seemed lost in thought again. ‘I had the devil of a job, you know,’ he said at last. ‘One morning, I got the feeling someone had been in my flat and had taken a look at a few chapters. Then, when the thesis was placed in the university library, someone stole it. It was hardly there a week…’ He shook his head. ‘I was almost starting to believe the conspiracy theories.’
‘Up until then you’d dismissed them?’
‘Francis Vernal was a heavy drinker in a bad marriage. Nobody could be surprised at how things turned out.’
‘Did you interview his widow for your book?’
‘She wouldn’t see me.’
‘How did you do your research?’
‘In what sense, Inspector?’
The music had finished playing. Martin lifted a tiny white remote-control unit from the coffee table and the same sequence of tunes started again.
‘You tried talking to Mrs Vernal – that makes it sound “hands on”. So I’m wondering if you managed to talk to any of the actual groups.’
‘A few fellow travellers and sympathisers. I wrote to all of them.’
‘And?’
‘Almost none got back to me, so I tried again – same thing happened.’ He paused. ‘What has this got to do with Francis Vernal?’
‘Wasn’t he rumoured to be a banker of sorts for some of the groups?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m trying to build up a picture of him.’ It was Fox’s turn to pause. ‘Do you think he took his own life?’
‘Either that, or his wife had him killed.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘Maybe to protect all her lovers – or because her husband was involved with someone.’
‘She says the papers made up all those stories about her being unfaithful.’
Martin’s eyebrows lifted a little. ‘You’ve spoken to her?’ He sounded intrigued and impressed. Another toast was made, this time with an empty glass. He went into the kitchen for a refill. Fox waited for him to return.
‘Did you turn up anything at all linking Vernal to these terrorist groups?’ he asked.
‘He would doubtless have called them “freedom fighters” – either that or “the resistance”.’ Martin went back to swirling his wine. ‘Anecdotal stuff only,’ he eventually admitted. ‘People would mention his name. There were minutes of meetings – usually in code, but easy enough to read. I think they often referred to him as “Rumpole”.’
‘From the TV show?’
‘A fellow lawyer, you see.’
Fox nodded his understanding. ‘So he attended meetings?’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe even led those meetings?’
‘He was never mentioned as a leader. You’ve heard of Donald MacIver?’
Fox nodded: another name gleaned from the internet. ‘He’s in Carstairs these days.’ Carstairs: the maximum-security psychiatric facility.
‘Which is why I failed to get an interview. MacIver led the Dark Harvest Commando. He almost certainly knew Francis Vernal…’ Martin paused. ‘Are you suggesting Vernal was killed by one of the groups he supported?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Or by some shadowy establishment conspiracy?’
Fox shrugged. ‘He reckoned his home and office had been broken into – and his widow confirms it. Maybe he was being watched. And now you’ve just told me you think people spied on your work, too.’
‘It went further, actually: my first publisher went bust; a second decided all of a sudden he didn’t want the book. Had to go to a small left-wing press in the end. Pretty slapdash job they made of it too.’
‘You’re really whetting my appetite,’ Fox joked.
‘I just hope you didn’t pay over the odds for your copy.’
‘Worth every penny, I’m sure.’
