something about going to see Ethel, hurried out of the room.
I gathered up the newspapers and carried them through to the working conservatory, where I switched on my computer and checked my morning's e-mailbox. I saw one from 'ecap' titled 'Out, out, damned spot' and opened it; it was a brief message from Ewan wishing me well, and advising me that he, on the other hand, had a face, as he put it, 'like a cherry cake' and felt decidedly poorly.
There was also a message from Paul Girone. It was less colourful, but it confirmed Ewan's news and advised me that their insurers… to hearty sighs of relief from the investors, no doubt… had accepted medical advice and would fund a further week's postponement. He also asked me not to eat too much, since he didn't want me reporting back noticeably fatter than before the break, but I'm professional enough to have worked that out for myself. In any event, obesity is not a Blackstone family trait.
My final e-mail brought me my first really good news of the day. It was from Roscoe and it advised me that Miles Grayson was about to achieve a lifelong dream by making a cricket movie. It would be about the notorious Bodyline tour of Australia, in the thirties, in which Douglas Jardine, the captain of England, decided that the best way of combating the threat of Donald Bradman was by trying to kill him with continuously short-pitched bowling.
Miles, a good judge of character, wanted me to play Jardine. He would play Bradman, of course. (A challenge for make-up, I thought, since Miles is around twenty years older than Bradman was then, and looks nothing like the dour little man.) Did I fancy a couple of months next winter touring Australia? Too bloody right I did. I sent Roscoe an instant reply. 'Make a show of being hard to get, then say 'yes'.'
I signed out of AOL, and swung round in my chair, picking up the Scotsman, the only newspaper I hadn't read that morning. I scanned through it until I found the Aidan Keane story. It was there, of course, but buried almost as deep as he would be soon, at the foot of page six. Gangland killings in Glasgow do not figure high on the priority lists of Edinburgh copy-tasters.
It took me less than a minute to read, and then I put it aside and turned my attention to the rest of the paper. Having spent the early part of my adult life in Edinburgh, it was my instinctive paper of choice, even though the issue that was delivered to our home went to bed much earlier than the Herald. As I do about once a week, I resolved that I would cancel the lot and read the on-line editions instead, but since that day's issue was there, inking up my hands, I delved into it.
For a few days, I had been keeping an eye out for a certain story. That morning, I found it. It was on page three once again, but, although it commanded more space than a floater in the Clyde, since it emanated from the East of Scotland, it was no longer a front-page lead.
It was headed 'Pig Farm murders: identities confirmed', and it read:
'Detectives leading the investigation into the deaths of a couple whose bodies were found last week on a remote life pig farm confirmed that they are Walter and Andrea Neiporte of Pittenweem, life.
'Mr Neiporte (37) is an American citizen, although he was officially resident in Scotland, and worked at St. Andrews University. His wife (29), an executive with a hotel in North East life, is originally from Orpington in Kent.
'The identifications were confirmed after the completion of DNA tests on the bodies and on samples from relatives in America and England.
'Police last night released further details of what is now officially a double murder hunt. Detective Inspector Tom Reekie, in charge of the investigation, confirmed that police were searching in the vicinity of the farm for the murder weapon, a shotgun.
'He revealed also that police suspect that the crime may be drug-related, after a significant quantity of ecstasy tablets were found in an inch-by-inch search of the couples cottage.
'Inspector Reekie said that he believed that the couple were killed on the evening of May 23, the date and time recorded on Mr. Neiporte 's wristwatch, which had been found on the body, smashed by a shotgun pellet.'
I blinked when I saw the date. Laying the paper down, I turned back to my computer terminal and opened my electronic diary. It confirmed my first thought; the Neiportes had been killed on the day before I had sent Jay to life to deal with them. After all that anxiety, and yes, I confess it now, after all those bad dreams, it turned out to have been just another drug-land execution.
I breathed a single huge sigh of relief. It had barely faded before a question rose up in my mind. 'Why was Jay so secretive?'
But when I thought about it, it took me about three seconds to convince myself that it was simply a sign of his absolute discretion. It was one worry out of the way, but, God knew, there were plenty left. Of these, I realised suddenly, the greatest was that I had made a promise to my wife; but how was I to keep it?
Thirty-Five.
The problem I faced was a simple one. In the fight against our opposition, I had run out of bullets. Ricky and I were making all the obvious moves to try and find evidence that would tie Natalie Morgan to the Three Bears. The only other things we needed were luck and patience. As I've said, I have more than my fair share of the former, but it's not a weapon that can be called upon at will.
As for patience, I find that the older I get the less I have.
So what could I do, I asked myself, to make things happen? Turning once again to my one-man army, Jay Yuille, was not an option. I was sure he would help, but I could never be sure how, given his 'no questions' policy.
After a day of thought, some of it spent working out in my gym, some spent swimming, and some spent hitting increasingly erratic golf shots, I had decided what to do. It would be chancy, and it might even be risky, given the people involved, but it was all I had, my only weapon.
I didn't know how it would work out, but I did know that it would require the performance of my life.
I called Ricky on my mobile, just before six. 'Where's Morgan?' I asked him.
'Homeward bound,' he replied. 'There's nothing on the other three, though, Oz. It's just another day at the offices for all of them.'
'Hang in there,' I said, then hung up.
I found Susie in Janet's playroom; she looked as glum as she had in the morning. 'I have to go out,' I told her.
'Where?'
I pinched a few words from my favourite poem, and recited them in my best Ewan Capperauld accent. 'I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.'
She sniffed. 'Be mysterious then. Just don't wake me when you come in, that's all.'
I took the Lotus; it's my favourite toy when I'm alone. I didn't burn rubber or anything like that, but I made Edinburgh in an hour and a half, and from where we live, that's reasonable. I was glad that Natalie hadn't moved, for it meant that I knew exactly where I was headed. As I cleared the Barnton roundabout, I called Ricky again. 'Is she still at home?' I asked.
'Yes, and all alone.'
'Good. Tell your operative to be ready for action.'
'When?'
'Soon, I hope.'
Less than five minutes later, I pulled into the private car park attached to Natalie's block. There were several spaces in the visitors' area: I picked one, locked on my steering wheel immobiliser … Scotland's capital city hates to admit it, but there are car thieves in Edinburgh too… and wandered over to the entrance door. I knew that Ricky's operative would be watching me, but that didn't matter. I was paying his tab, and if things went pear-shaped in any way, and it became necessary, I would have been the Invisible Man. Not that I thought it would. I had rehearsed my performance time and time again. It was going to be good.
The first time I had entered the building, I had done so… informally; this time I pressed the button with the name 'Morgan' beside it.
