‘God, you’re right there too,’ she exclaimed. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Come and visit us,’ I said, ‘when we’re past all this. Bring the new man too.’
‘I’m not sure if he’s ready to meet you,’ she replied, cagily.
‘Why shouldn’t he be?’
‘Because he’s a policeman too; a sergeant, uniform, stationed in Hamilton. He’s heard of you.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Lowell Payne.’
‘What’s he heard?’
‘That you’re a hard bastard. His words, not mine. I told him you’re very gentle, really.’
‘I’ll look out for him if I’m ever through in that direction and he can make his own mind up. But he’ll meet me on Friday, remember, whether he’s ready or not.’
‘True,’ she conceded. ‘Will you be bringing anyone, other than Alexis?’
The idea hadn’t occurred to me, but given the timing and the geography, we’d be heading for Inverkip Marina after the funeral so. .. ‘It’s possible,’ I told her. ‘But if I do,’ I warned, ‘don’t read anything into it.’
‘I’ll reserve judgement on that. You can read anything you want into Lowell. I like him. You will too.’
‘It won’t make any difference if I don’t; it didn’t the last time, when you married that arsehole.’
‘True,’ she admitted. ‘But Dad liked Lowell, and that’s enough for me. On second thoughts, Bob, you should come to Dad’s house on Friday; the cortege will be leaving from there at one twenty.’
I promised that I would. As soon as we had said our farewells, I rang a guy I knew in Strathclyde Special Branch and asked him if he’d do me one of those favours that he owed me, by checking up discreetly on Sergeant Lowell Payne, and his reputation within the force. Thornie had started off by liking Cameron, I recalled; he’d always given people the benefit of the doubt, until there was none. If there was anything on Payne’s file that I didn’t like, I didn’t want Jean to find out about it the hard way.
I went outside into the main office… yes, I’d forgotten about the call I’d been about to make when Jean had phoned. McGuire and Martin were both at their desks, making their way through files of continuing investigations that Fred Leggat had given them. I tasked them with picking up Wyllie. ‘Don’t smile,’ I warned. ‘DI Higgins has a feeling about this man, so I don’t want him brought in here full of confidence. If he wants to speak while he’s waiting for us, don’t let him. If he asks for tea or coffee, give him water. If he wants to pee, go with him.’
‘What if he wants to take a dump, boss?’ McGuire asked, cheerily.
‘Wait outside the cubicle door.’
‘Can I go back to St Leonards?’
I patted him on the back. ‘And to that nice tailored uniform?’
‘Mmm,’ he mused. ‘What’s a wee bit of methane against that? Maybe not.’
They’d been gone for around twenty minutes when Alison arrived. I hung her light raincoat… it had been drizzling slightly while I ran… in my room, and we headed for the Command Corridor, where the dining room is located.
‘On Friday,’ I said as we walked. ‘I’d been thinking that we’d all go in my car.’
‘Me too,’ she agreed, readily.
‘In that case…’ I told her about Thornton’s death.
She was shocked. ‘Bob, that’s awful. So sudden. How did Alex take it?’
‘Better than I did. I won’t go into detail just now, in case it makes me cry. That wouldn’t look good in here.’
She squeezed my arm. ‘I don’t know about that. It’s a new man thing, and new men are all the rage.’
‘I’ll stick to being an old one,’ I said, ‘or middle-aged… young middle-aged… approaching middle-age. Anyway, the funeral’s on Friday afternoon, in Lanarkshire. Will you come with Alex and me? We can head for the boat afterwards.’
She stopped walking, and whistled. ‘Are you sure about that, Bob? This is a family funeral after all.’
‘A very small family now.’
‘Still, I’m not part of it. What would Alex think?’
‘What should she think?’ I asked.
‘Well, that we were… more than we are.’
‘She knows how we are, and she’s happy with it. Ali, I’d like you to come.’ I realised that it was true; I wasn’t just saying it because her presence would have been convenient. I hadn’t gone to anything with a partner since Myra died. Indeed, I’d never gone to anything with a partner other than Myra.
‘If that’s what you want, I’ll come, depending of course on…’
‘I know, I know, I know: the fucking job. That goes for us both. If there’s a crisis, everything comes second.’
‘What would you be if you weren’t a cop, Bob?’
That was a question I’d put to myself, often. As I’ve said, a few years before I’d been close to becoming a lawyer, although I would have been miserable as the sort of general solicitor that my father was. Probably I’d have made my way to the Bar, with a criminal practice as my objective, or I’d have joined the Crown Office, to concentrate on prosecution. But that was then; my thinking had changed over the years, and journalism had become more attractive to me. I’d a journo friend called Xavi Aislado, a big, serious man, widely regarded as the best reporter in the country. I admired him and could have seen myself trying to fill his enormous shoes. But in truth each of those options would have been a bad second best. If I was snatched away from the job I loved, I’d have been…
‘Lost,’ I replied. ‘You?’
‘A lecturer in criminology,’ she replied without a moment’s hesitation. ‘If I couldn’t do it for any reason, I’d want to teach it.’
I opened the dining-room door and ushered her in. While I was a newcomer, in my own right, I’d been there often enough as a guest. I looked around. The chief constable was there, deep in discussion with his deputy. He waved an acknowledgement to me, and I nodded in return. I spotted Alf Stein too, sharing a table with Alastair Grant and big John McGrigor. John was head of CID in the Borders division. He was a massive bloke; he’d been a lock forward in his youth, and he was so much a part of his territory that he could never be moved out of it.
We took a table for two at the wall. Maisie the waitress, as much of a fixture on her patch as McGrigor was on his, gave us a minute or so to study the menu… comfort food, most of it; Alf Stein called the dining room ‘the cholesterol highway’… then appeared at my side to take our orders: two ham salads, the chef’s only concession to weight-watching, and sparkling water.
‘So what did Alex say?’ Alison asked quietly.
I told her, word for word, and I saw her eyes moisten. ‘I see what you mean about crying,’ she murmured. ‘Bob,’ she continued, ‘you mustn’t build her hopes up about you and me.’
‘Don’t worry about it. She knows where you and I are. Any problem would come if we moved beyond that.’ I told her about Alex’s EastEnders gag, and she laughed out loud, drawing a glance from big John.
‘Who does she think we are? Den and Angie or Grant and Sharon?’
‘Anybody but Pat and Frank.’
‘Anybody but any of them, I think. But not to worry.’ She looked across at me, raising an eyebrow. ‘She’s probably building her hopes up about you and her disc jockey friend.’
I kept my face straight. ‘Oh yes,’ I murmured. ‘The murder victims’ sister, the murderer’s niece, Tony Manson’s mistress’s daughter, all rolled up in one. That would go down well in here.’
‘Wouldn’t it just?’ she agreed. ‘But love is blind, they say.’
‘It would have to be fucking stupid as well.’ The point was unarguable… so why was I still struggling to convince myself?
Lunch arrived, and we got down to business as we ate, planning our approach to Robert Wyllie. ‘What’s making you twitch most about his statement?’ I asked her.
‘It’s the pub itself. It’s called Pink’s, and Wyllie described it as a gay bar. That was accepted by the interviewing officers, but when I described it that way to the station commander, he told a different story. He drinks there himself, and he told me that while it has a certain gay clientele, they’re almost exclusively women. It’s much the same as the Giggling Goose; gays go there because they know they’re not going to be hassled by the rest of the clientele. That’s the way these places are marketed.’
