'Because as soon as we start to sound like a mouthpiece for the police — or anyone else for that matter — we're dead. We're independent local radio, remember; the word means something. Don't worry, Andy, we get the drugs message across, all of us, but through the attitude of our presenters, not through propaganda.'
The disc-jockey paused. 'Come in and watch us at work sometime. You can sit in with me in the studio.' He grinned. 'You can bring Rhian if you like, although she's been already.'
He caught Martin's look. 'Some girl, that. Twenty-one going on forty; you watch yourself there. She can be a real heart-breaker.'
'You speak from experience?' the detective asked. There was an edge to his tone.
Spike Thomson held up a hand, as if to keep the big policeman at bay. 'Not guilty, honest, officer,' he protested. 'The truth is that my interest is in her mother. Juliet and I have been seeing each other for a while.'
He broke off. 'You eaten yet?'
'No,' Martin replied, hunger biting at once.
'Come on then, let's get some grub and a refill.'
They were halfway to the barbecue when the detective's mobile phone sounded in his shirt pocket. He stopped and took it out. 'Yes?'
'Andy, it's Maggie.'
'Hi, Mags. How's it going out there?'
'A town full of brick walls so far. I do have Sarah's postmortem report though: it answers a couple of questions. I'm having a team briefing tomorrow morning, at ten in the mobile. Want to come?'
'Sure, I'll be there.' He ended the call and put the handphone away. 'Work,' he said to Thomson.
'Not that thing our newsroom was on about today, was it? Out in my home town.'
'I'm afraid so.'
The little man shook his head. 'Poor old Smithy. He was one of us, you know; one of the Thursday Legends. Something come back to haunt him, did it?'
Martin frowned at the shrewdness of the question. 'Maybe, maybe not. Too early to tell. Come on, there's been enough shop all round. Let's get to the grub.'
They were almost there when the scream rang out behind them; short, sharp piercing, then dying into a gasp. The detective turned on his heel. Margot, the birthday girl, was standing to the left of the garden with her back to her guests, leaning over the boundary fence and gripping its rail tightly. She was staring down, back along the river towards the Belford Bridge.
The rest of the gathering seemed to turn in slow motion towards her, but Andy Martin was by her side in three strides. 'What's up, Margot?' he asked urgently.
The girl said nothing, did not move, as he put a protective arm around her shoulders. She could only gaze at the greenish-tinged water, her mouth hanging open slightly. At last she raised a hand and pointed. 'There,' she whispered. 'What's that thing along there? Is it what I think it is?'
The detective followed the direction of her outstretched finger, leaning outwards, just as she did. At last he saw it, just under the far parapet of the bridge which carries the road above across Edinburgh's little river. It was a large green, puffy object, swollen by the water, not going with the flow but snagged on something. He might have thought that it was no more than a roll of carpet — but for the thing, the pale white thing, which floated on the surface.
'Oh no,' he muttered. 'Just what I need to round off a perfect day.'
He felt a strong hand tug at his elbow and turned to face Rhian. Juliet, Spike and the others had gathered behind her, one or two of them leaning out over the fence. 'Back,' he called out, sharply. 'Everyone get back towards the house, please.
'There's something in the river and it's given Margot a fright. It's probably nothing — ' He knew as he spoke that his urgency made his lie sound unconvincing. '- but I'm going along to check it out, just in case. Come on now, back, please.'
Frowning, Juliet Lewis took her younger daughter, who had begun to tremble, by the hand and drew her away from the fence, while Rhian began to usher the rest of the gathering towards the back of the garden as Martin had asked. As she did, he glanced down at his clothes, then eased out of his sandals to stand barefoot on the grass. He stripped off his Hugo Boss shirt and hung it over the top rail then, deciding that his cotton slacks were expendable, vaulted over the fence on to the sloping embankment which ran along the other side.
The arch of the bridge was about fifty yards away; he made his way crabwise along the grass banking until he reached it, then stepped out into the murky waters. Almost at once he was more than waist deep, wading through ooze and slime, pausing to balance himself as he stepped on the occasional slippery stone. The river was no more than a few yards wide, but under the bridge it was so gloomy that he could not see the object clearly until he was almost upon it.
Close to, the pale thing had a bluish tinge. It was a hand, on the end of a shirt-sleeved right arm which seemed to have worked its way awkwardly from the dark-coloured rug which had enclosed it. The head was almost clear too; a man's head, face down in the water, sparse hair floating on the surface.
The detective allowed his eyes a few more seconds to become accustomed to the gloom. Gradually he saw that the rug had been tied with thick twine, top, middle and bottom. It was hooked on the branch of a tree, which had fallen somewhere upstream and become snagged itself on the riverbed.
Something made him look again at the hand, closely this time. The thumb and little finger were missing; bones showed where they had been snipped or sawed off. He switched his attention to the other end of the rug. Two bare feet protruded: the big and little toes had been severed on each.
'Fuck,' he swore quietly, feeling his stomach prickling. He decided to touch nothing. The rug was stuck fast to the branch which was itself solidly based in the river: there was no chance of anything floating away. Taking care not to slip, he turned and waded back across the river, scrambling, with some difficulty since his feet were slippy with mud, back up the embankment.
Rhian was standing by the fence. Everyone else was standing around the barbecue, but no-one was eating.
'What is it?' she asked.
'Male, human and very dead,' he answered, grimly. 'What we in the business call a stiff. It had to happen tonight, too, and here. Just great for poor wee Margot's birthday. Do me a favour. Fish my cell-phone from my shirt pocket. It was a bit pricey so I don't want to muck it up.'
She did as he asked. He switched it on and pressed buttons in sequence to call a short-coded number. 'Aye?' came a gruff voice as his call was answered.
'Dan, it's Andy Martin; glad I caught you. I'm at home, or rather next door, at a birthday party. We've just had an unwelcome extra guest.'
'Why's he unwelcome?' asked Detective Superintendent Dan Pringle, commander of CID in Edinburgh's city centre.
'Because he's fucking dead, and floating face down in the Water of Leith.'
'Suicide?'
'Would I be calling you if it was? No, this is definitely not suicide. We'll need photographers, and suited divers to get him out. He's stuck under the Belford Bridge. It's not very deep, but it's mucky down there. Even as I speak I've got half a hundred weight of slime clinging to me.'
'You'll be lucky if that's all it is,' Pringle chuckled, darkly. 'Okay, I'll get things moving. Should I have Belford Road closed off?'
'I reckon you should, for a while at least. I'll put an end to the party; it'll get hellish busy down here very soon.'
'Won't we need statements from everyone?'
'Only one, I reckon, and she lives here. You get on with it and I'll see you shortly.'
'Fine, but do me a favour, Andy.'
'What's that?'
'Wash the shit off before I get there.'
