22
'Do you ever think that our lifestyle might be bad for us?' Maggie Rose gazed at her husband across their small garden table. She was wearing a loose-fitting cotton shirt, bra-less, and denim shorts, an outfit as different from her business clothes as she could find, and the remnants of supper lay between them.
'What? Living off carry-out pizzas?' he said, with a disarming grin. 'We only do it once a week; that's hardly excessive.'
She raised an eyebrow. The evening sun shone on her rich, red hair as it fell across her forehead; it was dark, almost blood-like. Most people thought it was a tint, but Mario knew otherwise. Most people thought of Mags as serious and straightlaced, but he knew differently there too. She was deep, was Mrs McGuire, a bottomless sea in whom the big, tough Irish-Italian detective had swum lovingly since first they had met.
'Don't be flip,' she said. 'You know what I mean. I'm talking about our jobs; you in Special Branch, me in CID. Aren't you ever afraid that they might take us over?'
He laughed. He was in shorts also; tailored, with big pockets on each side. Strands of thick, black, curly chest hair had forced their way though his white tee-shirt. 'If you're suggesting I get a transfer to traffic, you're not on.'
She laid her glass on the table, smiling inside of herself. 'Mario!'
He reached over and took her hand; as he drew it towards him, he saw the scar. It was fainter than it had been, but it was still there. For all the surgeon's reassurances, he knew that it always would be, just as he would always carry a mark of his own on his chest, beneath the mat of hair. 'Maggie,' he answered. 'I love my job. It's fascinating and at times it's exciting. But I love you a hell of a lot more. If I ever thought it was any sort of a threat to you and me, I'd chuck it in a second… or I really would get a transfer to traffic.
'You feel the same way about yours too; so instead of seeing it as a potential problem, look at it from another perspective. Look at the commonality of interest it gives us.'
She nodded; more of her hair fell forward, throwing her face into shadow. 'I suppose so. Just promise me one thing, though: promise me that you won't stay too long in Special Branch.'
He released her hand and reached for his glass. 'Why do you say that?'
'What else? Alec Smith: the way he ended up. Mario, what if that was related in some way to the job he did? Your job now.'
'Hey, kid. The day I find myself turning into Alec, I transfer out. And that takes us back to the subject of this conversation. Alec never talked to anyone, other than Bob Skinner and his predecessor, and then only when he had to. He didn't go home to Mrs Alec and unburden himself; he was so remote, so wrapped up in it that it made her leave him.' He paused, and shivered in the evening sun. 'And it made him into what?' he mused, in a whisper.
'What do you mean?' she asked.
'I don't know, love. I don't know.' He picked up the Chianti, topped up Maggie's glass, and poured the last of the bottle into his own.
'See that lass Cowan?'
'Alice? Yes. I've been asked if I'd like her in CID. I'd take her in a minute, but I'll leave the decision for Brian when he gets back from holiday. I'd rather he had the argument with her line commander.'
'You rate her then?'
'Very much. She's very sharp'.
'She thinks for herself, and doesn't say any more than she needs to?'
'Yes, I'd say that.'
'I might save Superintendent Mackie from that Barney, then.'
'What? You mean you might pinch her?' 'If she comes through vetting okay, yes. There's someone I've got to move out.' 'Who's that?'
'Tommy Gavigan: the old DC. He's blown out and he's got to go now; I've sent him on leave already and I won't have him back. He's forty-seven with just over two years to go to retirement, so we'll give him the extra time on his pension rights and let him leave early. I told Big Bob this as soon as I'd interviewed Gavigan, so it's as good as done. If Whitlow the bean-counter moans about the cost, he'll get told.
'Something else too, that should please you. In future nobody does more than five years in Special Branch… ever. That comes from the Gaffer himself
Maggie looked at him carefully. 'I'm glad to hear that; but Gavigan's an old soldier. You sure you want to replace him with a youngster like Alice? She's only twenty-four.'
'I'm absolutely sure, because she is a youngster, she's uncorrupted, a breath of fresh air, and I need that in SB.'
'What's brought this on? Am I allowed to know?'
'I don't suppose you are but I'll tell you, because you couldn't do anything about it afterwards even if you wanted to. The Boss wouldn't let you.'
He told her the stories of Lawrence Scotland and Shakir Basra. When he was finished, she let out a long, low whistle. 'You were asked to get a handle on Alec Smith, Inspector. You've surely done it, haven't you? I can see why you want Gavigan out.'
Mario nodded. 'Aye, it'll make it easier to use him as bait.' 'Uh?'
'Think about it. If Lawrence Scotland has finally plucked up the courage to get even with Smith, isn't there a chance that he might go for Gavigan as well, especially if he's off the job? Even as we speak, the man's under surveillance.'
'And this Lawrence Scotland is one of the two possibilities you mentioned earlier. Who's the other?'
'One Gus Morrison; a would-be tartan terrorist.'
'Do you like either of them for it?'
'Couldn't say yet, any more than you could. I'll know when I've had a look at them.'
'What are you going to do?'
'Pick them both up; interrogation plus psychiatric evaluation. It takes a special man to burn off someone's balls with a blowlamp and make a movie while he's doing it. If it was either of them, we'll know.'
'And what if it wasn't?'
'Then the SB files have come up blank. There's no-one else.'
'And we're back where we started.'
He grinned, as Maggie's face fell. 'Not quite. There's still Alec's personal papers; all the things that were taken from the house. They have to be gone through.'
'Where are they now? I haven't seen them in the van.'
'Too right you haven't; Christ knows what could be in there. No, I've got them.' He jerked a thumb back towards the house. 'In there, in my big briefcase.'
'You took them way from the investigation?' she exclaimed, indignantly.
'Special Branch prerogative, my dear. Our man, our files.'
'Time you shared them then. Come on, Mario, I'm supposed to be in charge of this investigation, but it seems as if it's you who's running it, really.' She stood and pushed back her plastic chair. 'Go on; get into the house and fetch that briefcase.'
'Okay,' he agreed. 'DCI or not, I may have to kill you once you've seen it, but we'll discuss that later.'
He led the way through the patio doors, into the small sitting room of their Miller villa, and fetched the briefcase from the hall. He opened it and took out a thick sheaf of material, which he laid on the long low coffee table which was set in front of their sofa.
'Have you looked at this yourself yet?' she asked.
'No, I gave priority to the SB file check.'
He picked a folder from the top of the pile, opened it and began to flick though its contents. 'Household bills. Gas, leccy, and rates. All in sequence.' A second folder. 'Telephone bills; BT and Orange. As far as I can see none of them are very big, but I'll check them out tomorrow — the itemised ones at any rate — and see if any numbers jump out at us.'
He picked up the next folder; it was lever-arched, and split into sections. 'Pension papers,' he said, after a few seconds perusal. 'Police stuff, and interest and dividend notices from other investments. Then bank statements and correspondence.'
