him 'Sir', or 'Boss', or 'Mr Martin' in front of other people. Christ, it was a wonder she had never said 'Thank you, sir,' as he had come inside her, 'Thank you for the part of yourself you've given me, the only part you ever give.'
That was at the heart of it: most of all she had to tell him outright that theirs was a taking relationship on both sides, with little or no giving at all, and that she could not go on that way. She couldn't go on being his safe house away from the demons, even if that meant that he could no longer provide the self-same comfort for her.
She didn't know what she was going to say to him after that, other than 'I quit: everything, as of now. Goodbye.'
Or maybe she would simply speak the truth and say, 'I'm sorry, Andy, but I love you.'
She took another deep breath as she parked in front of his car, blocking his driveway. The house was in darkness, but she knew that his bedroom and living room were on the far side. She pressed the door buzzer, hearing it sound inside. She waited; and she waited. She rang again, longer this time, in case he was asleep, although she knew he never slept all that deeply. Still she waited until the picture began to form in her head.
Why was his car in the driveway and not in the garage? Was there another car in there?
Andy, not asleep. Andy, not alone. Andy, with this week's blonde. Or maybe Ruth McConnell… or maybe Alex. Was he really over her? Would he ever be?
Yes, she got the picture.
Her nerve failed her. She walked away from his front door, climbed back into her car, turned on the engine and then, as quietly as she could, Karen Neville drove away.
38
He tried, but he couldn't; he couldn't think about his life. Only about his death, only about that bloody great gun and the cold, thin man who had been pointing it at him all night. It looked pretty old, a Webley service revolver maybe, or an American Colt, the sort of wartime souvenir that had been handed in by the thousands at firearms amnesties over the last fifty years.
It may have been a museum piece, but Martin was in no doubt that it was in working order. Lawrence Scotland knew his firearms; he'd had plenty of practice during his years as a consultant to the Irish Loyalists and to the late and infrequently lamented Tony Manson. A heavy calibre job; point four five, probably. For a second too long he found himself imagining what one of those would do to his head, how much of it would be left.
He had seen a murder victim once, years back, where a heavy weapon like that one had been pressed to the victim's temple. Contact wound; explosive, hardly anything left in the cranium. He thought of JFK and the apparent mystery of what had happened to his brain, when his body had arrived at the Dallas hospital. Where was the mystery? It was all over Jackie!
I wonder who '11 identify me. Bob maybe, poor bugger. Not my dad though, please not him. Altogether too old for that; it would kill him. He pictured a funeral; solemn people in black suits. His parents supported by his younger brother,
David, and his wife Caitlin. Bob, Jim Elder, Proud Jimmy in uniform… Don't wear uniform, Bob, not for me. I know how much you hate it… Sarah, and Alex, near the front. Karen, a row further back with Sammy and Neil. Mario and Maggie…
Stop it, Martin, he shouted at himself, inside his head. This man only has your body captive. Let him take your mind and you really are dead. If he does what you think he's going to do, you have some sort of a chance. He's your enemy, he's the other team, and what do you do to them? That's right: you smash them into the fucking ground, ruck the bastards till they howl for their mothers. You 're going to get this guy with whatever you have and you 're going to hear his last pathetic gasp.
Anger, Andy, anger. No point in staying cool now; Mr Cool will get his fucking head blown off. Be Mr Angry; anger is your only weapon. Anger kills, cool is vulnerable. Yes, let Lawrence fucking Scotland be Mr Cool.
'Okay.' The man spoke quietly but the word was like a shout, knifing its way into his thoughts in the gloom of the kitchen. 'It's time to go. Time to meet your maker, Mr Martin. Come along quiet now; be a good lad and I'll give you the Last Rites.'
'Fuck you and your rites, you blasphemous bastard,' the detective snarled.
'Ahh,' said Scotland, 'that's what you're going to be is it? Defiant to the end. I had one of those once, in Armagh; only he wasn't, not to the end. He was one of them who had seen the brains flying out. At the end he was blubbering like a baby, not facing the gun, turning away and getting his head blown all over the place. I pissed on him afterwards; it was the only time I've ever done that. Before today, that is.'
'You'll piss yourself before the morning's out.'
'That's it. Keep it up, keep it up. Now, listen, this is what's going to happen. We're going outside, and we're getting into your car. I've got the keys from your jacket. If you think about making a noise when we get outside, then I'll shoot you in the back of the head. After that I'll drive to the Scotsman office and give myself up to them; that way your man Skinner can't kill me. That way it all comes out in Court.'
'What if they're outside now, waiting?'
'Then you'll be dead; me too probably. But we both know they're not, or we'd have heard by now. Come on.'
With surprising strength he hauled Martin to his feet, and pushed him towards the door. In the hall, the detective stumbled.
Do it now! a voice said. Go for him!
No; no room, gun cocked. No chance.
He picked himself up, and stepped outside, into Falcon Street.
'See?' said Scotland. 'No bastard here.' He opened the front passenger door of the white Mondeo, and jammed the gun into the middle of Martin's back, forcing him forward, awkwardly, his hands still tied, numb, behind his back, and on to the seat. Lightning fast, Scotland ran round to the driver's side and climbed in. Then, holding the gun to his captive's head with his left hand, he reached over and pulled the seat belt around him, fastening it, rendering him virtually immobile.
He started the car and grinned at the policeman wickedly. 'You know where we're going, don't you?'
'I can guess. I promise you one thing, bastard; I won't shit myself like you did.'
'You will, you know. They all do.'
Scotland put the car into gear and drove off, unhurried and steadily, out of Falcon Street and on to Gilmerton Road, turning left, heading for the City by-pass. He picked it up at Sheriffhall and headed west. Martin glanced at the car clock; it was six-twenty. Even on a Friday morning, the traffic at that time was minimal; no rescue vehicles, that was for sure.
They turned off at the Lothianburn Junction, then took the fork which led to Biggar, and eventually to the M74 and Carlisle. They would not be going that far, though, Martin knew. Still driving steadily, Scotland took the first turning to the right off the Biggar Road, a narrower country track, which climbed upwards into the Pentland Hills. After two, maybe three miles, they came to a car park, small but secluded, a clearing in a dark woodland area. They turned in and came to a halt.
'We walk from here,' said the man with the gun.
'Good, you fucker,' Martin hissed. 'I want to see how big your balls really are.'
'I've got to hand it to you, Mr Policeman.' Click; and the seat belt came undone. 'So far you're talking a good game.' Scotland climbed out of the car then opened the passenger door, hauling his prisoner out. 'Go on, that way. Take that path through the woods. Remember though, I'm right behind and I'll shoot you in the back if you do anything daft. I won't kill you, not yet, I'll just knock a piece of you out, but it'll be fucking sore.'
Not in the woods, Martin found himself praying. Don't let him do it in the woods. All wrong, not enough room. But they walked on, until the forest came to an end, giving way abruptly to open hillside, behind a fence and a sign which read,
'Warning. MoD Property. No admission. Live firing possible.'
'Live firing fucking certain,' said Scotland, gleefully. 'Go on, through it.'
