switch and watched her as she stopped, as soon as she reached the top and stepped into the living room.
She was gazing at the paintings as he stepped up beside her. 'How do you like my friends?' he asked.
'Andy, they're really lovely. Are they all originals?'
'Sshh,' he said. 'You'll offend them, just by asking that. Stay here and get to know them; I'll give you the guided tour once I've made the coffee.'
He stepped through to his kitchen and made a pot of filter coffee, then brought two mugs back to the living room. 'I guessed no sugar, okay?' She nodded as he set them on a low table. She was standing by the cabinet which held his hi-fi equipment, holding a CD case.
'Who's this?' she asked.
'Mary Coughlan. Irish; what you'd call a torch singer.' He picked up a remote, and pressed a button; a few seconds later a smoky voice sang out into the room. 'Right,' he said. 'Andy's art gallery.'
He walked her round the pictures one by one, explaining the history of each and of its artist. The collection was a blend of modern and traditional art, oils, acrylics and watercolours. 'They're all beautifully framed,' Rhian commented.
'Most of them have been refrained to my taste. I can't paint for toffee, so I sort of see that as my stamp on them. Many artists will put any old cheap crap around their work, so there's plenty of scope.'
She turned to face him. 'So this is the man you've been keeping back from me all night. A secret lover of art and very sexy music' She put her arms around his neck, and kissed him.
'Hey, hey,' he whispered. 'Rhian, this isn't…'
She pressed herself against him, provocatively; he was rock hard, no disguising it. 'Mmm, like I said. Not an ounce of fat.'
'Come on kid,' he protested. 'Don't rush your fences.'
'Ahh,' she said, softly. 'So the fence is there to be cleared…'
'I didn't say that. Look, you're very attractive, and all that-'
'But I'm only a kid. Don't kid yourself. You wouldn't be the first man I've slept with…' She paused.'… or the oldest either.'
'No, but I'll be the first who lived next door.' 'What's that got to do with it?' 'Ask your mother.'
'It's got nothing to do with her. Andy, I'm past my twenty-first. I'm a grown woman… damn well-grown at that. Now shut up and kiss me again.'
Oh shit! said the voice in his head. His hands, which had been together loosely at the small of her back, slid up under her tee-shirt. Her skin felt silky and smooth,' as he drew her close against him. Her lips were soft, her full breasts loose, her nipples hard, rubbing against him even through two layers of clothing.
He gave himself up to Trouble, and in that moment didn't give a damn.
Andy Martin had long held the irrational theory that telephones are a malevolent life form, one which chooses to interfere in its creators' business at pivotal moments, out of cussedness. But when his cordless phone rang out, he thought that, for once, it might have decided to save him from himself.
•
He extricated himself from Rhian's embrace. 'That's probably your mother,' he muttered, as he picked up the handset.
The girl shook her head. 'Probably one of your Saturday night women,' she laughed.
'Martin,' he said into the receiver. It was a woman, but one of the Monday-to-Friday sort. 'Andy,' a familiar voice replied. 'It's Maggie.'
He looked back across the room and put a finger to his lips. 'Yes, Chief Inspector Rose. What can I do for you?'
'I'm at a crime scene: a suspicious death.' He heard her pause. 'No, let's forget police-speak, a murder. I'm sorry to bother you with it, but I guessed you'd want to know about it.'
'Why's that?'
'Because it's a right nasty one… and because the victim's an ex-copper.'
'Shit. Where are you?'
'North Berwick. A house called Shell Cottage, in Forth Street.'
'I'll be with you inside an hour. I've had a couple of beers so I'll need to round up a driver.'
He ended the call and looked at Rhian. 'Sorry, love. It's the job; I've got to go and look at a body. You see? You don't really want to be involved with me: this sort of thing happens all the time.'
'Don't worry. It happens to doctors too. Can I come with you?'
'No way,' he answered, firmly. 'Then I'll wait for you.'
'No.' He frowned at her. 'Seriously, you should go next door. If for no other reason than that this could take all night.'
'Ann,' she sighed. 'In that case, I'll see you tomorrow. I could take all night too.'
4
Once upon a time, North Berwick was known as 'the Biarritz of the North' — a term coined, or so Detective Chief Inspector Maggie Rose had always thought, by someone who had never been to Biarritz.
In fact the term came from the Victorian era, when the small East Lothian town had been the main weekend and holiday resort for the merchants and financiers of Edinburgh. Even at the dawn of the new millennium, its beach-front area was little changed from those days, although the modern community which unrolled from it had become a dormitory for the city and an internationally recognised golf resort.
Maggie Rose was standing at the front door of Shell Cottage, between two uniformed constables, when Karen Neville's Nova drew up behind the ambulance and police vehicles, and the Head of CID stepped out of the front passenger seat. It was forty minutes past midnight. 'Hi, Mags,' he said. 'Sorry I didn't get here sooner, but I decided to ask Karen to bring me out, rather than take a patrol car off duty. ACC Elder gets humpty about that sort of thing.'
He saw her eyes narrow slightly and guessed that the DCI thought that they had been together when she had called. 'It took her a few minutes to get down to pick me up,' he added, pointedly.
Maggie flushed slightly, embarrassed that her mind had been read. 'Hello, Karen,' she said, as the detective sergeant approached.
'The man inside,' Martin asked. 'Who is he?'
'His name's Smith, Alexander Smith, and he's the only elector registered at this address. There are some papers inside which told us that he was a police pensioner…' She paused as she saw the DCS's face change. 'You know him?'
'Of course I do. I succeeded him as Head of Special Branch. Don't you remember him? Alec Smith; he was a DCI when he chucked it, like you are now. Jesus, this puts a bit of a spin on it. Have you told the Boss?'
Red hair swung as she shook her head. 'No. I left that to your judgement.'
'Let's have a look at him first. Are Dorward's scene-of-crime team here yet?'
'No, but the MO's here. He's still inside. I came out for a breath of fresh air. I'd have opened the windows, but I didn't want to touch anything unnecessarily before Arthur's lot have been over the place.'
'Lead on then.' Rose nodded and turned to go back indoors. Before following, Martin paused for a moment to look at Shell Cottage. It was a two-storey house, built of locally quarried red stone, with a pan-tiled roof, and separated from the pavement by a narrow garden. Taller buildings stood on either side, their walls adjoining.
'I never knew Alec lived here,' he murmured, absent-mindedly, then stepped past the uniforms and into the house, into a narrow hall, Neville at his heels.
Maggie Rose was waiting for them at the foot of a flight of stairs. 'He's up there, in his living room, or study. Whatever you want to call it.' She looked at the Sergeant. 'Karen, it's bad,' she warned.
'I've seen death before,' the other woman replied.
'Not like this, you haven't.' Rose led the way upstairs. 'Trust Brian Mackie to be on holiday when we get one like this,' she murmured. Four doors opened off the upper landing, which was lit by a skylight. Three led to rooms overlooking Forth Street; a tall man in his early thirties stood outside the other.
