Lethal intent

eye. 'I wouldn't lay any bets on that, Chief Inspector, if I was you,' he said.

Ten

'When was he reported missing, sir?' Detective Constable Tarvil Singh's voice was flat and toneless as he asked the question. He looked as if he had just seen something that he could not bring himself to believe; in fact, that was the case.

'Ten o'clock last night,' Detective Inspector Stevie Steele replied. 'He and his mates came up town to the Christmas fun-fair in the gardens, and they were all going for burgers afterwards. He was due home at eight; when he hadn't showed by quarter to nine, George and Jen started calling round the other lads' parents. When they got no joy, George called St Leonards, the divisional HQ for where they live, and then he called me.' He looked at the big DC, who seemed bulkier than ever in his white scene-of-crime tunic. 'When I told the chief super, she phoned round the other divisional commanders; just about every copper on duty in Edinburgh's been looking for the lad ever since.'

'Have you let Ms Rose know that he's been found?'

Steele frowned. 'That's no job for me, Tarvil. The chief superintendent will be gutted by this, like we all are. I'm sure that Detective Superintendent Chambers will tell her, but only after she's brought George Regan here and he's formalised the identification.'

Singh looked past him, over his shoulder. 'I've got news for you, boss,' he murmured. 'Somebody's beaten her to it.'

Steele turned and saw a car that had not been there before, parked beside the ambulance on the roadway near the railway line. He knew it well; as he looked at it, the driver's door opened and Chief Superintendent Margaret Rose, commander of Edinburgh's western police division, stepped out. She wore a heavy coat over her uniform, and her close-cut red hair was tucked neatly inside her cap. She walked across to the two detectives.

'You sure?' she asked the DI, quietly.

He nodded. 'I'm sorry, there's no doubt' He turned and looked over at a large tent that had been erected on the slope that ran sharply down from the western ramparts of Edinburgh Castle; Tarvil Singh had left them and was moving towards it, as if to stand guard. 'I've known wee George since he was eight or nine.' He smiled, sadly. 'Whenever the Regans had a party they'd a hell of a job getting him off to bed.'

'How old is he now?'

'He'd have been fourteen in February, poor wee guy.'

'What happened?'

'The doctor's still in there, but his provisional view, and mine when I saw the body, is that his neck's broken.'

Rose looked up at the towering grey castle. 'Does that mean that he climbed up there and fell?'

'Trying to scale the heights, you mean? It looks like it; a daft boy's trick. He'd have been game for it, that's for sure.' Steele shivered: the December morning was grey and cold, and he found himself wishing that he had brought his own overcoat. 'The body's virtually unmarked. There's some facial bruising, that looks like it was sustained when he hit the ground, but nothing more than that.'

'But it was night-time when it happened, wasn't it?'

'It's Christmastime, Mags. With all the decorations and stuff, this whole area's lit up like a football field.'

'I suppose so. Has George been here yet?'

Steele winced. 'No, not yet; Mary's bringing him… and I wish I didn't have to be here when he arrives.'

'Not his wife, though?'

'God forbid.'

'He may not have the authority to do that. If it was my son…' She broke off. 'Who found him?' she asked.

'He was spotted by somebody in Saltire Court,' said Steele. He pointed at the elegant office block that dominated the far side of Castle Terrace. 'The body can't be seen from the path at all, or from the roadway, but a sharp-eyed worker on the top floor spotted it, took a closer look through a pair of binoculars, and raised the alarm.'

The sound of another approaching vehicle made them look towards the road. 'Oh dear,' Rose whispered. 'Jen is here after all.' The dead boy's mother sat in the back seat of Detective Superintendent Mary Chambers's car. As the two officers moved towards her, they saw on her face the same expression of disbelief that Singh had worn earlier.

The inspector felt a fluttering in his stomach as Detective Sergeant George Regan stepped out on to the hard, rough road. The two friends met, and shook hands formally. 'Jen will stay in the car,' said the bereaved father. 'She wanted to come to the scene, and we didn't try to dissuade her.'

'I'll sit with her,' said Rose, as Mary Chambers came round to join them, her plain square face ashen white.

'Thank you, ma'am,' Regan replied. He drew himself up to his full height, gathering his dignity around him like a protective cloak. 'Let us suit up, Stevie, and then let me see him.'

Steele waved to a crime-scene technician, who brought over two fresh white tunics. He waited in silence while Regan and Chambers put them on, then led the way up the steep slope.

Eleven

Like most people, Bob Skinner tolerated flying, regarding it as a twenty-first century necessity; he believed firmly that those who said they actually enjoyed being in a heavier-than-air machine thirty-five thousand feet above the ground were either liars or idiots.

The part of the whole process that he disliked most was the pre-boarding wait in the departure lounge. The small airport that served Key West, where Sarah had dropped him fifteen minutes before, was reasonably comfortable, and the monitor screens told him that his aircraft was on the ground and was scheduled to leave on time, but still he fretted.

He tried to read a book, a private-detective yarn called Alarm Call that he had brought with him from Scotland, but found that he could not give it the concentration it deserved. The small cafeteria was open: he bought himself coffee, and a bagel with cream cheese, but even as he chewed he found himself reaching unconsciously inside his jacket for the cell-phone which, on a whim, he had left at home, so that he could be truly out of contact to all except Neil McIlhenney, Trish, the children's nanny, and Aileen de Marco.

He had given her his contact number because, he had told himself and her, he had promised to be there for her whenever she needed advice, but in truth, he wondered if his motive had been more personal. Whatever was in his head, and his heart, he felt an urgent need to speak to her, to make sure that she had kept the promise she had made to him the evening before.

He gave in. He drained the coffee but left half of the bagel, then walked over to a payphone against the wall, and used a credit card to activate it. He punched in her number and waited. Lena McElhone answered. 'Justice Minister's office.'

'Lena, it's Bob Skinner here. Can I speak to Aileen, or is she at lunch?'

'She's in her office, Mr Skinner. Hold on.' He waited for a minute, watching the cost of the call tick higher and higher. 'I'm sorry,' said the private secretary, when finally she came back on line, 'Aileen's very busy and can't be disturbed.'

He grunted in frustration. 'Okay. Tell her I'll call her from Miami once I get there.'

'She expects to be busy all day, sir.'

'She's not clearing her desk, is she?'

'Pardon?'

'Obviously not. Just give her a message, please: tell her I'm glad she's done the right thing, and that I'll be