background, other than as a vendor of German motors. Still, I fancy another go at him. It would be good if he coughed: then we wouldn't have to stick Andy Martin in the witness box.'
'The only way he'll cough is if he catches the flu.'
'He's been in the cells long enough for that. Let's have him.' He pushed himself from his chair, in the office they had been loaned by the Danderhall station commander. He had almost reached the door when the phone rang. MacDougall took the call, frowned, then replaced the receiver. 'We've got a visitor. He's coming up to see us.'
'Who?'
'Bob Skinner's hatchet man.'
'Eh?'
Mackenzie still wore his bewildered expression when the door opened, and a large man stepped into the room. He recognised him at once, but even as they shook hands he struggled to put a name to the face. 'DCI Neil McIlhenney, Special Branch,' said the newcomer, by way of an introduction. 'Our paths did cross a couple of weeks ago, if only briefly.'
'Ah, of course. You're the guy that's married to the actress. What can we do for you? Do you want our autographs for the wife?'
McIlhenney looked at him, stone-faced. 'Save the flash act for the punters, friend. You've got two prisoners in the cells downstairs, Bell and Cable.'
Mackenzie's smile vanished. 'Yes. So?'
'So you're letting them go.'
'I'm what?' the drugs squad commander cried out, spontaneously. It was the first time that Mavis MacDougall had ever heard him raise his voice.
'They're being released, without charge. You will shred all transcripts of interviews and give me all your tapes. Destroy any paperwork you may have relating to this operation. The record of their booking in here has already been erased.'
'On whose authority?'
'Mine. I'm Santa Claus, come to them early.'
Bandit regained his composure. 'You're a DCI, pal. Last time I looked, so was I. You'll need to give me more than that.'
McIlhenney gazed at him. 'No, I won't. You'll do as I ask. But before they leave this building, I will be speaking to your prisoners; alone.'
'And what about Spike Thomson? They'll go straight back to his place and chib him.'
'No, they will not. They will not go near Spike Thomson again, or his place.'
'And who's going to tell them that?'
'I am. Now, give me the tapes, please.'
Mackenzie glowered at him, but took four cassettes from his pocket and handed them over.
'Thanks,' said McIlhenney. 'For what it's worth, I'd be brassed off too, if I was in your shoes. I'm sorry, but this is the way it's got to go.'
'Okay,' Bandit acknowledged. 'I understand. I know that Bell's got form, but Cable, is he an undercover cop, then?'
'Please don't ask, and please don't mention his name again, not here, at home, at Fettes, not anywhere. I know it's frustrating, but…'
'Understood,' Mackenzie conceded, grudgingly. 'Even if I do act flash on occasion, and even if I'm new in Edinburgh, I'm a professional.'
'Fine,' said McIlhenney, as he turned to leave. 'Just one more thing. Come and see me in my office tomorrow afternoon, please. Five minutes to three, no later, and don't talk about that either.'
Fourteen
Although she had been a police officer for over twenty years, Mary Chambers had never faced a press conference. She had been given communications training in Glasgow, where she had begun her career, and Alan Royston had briefed her well, but still she felt uncharacteristically nervous as she read her prepared statement to the media, gathered in a conference room at the divisional headquarters in Torphichen Place.
It was brief, naming the victim and describing the circumstances of his disappearance and the discovery of his body. When she revealed that the dead boy was the son of Detective Sergeant George Regan, a collective murmur rippled across the room. Most of the journalists present knew Regan; all of them recognised a page one headline when they heard it.
She completed her text, laid the single sheet of paper on the table and looked out over her audience inviting questions.
'How are you treating this death, Superintendent Chambers?' asked a grizzled veteran in the front row.
'John Hunter, freelance,' Royston whispered in her ear.
'On the face of it, Mr Hunter,' she replied, 'it's a tragic accident. I'm never keen to anticipate pathologists' findings, but I'm not expecting anything from the autopsy to change that view. However, we are keen to speak to anyone who may have seen George, in Lothian Road, or King's Stables Road.'
'When was the last known sighting of the boy?'
'He and his friends parted company in Princes Street, at the foot of Lothian Road. George lived on a different bus route from the rest of them. We've spoken to all of the boys, and they all describe him as heading for the bus stop in front of St Leonard's Church, just after seven fifteen. The spot where his body was found isn't far from there. The medical examiner put the provisional time of death at eight p.m.'
A woman raised her hand. 'Iris Staples,
'George was a normal active boy,' Detective Inspector Steele answered, from the side of the room, 'with a keen sense of adventure. I knew him, but I'm not going to stick any labels on him.'
'Would it have been in character for him to go off to try a spot of rock-climbing?'
'That's a question that would be better put to his parents, when they feel up to seeing you.'
'So, Superintendent,' said John Hunter, 'to come back to my first question, we can safely say that there's no evidence of foul play, and leave it at that? Nothing's going to change overnight?'
'No, it isn't,' Mary Chambers replied, 'nor the night after that. We'll await Professor Hutchinson's report, and any witness statements we receive, but I expect we'll be able to make a report to the Procurator Fiscal pretty soon.'
Fifteen
Rolling his suitcase behind him and with his flight bag slung over his left shoulder, Bob Skinner stepped through the international arrivals gateway and out on to the concourse of Glasgow Airport. It was eight a.m., his eyes were gritty… he never slept on aircraft… and he felt in dire need of a shower and a shave. He also felt cold: he had left in late-autumn conditions, but he was returning to a full-blown Scottish winter.
He shivered as he looked around for Neil McIlhenney, not bothering to hide his impatience as he failed to spot him. Suddenly he felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned… to see Aileen de Marco looking up at him. 'Taxi?' she said.
For the first time in a full day he smiled. 'Hi,' he sighed. 'I'd like that, but I'm being picked up.'
'You are indeed: by me.'
'How come?' he asked, bewildered. 'Did you quit after all and go into the car-hire business?'
'Nearly, but I stopped myself. Being chauffeured is one of the perks of my job. I couldn't give that up. As for my being here, I wanted to see you, so I called your pal Neil and persuaded him to let me take his place.'
'I thought you didn't drive.'
