Lethal intent

It had come full circle, he reflected, as he laid two bowls of iskembe before a man whose demeanour shouted 'police officer' and a woman who was clearly not his wife, wondering if they knew that they were about to consume a traditional Turkish hangover cure. Ten years on he was carrying plates once more, only this time the pay was much better and the job description much more interesting.

He was aware that Peter Bassam was watching him, but he felt relaxed in the knowledge that it was only his waiting technique that was under scrutiny. He had no worries about not completing his trial successfully, especially when he compared himself with his colleagues, who seemed barely competent. One was Asian, and the other looked like a reincarnation of his old student self.

Already he was able to judge that the Delight's reputation was built on the reliability of its kitchen, rather than front-of-house slickness. Diners did not go to Elbe Street to be astonished by the skills of the waiters: they went for the food, which was consistent if not spectacular. The chef was an evil-tempered man called Sukur, but unlike Bassam he was one hundred per cent Turkish, and seemed very proud of both his nation and his work. He ran his kitchen with a mouth that was as foul as his disposition, but he filled his orders on time.

Green nodded to his boss as he emerged from the kitchen with a plate of orkinos and mercimek, tuna with lentils, and another of sucuk and balka, sausage and beans; Bassam smiled back. 'No worries,' he thought.

He did not expect that his assignment would produce results. He regarded it as a long shot, no more than a line cast into a very large lake in the hope that its one and only fish might bite. So what if Bassam's origins were Albanian? The fact that he had anglicised his forename and chosen to serve Turkish food indicated, if anything, that he was trying very hard to distance himself from his homeland, and from its lawless reputation.

He knew that the man had a wife and family: their photograph was pinned to the wall, beside the till, and they lived in Northfield. He could tell, from one night's work, that the business was profitable. So, he asked himself, would he put it all at risk by harbouring a bunch of gangsters? Not that he had seen any sign of the Albanians during his first hours on the job.

However, he knew that Amanda Dennis would not be interested in his opinions, only in his findings. His thoughts were private and would be kept to himself until he was asked to voice them. In the meantime, he would keep his eyes open and try not to drop any plates.

Fifty-three

Thankfully, there was a television set in the Johnny Groat. Bandit Mackenzie smiled when he saw it, even though it was tuned to an English second-division football match.

'What gives me the idea that you would watch anything on the box?' asked McIlhenney.

'I wouldn't,' his colleague replied amiably. 'But it means that I won't have to talk to you all night.' He rapped on the bar and waved to the fat, middle-aged barman, who had seemed to be doing his best to ignore his two new customers as he leaned on the counter in conversation with a blowsy blonde woman. 'Pint of IPA and a pint of lime and soda, when you've a minute,' he called out.

The steward scowled at him, but picked up two glasses and began to pour. 'Four pound twenty,' he announced, curtly, as he placed the drinks in front of them, managing to spill a little of both.

'Jesus,' Mackenzie muttered. 'Bloody dear lime and soda that!'

'This is a pub, pal, no' a cafe,' he retorted, as he took the detective's ten-pound note.

'Are those pies hot?' McIlhenney asked, pointing to a food-display unit at the back of the bar.

'They will be after a few turns in the microwave.'

'Let's have a couple, then. Take them off his tenner.'

'The bridies is better,' the blonde called out. 'The pies is shite.'

'I was hoping they were mutton,' McIlhenney replied. 'Make it bridies instead,' he told the barman, 'and give the lady another of hers.'

'Gin and tonic, thanks.' She slid off her stool and made her way round towards them. 'Havenae seen you two in here before.'

Looking at her, Mackenzie decided that he preferred the view from a distance. 'If you had,' he told her, 'you'd be psychic. We've never been here before.'

'What brings you now here, then?'

'We like drinking in middens.'

She glanced around the shoddy bar. 'Aye,' she agreed, 'it could do with a lick of paint. Still, there's worse; try south of the river.'

'We're not that stupid,' said McIlhenney.

'Are yis workin', like?' she asked.

'Right now, no,' the detective lied. 'Later on, we will be.'

'Where?'

'The Western.'

Her painted eyebrows rose. 'Are yis doctors?'

Mackenzie laughed. 'Aye, brain surgeons.' He lifted his pint and took a drink. 'Cheers.'

'We're porters,' said McIlhenney, dourly.

'In that case, they'll be no use to you, Dolly,' a guttural voice exclaimed from behind them. 'Porters no' make enough to spend on gettin' their hole. You better look somewheres else.'

The two detectives turned, and looked into dark eyes, scowling from beneath a low forehead. A younger man stood behind him, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. 'Do you mind fucking off?' said Mackenzie, casually. 'We were talking to the lady.'

'Not any more.' The woman called Dolly had returned to her former position in the corner of the bar. 'Did you think you charmed her, man?' Frankie Jakes sneered. 'It's twenty quid in her place upstairs. If I'm wrong and you got twenty quid, go ahead. Your pint won't even be flat by the time you're back.'

'Are you guys her minders, then?' asked McIlhenney.

'I look after her, Mr Porter, if it's any fockin' bizniz of yours. I keep her safe from creeps. My wee brodder here, he have trouble mindin' his own cock.' He switched his scowl to the other detective. 'You new in here, so I make allowances, but next time you tell me to fock off, you in big trouble.' He hitched his shoulders, like a movie gun-fighter; one or two people looked in his direction, as if the scene had been played out before. 'Maybe you better fock off.'

Mackenzie smiled. 'What I'm going to do, pal,' he replied, evenly, 'is finish my drink, maybe have another couple, and then me and big Mac here are going to work. You enjoy your night and we'll enjoy ours.' He patted his colleague on the shoulder. 'Because, believe me, you wouldn't fancy trying to make him fuck off.'

'Leave it, Davie,' said McIlhenney, quietly. 'The guy's done nothing. Don't make him lose face in his own boozer.'

Jakes looked at him for a while, before coming to the conclusion that he might be on the verge of making a large mistake. 'Okay,' he muttered, eventually. 'You just remember what I tol' you.'

Fifty-four

It was just after midnight, but Bob Skinner was still awake. He was in his armchair in the conservatory, listening to REM in the background while trying to concentrate on a novel. He had finished Alarm Call, and gone back to Blackstone's Pursuits, having decided to read the series in chronological order.

He laid the book aside as the CD reached the almost unbearably sad live version of 'Country Feedback', which he regarded as Michael Stipe's finest hour. It was only halfway through when the phone rang. He had been expecting the call, but he swore nonetheless, before pausing the track and answering.