'Boss, it's Neil.'
He had known that it would be. 'How went it on your night out?'
He heard a chuckle. 'It was interesting. We started off by meeting a nice person called Dolly.'
'As in Dolly the sheep?'
'As in Dolly the hooker; Frankie runs her. You know, that Mackenzie is a bloody lunatic: we'd hardly got a foot in the door before he picked a fight with the subject.'
'For Christ's sake!'
'It worked out all right, though: we wound up drinking with Jakes and his brother, and they swallowed our porter story all the way. When you think about it, what undercover cop in his right mind is going to tell the guy he's supposed to be observing to go and fuck himself?'
'In his right mind, indeed,' Skinner growled.
'Sure, but it worked. Frankie's our pal now. Do you know, the cheeky bastard actually asked us if there was any prospect of us nicking some diazepam from the Western? He said he'd cut us in if we did.'
'What did you say?'
'We told him that we'd just been transferred from the Royal, so we were new there, but we said that we'd suss it out and let him know if there was any chance.'
'There was no sign of Samir Bajram, though?'
'No.'
'Did he mention him?'
'Not by name. When he asked us about the drugs, he did say that he had another deal going down, but that it wouldn't get in the way of anything we could do for him. He could have been talking about the Albanian, or all of them for that matter.'
'Let's see how it plays out,' said Skinner. 'Keep on with the operation, but watch it. Tell Mackenzie from me that he's taken his last risk in there.'
'I will, but he'll probably tell me to fuck off too; he's the same rank as me, remember.'
'That may change soon. Listen, I got that report you left me, and I shredded it afterwards, like you asked. Your contact is right, Murtagh hasn't broken any laws, but that trust income is very interesting. I'll mention it to Andy next time I see him.'
'You won't…'
'Of course not. I won't compromise your friend in any way.' He paused. 'There's something else that's happened since you left for Glasgow. I'm going to take down Greg Jay.'
'When?'
'Monday. I can't leave it any longer: the bastard went to see Paula Viareggio this afternoon, and threatened to bring in a team from outside the force to go through all her books and records. Mario was going to kill him there and then, but I calmed him down.'
'Have you got the means to bring him down?'
'I have now, but I want some extra insurance. There's something I want you to do for me tomorrow, before you head back to Glasgow. I want you to pay a call on our friend Joanne Virtue. She told us something off the record once; tell her that it's time for her to make it official.'
Fifty-five
Spencer McIlhenney had thought that his weekend was ruined; most ten-year-old boys would have been pleased to see the December snow, but to him it was an enemy. It had wiped out his rugby session for that weekend, but worse the impending holiday break meant that he had played his last game for the year. He lived for rugby: his coach had told him that he showed real promise, and that if he grew to be as big as his dad, he might play at a decent level. Privately, Spence hoped that his growth would slow. His favourite position was fly-half, and he could not think of a single international Number Ten who was as bulky as that.
The boy was gazing morosely out of his bedroom window when he saw the car pull up outside. Several others were parked in the street, but there were no fresh tyre marks in the snow; even those his dad's car had made were almost covered over. He had tried to console himself with his PlayStation, but he knew all the games too well for them to be any real challenge. His dad had gone out too, on one of his mysterious missions, and Lauren and Louise, his stepmother, were closeted together somewhere. He liked Louise, and was still a little in awe of her, because of her former career, but not even she had been able to break his mood.
There was only one person he could think of who was capable of doing that; by some miracle, he climbed out of the Toyota that drew up at his front door. He jumped from his perch and crashed downstairs, opening the front door before the caller was halfway up the path. 'Uncle Mario,' he called out, then yelled over his shoulder, back into the house, 'hey, Lauren, it's Uncle Mario.'
'Hush, kid,' McGuire grinned, 'don't tell the whole street. This is an undercover operation.'
He stamped the snow off his feet and wiped them on the mat before stepping into the house. Louise was in the hall to greet him. 'I thought you weren't coming,' she said. She ruffled Spencer's hair. 'But I know someone who's glad you did.'
'I take my godparenting very seriously,' he told her. 'I couldn't let the day be a total write-off.'
'Where did you get the car?' Spence asked him. 'It's a Rav 4, isn't it?'
'That's right. It's Paula's; she made me bring it rather than mine, since it's got four-wheel drive. I have to say, it handled like a dream on the way up here. Fancy a drive in the snow?'
The boy's face lit up. 'Yeah!'
'How about you, Lauren?'
'Yes, please. Can Louise come?'
Her stepmother laughed. 'That's nice of you, dear, but Louise is quite happy in front of the television. Besides, I'm expecting your father home in an hour or so.'
'That's sorted, then,' said Mario. 'Kids, do your ski boots still fit you?' Both children nodded. 'And have you kept your skis in good order, like you should?'
'Of course we have,' Lauren replied, severely.
'Right, dig them all out, and your suits, then change into warmer clothes. We're off for an afternoon on the ski-slope at Hillend.'
Spencer gazed up at him as if he was a god descended from Olympus: his weekend was saved.
Fifty-six
Dan and Elma Pringle were in a place that had been beyond their reach or their worst imagining, but which they had reached nonetheless.
They sat side by side in the small office in the Royal Infirmary. Their surroundings might have been brighter and more modern than in its predecessor, the vast Victorian village where Ross had been born and where Elma's father had died, but they noticed not at all. Wherever they were, they would simply have held hands and stared at the wall.
The door behind them opened. Neither turned; they sat and waited as the consultant took his seat behind his desk. His name was Lewis Curry, and they had seen him before, on the day of their daughter's admission, when it had been his duty to tell them that the best they could hope for was that she would live the rest of her life in total helplessness, with no idea of who they were or of what she had been or might have become.
'Hello again,' Mr Curry said quietly. 'Have you been to see Ross?'
'We looked in on her before we came along here,' Elma replied. She had taken on the role of spokesperson. 'She looked very peaceful; it doesn't seem so bad when you see her asleep like that. Who knows? We're expecting her brother back from Hong Kong tomorrow. Maybe she'll just wake up and it'll be all right.'
The consultant looked down at his hands. 'No, Mrs Pringle. She will not awaken tomorrow, or the next day, or
