know about him and Masters?' he asked at last.
'I suspected. Being his PA and al, I picked up the odd hint.'
'What's she like? I don't real y know her.'
Mcl heney shrugged again. 'Pam? She's okay. She's bright, although I wouldn't put her in Maggie's league. She's efficient too. I know that, having taken over from her. It's just… Och, she's no Sarah, that's al.' He glanced at his col eague. 'What does Maggie think other? She worked for her for a while, didn't she?'
McGuire nodded. 'She hasn't said much. I just get the impression that she doesn't think she's a real copper – know what I mean? Mags isn't too struck on late entrants to the force.
She definitely doesn't approve other and the boss, though. I can tell you that. When she saw the paper this morning, she'd a face like thunder.'
The sergeant winced. 'A few folk'l think that way, I fear. Tell you what I think, Mario. It's the first wrong move I've ever known Big Bob make.'
He glanced across the landing, lit by a glass cupola above, to a mauve-painted door. 'There,' he said, pointing. 'Salmon. That's the boy's flat.' He looked at McGuire once again. 'Quiet or noisy?' he asked.
The black-haired policeman grinned, wickedly. 'What do you think? Let's give the neighbours something to talk about!'
He stepped up to the door and pounded on its wooden panel with the side of his heavy fist. 'Police,' he roared. 'Open up!'
Mcllhenney leaned against the door listening. 'He's switched the tranny off.' The two policemen stood, waiting.
After almost a minute, the Inspector thumped the door again.
'Come on! Open up or we'l kick it in.'
The Sergeant pressed his ear to the panel once more. 'He's coming,' he said, suddenly leaning back.
They heard the rattle of a security chain being slipped, then a key turned in the lock, and the mauve door swung open.
'What d'youse…' The words died in the woman's throat as she stared at Mcl henney, in recognition. She was tall and blonde, in her mid-thirties. Her face was not unattractive, but bony, and the lines around the eyes had been carved not by laughter but by life. Her hair was dishevelled, and her make-up only a memory of the night before.
As she looked at Mcllhenney, her right hand rose involuntarily, clutching the long teeshirt which she wore and pul ing it up, in the process, to the edge of immodesty.
'Oh, no,' she said, in a resigned tone. 'No' you again.'
'Well, well, well,' said the Sergeant. 'If it isn't Joanne Virtue, lady of the night. The Big Easy herself. And what, my good woman, would you be doing here?'
The blonde struggled to recover her composure. Belligerence flickered in her eyes. 'Ah live here,' she said, with an attempt at boldness.
'Like fuck you do, Joanne,' said Mcllhenney, patiently. 'You live down by the waterfront, as you and I both know. Now go and tell Mr Salmon that – like you – the polis await his pleasure.'
'Who's Mr Salmon?'
'Your punter,' said McGuire.
'Aw. Is that his name? He just felt me it was Noel.'
Mcllhenney's patience, a scarce and fragile commodity at the best of times, ran out. 'Bugger this for a game of soldiers,' he said, marching past the prostitute and into the flat.
'Salmon! Where are you?' he bellowed, throwing open the nearest door, to the right off the hal way. He looked quickly into an untidy, stale-smelling bedroom. A black dress, bra and tights were thrown over a chair and men's clothing lay strewn across the floor, but the room was empty.
The big detective looked over his shoulder at Joanne Virtue. She shrugged her shoulders and pointed, briefly, at a door on the other side of the hal. Mcl henney nodded, and with a grim smile, stepped across and threw it open.
A naked man stood, with his back to him, bent over the toilet bowl, pumping at the handle as if that would make the cistern refill
faster. 'Whatever you're doing, Salmon,' said Mario McGuire from the doorway, 'stop it right now!'
The man turned and looked at the two policemen, then grabbed a towel and fastened it round his middle. 'What do you want?' he shouted, his face contorted with a mixture of fear and frustration.
'What do you think you're doing? You've no right!'
McGuire smiled. 'We're here to see you, Mr Salmon, in connection with a potential security leak, which we have reason to believe may involve the corrupt obtaining of an unlisted telephone number. As for our entering your premises. Miss Virtue invited us.' He looked over his shoulder at the woman. 'That's right, isn't it?'
Joanne Virtue nodded, avoiding Salmon's glare.
'You having trouble wi' your bog, Noel?' asked Mcl henney. 'Isn't it flushing properly?'
He stepped across the small bathroom and peered into the toilet bowl, with an expression of distaste. 'There's nothing I dislike more than skidmarks in the lavvie,' he said. 'You're a dirty wee bastard, aren't you… in every respect.'
His eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. 'That's pretty pathetic, chuckin' talcum powder down it to freshen it up.
'It is talcum powder, isn't it?'
Oblivious of his covering towel, as it unfastened and fell to the floor, Salmon spun round and grabbed the handle of the cistern. But before he could twist it to flush, Mcllhenney seized his wrist in a grip like a vice. 'Let go,' he said, in an even tone, 'or I'll break your fucking hand off.'
The man, white-faced, released the handle. The sergeant spun him around and propelled him out of the bathroom and through to the bedroom. 'Get dressed, friend; we can hardly take you out like that.'
'Noel Salmon,' said McGuire, 'I am arresting you on suspicion of being in possession of a control ed substance. You do not have to say anything…' He administered the rest of the formal caution in a stiff, formal tone, speaking clearly and ensuring that he was word perfect, in the form the law required.
Reaching for his underwear, the journalist looked up at him. 'This is a fucking fit-up,' he shouted, almost in tears.
'No, mate,' the Inspector replied, 'It's just your unlucky day, that's al.' He turned to Mcl henney, who was holding Joanne Virtue by the left arm, gently but securely. 'Neil, call Fettes for a team of technicians. We'll need to find out what that talc really is. Tell them to get a formal search warrant too: we'd better take the place apart just in case Mr Salmon has any other goodies hidden away.'
The Sergeant nodded. 'Very good, sir,' he said with a grin. 'I'll ask for some uniforms to stand guard at the door til they get here.
That way we can take these two back to the shop quicker. Wouldn't do to keep Mr Martin waiting.'
'Martin?' Salmon bleated. 'He's behind this?'
'What dae youse mean, take us both back?' Joanne Virtue protested. 'Ah'm an innocent bystander.'
Mcl henney laughed out loud. 'Joanne,' he boomed, 'you haven't been fuckin' innocent for about twenty-five years!'
17
Even before his appointment as Head ofCID – indeed, from his days as Bob Skinner's Executive Officer – Detective Chief Superintendent Andy Martin had come to know the Edinburgh press corps well. He had seen them amused; he had seen them bored; he had seen them at their most cynical, and at their most constructive.
But in al that time, he could not recal ever having seen them on the edge of their seats. On his instruction, Alan Royston had cal ed a press briefing, to announce 'an important development in the McGrathcase'.
Sunday or not, 10.30 a.m. or not, the conference room was full.
As Martin, impassive, sat down at the blue-covered table, facing the cameras, the room fell silent.
