too late. I’ve put my name to an article for tomorrow’s
‘Hey,’ I exclaimed. ‘She’s a serving police officer. I thought you told me we weren’t allowed to get into the political debate.’
There was a moment’s silence; I’d caught her off guard. ‘She’s not debating,’ she snapped, when she’d worked it out. ‘She isn’t arguing with us, not like you are. It’s an interview and she’s answering some questions, that’s all.’
‘I thought you didn’t like the woman.’
‘I don’t.’
‘But she’s useful to you so you’ll go along with her. She’s your fucking poodle and you’ve let her off the lead for a bit.’
‘Wrong breed, Bob. More like a Doberman.’
‘Then I won’t try and tame her. I’ll just shoot her down the first time she shows her teeth.’
‘That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it? Aggression.’
‘Only when threatened,’ I countered. ‘You should know that by now. You can stand me up at the gates of hell and I won’t back down. Or maybe you thought you’d smoothed that edge away too. You told me once I should be the sort of chief constable I want to be. Too fucking right; I certainly won’t be the one you want.’
I wasn’t making it any better, was I?
‘Why did you call, Aileen?’ I asked.
‘Not to start a fight,’ she said. ‘To tell you that I’m going to stay in Glasgow tonight as well. The chauffeur will take Paula home, but there’ll be a reception after the concert that I really should stay for.’
‘And you’ll want to check the
‘It’s probably best that I do.’
‘Agreed. And maybe the night after that as well. And so on.’
‘We have to talk, Bob,’ she murmured.
‘Why? We’re lousy at it, unless the discussion’s going entirely to your satisfaction. Aileen, I’ve had enough of crap like this in my life. If I’m not the guy you thought I was, live with it, don’t put pressure on me to comply and don’t take it personally if I won’t. I don’t have strings, so don’t try to pull them.’
‘Why are you always,’ she hissed, ‘so fucking sure that you’re right?’
‘Because in my professional life that’s generally been the case,’ I replied. ‘Personally, domestically, the opposite’s been true, for the last quarter of a century. You’re the latest in a whole series of mistakes, Aileen. I’m sorry if it’s hurt you. Now I am off to spend a lovely day with my kids.’
‘To hide behind them,’ she sneered. ‘Your kids!’
‘No,’ I laughed, seeing things more clearly than I had in years, ‘to give them what they need and deserve: my love and attention. If you’d been prepared to do that it might have worked for us, but that’s not what you’re about, is it? I don’t blame you for it; we are what we are.’
I hung up, I finished shaving, and I went downstairs, feeling much more calm than when I’d climbed them. The boys were having breakfast by then, so I took Seonaid out to the garden, with a ball, and we spent some time working on her close control. On impulse, I called Sarah on my mobile. I felt the need to apologise for inflicting myself on her, but she wouldn’t let me. As we talked, I looked down at the little girl we’d made together and realised that I’d never felt closer to either of them. Then she told me again that she still loved me and I had to admit that I’d never got that out of my system either.
When we finished I knew that things were going to be difficult for a while, but that they were going to be a hell of a lot better too.
Mark and Jazz came out to join us. We chose teams, two-a-side, youngest against the oldest, and I made sure that Seonaid won. That wasn’t difficult; Mark can beat the world at any game on computer, but put him on grass and he’s rubbish, bless him. Once the sun had climbed a little higher, I decided that we’d all go to the beach, not the busy one that we can see from the house, but the secluded one. Gay people, men mostly, are known to go there sometimes for the peace and quiet to which they’re entitled. There was a time a few decades back when my force used to give them a hard time. That doesn’t happen on my watch, and anyone else who considers pestering them finds out very quickly that it’s a bad idea.
As I sat on the edge of the dunes and watched the kids play, I began to imagine a day when I wouldn’t have to bring my two mobiles with me, or even one of them, when it would be them, me, and nobody else. It might not need imagination in the not too distant future, I realised, if the legislators had their way with the best interests of our nation.
‘Retaliation in first,’ I whispered, feeling a grin spread across my face. Compulsory or not, mobiles can be useful. I dug my personal one out, scrolled through my phone book till I reached ‘S’ and dialled the number I’d been after.
‘Editor’s office,’ a voice chirped.
‘Mrs Crampsey, please. Tell her it’s the chief constable.’
June Crampsey has been managing editor of the
‘Bob,’ she said as she came on line. ‘What have we done wrong?’
‘You’ve almost missed out on a bloody good story,’ I told her. ‘Your Glasgow rival is running it tomorrow. It’s all about a secret political pact to turn Scotland into a police state.’
‘What?’ she exclaimed.
‘Okay,’ I chuckled, ‘that might be a slight overstatement, but given the wrong hands on the tiller at Holyrood, the potential is there. This is what it’s all about.’
I spent the next twenty minutes briefing her on what was happening, and giving her my view of it. Most of it was directly quotable; the rest of it, the more florid phrases and the direct attacks on the First Minister and Aileen, was for attribution to ‘a senior police source’. The world would guess it was me, but June would never confirm it.
We were both slightly breathless when we were done. ‘I owe you one, Bob,’ June said.
‘I might take you up on that,’ I replied. ‘I might need a job soon.’
‘Any time.’ I believe she meant it. ‘When can I put it on our online edition?’ she asked.
‘Any time after seven thirty this evening. My wife and the First Minister will be at a concert in Glasgow this evening. I’d like to ruin their half-time cocktails. It wouldn’t do either of us any harm if you fed it to the broadcast media at that time also.’
‘Will do. I must get in touch with Xavi,’ she added. ‘He’s going to love this.’
As I ended the call, Mark wandered across. He’s a perceptive kid; misses nothing, except for any ball he ever takes a swing at. ‘What are you doing, Dad?’ he asked.
‘Crossing the Rubicon,’ I told him, as I slipped my phone back into its pouch on the strap of my knapsack.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Doing something that you can’t go back on. The Rubicon’s a river in Italy: in ancient Roman times if you crossed it with an army, it was a declaration of war on the state. Julius Caesar did.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Nothing. He won.’
He frowned. ‘Will you win?’ he murmured.
I smiled, reached out and ruffled his hair. ‘I have done already, son. I’ve done what I believe to be right. If I hadn’t, that would have been a defeat.’
I rose and we walked towards the receding tide, out to the spot that James Andrew had chosen for his latest sand sculpture. He was working away, in spite of, rather than with, his sister’s assistance.
‘Can you tell what it is yet?’ he asked as we approached.
‘You sound just like Rolf Harris,’ I told him.
He stared at me. ‘Who’s Rolf Harris?’
