mobilised. The Americans would watch them by satellite; if a window opened, we’d go in very fast by chopper, kill the target and get out again before the opposition even realised they were one down.’
‘Winning their hearts and minds,’ I murmured.
‘That was someone else’s job,’ Clyde said. ‘Ours was to blow their heads off.’
I nodded. ‘I know. So,’ I went on, ‘how did you get from being SBS in Afghanistan to being MI5 in Glasgow?’
‘My SBS engagement ended just over three years ago. I was Captain Houseman by that time, back in the Marines with a more conventional career ahead of me, but I had the sense that I’d plateaued. My special forces experience wasn’t going to help me climb the ladder; there aren’t many opportunities at major and above, and my time out of the mainstream had put me at the back of the queue. I had a conversation back in Plymouth with my unit commander. About a week later I was invited to go to London for a meeting in Whitehall. It turned out to be a job interview, with Amanda Dennis. She told me that the security service was responding to the terrorist threat by expanding its operations across the country and was looking for people with. . a broad range of skills, was how she put it. A few days after that, she offered me a job, and I accepted.’
‘What’s your area? I asked. I know how the security service works; a few years ago I was asked to help it sort out some in-house problems.
‘Counter-terrorism,’ he replied. ‘I spent my first two years in Thames House, then I was moved up to Scotland, in charge of the Glasgow regional office.’
‘How long have you been there?’
‘Best part of a year.’
‘So how come I haven’t heard of you before?’
‘Amanda told me not to get involved with the police,’ he said, bluntly. ‘She feels that the Strathclyde force is too big, and that because of its size the risk of leaks is unacceptable. Its Counter-Terrorism Intelligence Section feeds information to SO15 at Scotland Yard and we work with them. My contact with the locals is at a minimum.’
‘So, Clyde,’ I asked, ‘why are you so keen to talk to me today, other than to give me back that card?’
‘The image you sent to Amanda last night, the body that was buried for you to find; we know who he was.’
Mario McGuire
Once Sarah’s people had taken the burnt logs away, Lowell Payne and I were surplus to requirements at the crime scene, four feet that Dorward’s crew didn’t need on their ground. My appetite hadn’t been too badly affected, but I wasn’t in an Asian mood any longer; no, my taste buds were talking Italian. Since I was within sight of home, I called Paula, to see if she was okay, and to ask if I could bring a pal with me for whatever we could throw together.
She said yes, on both counts.
I could tell that Payne was impressed by our home, and doing his best not to let it show. I didn’t feel like explaining our family circumstances to him so I left him to ponder on how a cop could afford such a pad, even on a chief super’s salary of around eighty grand at the top of the scale.
I was going to make the lunch myself, but Paula wouldn’t hear of it. She ordered us outside, on to the deck. I gave Payne a beer and watched him with a trace of envy: I knew I’d have to drive again, if only to get him back to his car, and with me, one thing usually leads to another.
My lovely other half joined us about ten minutes later with a couple of sandwiches consisting of warm focaccia bread, spread with olive oil rather than butter and stuffed with sweet red peppers, olives stoned and halved, feta cheese and anchovies. Sure as hell, they put pakora in perspective.
She didn’t join us; she’d eaten already. ‘You ready for tonight?’ I asked her.
‘Yup,’ she replied. ‘Aileen called to finalise the arrangements. Chauffeur-driven car no less. She’s staying in Glasgow just now, so it’s easier for her.’
I don’t know why, but that made me a little curious. She was in Glasgow, the boss had passed on the show; anything to be read in to that? Nah, no chance! Away you go, McGuire, you’ve been a cop too long.
‘I ruined her day, I’m afraid,’ Paula continued. ‘She asked what I was wearing and I told her, a red dress.’
‘So?’
Payne laughed; he got the message.
She nodded in his direction. ‘Exactly. So is she. I should have known, her being Labour and everything. However, all is not lost, I remembered that I’ve got a trouser suit I had let out at the waist just in case. It’s black satin and formal enough for tonight. So she can breathe easy again; nobody will wonder which of us is the politician.’
‘My darling,’ I assured her, ‘I don’t know anyone who looks less like Maggie Thatcher than you do.’
‘Aileen doesn’t either,’ she protested.
‘Facially no, but she has that same air of imperious authority about her. And when she smiles. . never trust politicians when they beam at you. Isn’t that right, Lowell?’
‘I never trust them period,’ he admitted. ‘It’s a trait I picked up from my niece.’
‘Your niece?’ I repeated.
‘Yes, Alex. My daughter’s her cousin, remember; named Myra after her late mum. Didn’t you know that? She visits us every so often to see her Aunt Jean and Junior.’
‘I see.’ I knew about the relationship, but not that he’d a kid. So Alex didn’t trust politicians either; well, well, McGuire. What do you detect from that?
I fetched him another beer, and had just set it on the table when my phone started to sing
‘Sam,’ I said. ‘What’s up?’
‘We’ve identified the van, boss,’ he replied. There was nothing in his tone that hinted he was about to make my day. ‘We found the chassis number; they hide them away, so it was still legible, and I was able to run a trace. It’s registered to Anglesey Construction Limited, of Fisher Industrial Park, Straiton.’
I couldn’t believe it first time so I made him repeat the name.
‘Anglesey Construction Limited. Does that mean something to you, boss?’
‘Yes, it does. Problem being I haven’t a fucking clue what that might be, or how it might fit. Thanks. Let me think about it.’ I hit the end button and turned to Lowell. ‘Guess what?’ I said to him. ‘That van along there belongs to Freddy Welsh’s company.’
Remember the domino theory? Maybe you don’t but it was the justification the Americans found for the Vietnam War, that if they didn’t stop the Communist advance there, all the neighbouring states would collapse like dominoes stood on end, all the way to Thailand and Malaysia.
I don’t know why that came into my mind, but it did. I must be psychic, because at that moment, with that vision in my mind, Zucchero started to sing again.
Sarah Grace
Sometimes I worry about myself. I have the feeling that there must be something wrong with the soul of a woman who can look at the aftermath of the darkest human suffering with happiness in her heart.
That’s why I quit pathology when I did. I wasn’t past my sell-by date, or even close to it, but I had an underlying feeling that I should be, and that I had become desensitised. In other words, I felt guilty about liking my macabre job too much.
It didn’t take me long to get that out of my system, just a few months back in mainstream medicine. I was
