that out, we need to interview Freddy Welsh.’
‘But who is he?’
I looked at him as he reholstered his weapon, and pointed to it. ‘You know the phrase, “Gun for hire”. It applies to guys like Cohen, Smit and Botha. Freddy’s guns aren’t for hire, though, they’re for sale. He’s a very discreet, very low-profile arms dealer. I’m told that he’s operated under our radar for years, and it seems, under yours.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Some things, Clyde, I’m keeping secret, even from you, but my information is that if Beram Cohen wanted weapons for his operation, there’s every chance he’d have gone to Freddy Welsh.’
He frowned. ‘Are you certain?’
‘No,’ I admitted, ‘not one hundred per cent. In theory my source could be spinning me a yarn, but everything fits. The timing, Cohen’s corpse showing up in Edinburgh, the pay-off to Kenny that was aborted by Varley’s phone call, it all fits. I know what was in that box that the sap Bass brought back in his truck, and Welsh stashed in Jock Varley’s house. With a wee bit of luck,’ I said, ‘it’s still there. But I wouldn’t bet on it.’
‘Where do we find him, this Welsh?’
‘In a holding cell in my headquarters, I hope. He was due to be arrested this afternoon. Inspector Varley was on his payroll; we can prove that now, and that gave me enough to have him lifted. We talk to him, and the whole thing’s wrapped up.’
‘Not quite,’ Houseman protested. ‘We’ve still got the threat to Theo Fabrizzi.’
I checked my watch; it showed five forty-five. ‘He’s okay,’ I told him. ‘If anything had happened so far your people would have alerted you. He’ll be at the concert hall very soon, assuming he makes it, and if he does, that’s where they’ll be trying to hit him. Only he won’t be there; not on stage at any rate. I’ve taken care of that.’
‘How, for Christ’s sake?’
‘Never you mind. Come on, let’s get ourselves to Fettes. Take a left when we get out of here then first right; it’s not far.’
I was smiling. I really did think it was going to be that easy. My over-confident grin was still on my face when my phone sounded, and I saw that Mario McGuire was calling; I pressed the ‘accept’ button; Clyde’s Bluetooth system paired automatically and picked it up.
‘What’s up?’ I asked, cheerily.
‘Are you at home, chief?’ His tone was enough to remind me that complacency is a police officer’s worst enemy.
‘No. I’m on the road. Are you going to ruin my day?’
‘That depends on the mood you’re in, and on how you really feel about Jock Varley. We’ve found him and his wife, shot dead. The bodies were burned beyond recognition, but the pathologist, whom you know, has just ID-ed him.’
‘The wife too?’ I repeated.
‘Afraid so. The van they were found in. .’
I had a moment of prescience. ‘Belonged to Freddy Welsh?’
Mario laughed. ‘Have you got a crystal ball in your car, boss? How did you know that?’
‘Pure fucking guesswork, honest. Do we have Welsh?’
‘No, and that’s the bugger of it. He’s vanished; he didn’t go home last night and his wife’s wetting herself about him.’
‘Was he in the van too?’
‘No, chief, there were only the two bodies.’
‘What have you done so far about finding him?’ I asked.
‘I’m doing it right now,’ he replied. ‘I’ve already put a nationwide call out for him, and Lowell Payne’s tracing all vehicles registered in his name as I’m speaking. Next, I’m going to send Stallings back out to his house, just in case he does show up there. While she does that, I’m going to check out Varley’s place. I’m kicking myself, I should have gone in there this morning when we got no answer to the door. Boss,’ he exclaimed, ‘what the fuck is up here? Have you any idea?’
‘You know me, mate. I never have a clue.’ Okay, I was lying about that, but one thing was true: I knew exactly what Mario would do if I told him what I suspected. He’d go straight through to Glasgow like a Chieftain tank and cause all sorts of chaos. The way things were, the last thing I needed to do was to panic him. Besides, I told myself, Fabrizzi was taken care of; the concert hall will be safe because there will be no target, so no danger there.
‘Where’s Paula?’ I asked, idly.
‘On her way to Glasgow; the government car’s just collected her. Why?’
‘Nothing,’ I said briskly. ‘Mario, change things a bit; you go to Welsh’s house, babysit his wife, in case he does come home, but make sure also that she isn’t in touch with him. Get armed officers out there as well, just in case. I’m not far from Livingston just now. I’ll check the Varley place myself. I know the street name, but what’s the number?’
‘Seven.’
‘I’m on my way there. Keep me informed.’
By that time we were in Stevenson Drive: I told Clyde to do a three sixty at the roundabout then to turn right into Calder Road, heading back to the bypass. There are two ways to get to Livingston from where we were at, the long way and the short way. Unless there are tailbacks on the motorway, and I knew that there wouldn’t be on a Saturday, the long way is always quicker, so that’s the one I told him to take. As we approached the town I fiddled with the navigation system and worked out how to programme the address into it.
As bad luck might have had it, Varley’s house was located beyond the Almondvale shopping centre. It’s huge by Scottish standards; I know that because Sarah likes it, and when we were married she dragged me along there on many an occasion, to marshal the kids. The traffic can be intense around it, but fortunately in the early evening it all goes in the other direction, so we had a clear run in. The name of the street was stuck in my head, for there’s one in Gullane of the same name and I know the people who live at its number seven. It’s a cul-de-sac and so, by coincidence, is the Livingston version.
Clyde turned into it and paused, counting down the numbers. I didn’t have to. My body hasn’t quite caught up with my age yet, and my long vision is still very good. At the end of the street a single house faced us. There was a car in its driveway, a Mercedes E class, metallic blue. I couldn’t make out the numbers, not quite, but the letters of its personalised number were FJW.
I pointed towards it. ‘That’s number seven,’ I said, ‘and I think we might just have come up lucky.’
Maggie Steele
I’ve learned a lot over the years that I’ve worked with Bob Skinner, and one of those lessons is never to question him when he’s in full flow.
He’s a friend as well as a boss, but we’ve never socialised much, our interests and circumstances away from the office being entirely different. (For example when it comes to golf, I belong to the ‘good walk spoiled’ brigade.) He’s considerate too. Through all my bad times, and through all my worst times, he’s been rock solid in my support, and even now, although I hold the second most senior rank in the force, he goes out of his way to ensure that I have as much quality time as possible with my wee Stephanie.
For him to phone me on a Saturday afternoon, it had to be serious.
‘Mags,’ he began, as soon as I picked up his call, in the kitchen, ‘how are you for babysitter cover?’ No preliminaries, straight to business; unlike him.
‘I think I’m okay,’ I replied, ‘Bet’s here.’ I looked at my sister, who was by the sink, and raised an eyebrow. She nodded. ‘Yes, I’m clear.’
‘Good, I’ve got a crisis and I need someone with your clout to deal with it.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ he murmured grimly. ‘There’s a charity concert taking place in Glasgow
