Robert Parker - Snow Storm

“I know dealers connected to him have got hold of a large amount of pure coke from somewhere, really pure stuff, but no one knows where the hell it’s coming from. You’d expect to see an increased volume stopped at border controls at least. The coastguard, or customs or the ports units should be expected to pick it up but everything’s been very quiet of late. Surprisingly so.”

“And you haven’t picked up anything from the competition say, if as the theory goes, they’re involved in some kind of chemical arms race.”

“No sign of that either.”

“Could they be in this together, using the same supply chain maybe?”

“Unlikely,” Edwards replied with a patronising grin, “but say that were the case, it’s too big an operation and there would conceivably be too many people involved to not have someone caught along the way. It only takes someone using a yacht too many times on the same route to cause suspicion.”

“Maybe the competition are trying to corner the market with other things, if Andreyevich is spreading himself too thinly. Might create a gap in the market they might want to shoehorn themselves into.”

“Perhaps.”

Burke said nothing more, letting the thought hang in the air for a few seconds.

“There was one episode, a few years back,” Edwards began, causing the beginnings of a smile to form at the corners of Burke’s lips. “Some yardies took it upon themselves to try and kick off a bit of a switch selling scheme.”

Giles was not used to being ordered around like this. His superiors at the firm had always been respectful, to the lawyers at any rate. Those in polite society at least regarded professionals as having some kind of social standing, even in this dire age of waning formality, where everyone was required to address one another by first name only, lest anyone be allowed to get on in the world and be respected for it.

His client had said very little, made no attempt at thanking him for services rendered and the accompanying risk to the integrity of his bollocks which had been placed well and truly on the line. A substantial Christmas bonus was in order. He was being well rewarded for this, naturally. That was everything to these new money types. They hadn’t had time to acquire the necessary tastes or interests to spend it properly. He would concede that Andreyevich knew how to travel though. Not for him the driving three hours or catching the three trains and bus it would take to get to their final destination.

He’d wanted to head back to the flat in Morningside, the place he was now starting to think of as a second home. He wanted to climb into the shower and wash away the scummy residue the day’s events seemed to have left on him and then down half a bottle of Remy Martin and fall into a comatose state.

There had been no discussion on the subject. His presence was mandatory as far as the client was concerned. End of story. He’d been shown to the car outside the cop shop in Gayfield Square and driven to the airfield at high speed. He hadn’t felt the time to protest present itself. There was a time and a place to raise certain objections with clients, draw a line now and again but he was starting to doubt that was the case here. No one said no to Victor.

They sat at some kind of a cruising height in the Cessna now, four of the six seats filled by himself, his client and two heavies who looked like they meant business but said very little, certainly nothing to contradict the vibe their collective demeanour gave off. For his part, Andreyevich seemed to stick with a similar theme. He may have been like this all the time. How would Giles know after all? He’d only just met the man. Perhaps all of this; the meting out of casual brutal violence to unsuspecting members of the public, followed by bribery of witnesses, the hacking into Lothian and Borders Police servers to tamper with evidence and locate those witnesses and the owners of the premises, finding an employee willing to assist in the destruction of all CCTV footage and then ensuring the correct pressure was exerted at the correct level to secure his timely release after due consideration of all these facts, then flying off with what could only realistically be described as mercenaries to some God forsaken outpost to do God knew what that required the services of a frankly inexperienced lawyer, maybe all this was just mundane to him. Maybe this was just another day at the office.

At least the weather wasn’t as extreme as it had been on the way up. Clear skies it seemed, and so far no turbulence. How often did you get to fly like this?

He was just asking considering that when finally the client turned to him with a look of contemplation. “So maybe now you know quite a lot,” he said with a sigh.

Edwards had properly thrown the rattle out and made for the nearest exit. His two minions had hung around for a short time, seemingly none too sure what to do with themselves and probably more than a little embarrassed for their boss, like he was a slightly tipsy parent or a babbling older relative whose mental capacity they were starting to doubt. But then it seemed fitting, dressed as they were like overly preening teenagers most of the time.

“Something funny sir?” Wilson asked, before looking down, probably realising again that she was admonishing a senior officer.

“Nothing really,” he replied, enjoying her discomfort.

Sarah Armstrong worked for “a very particular department in Whitehall” she had said, with a knowing grin.

She could have been late forties, given her unhurried confidence, but he wouldn’t have put money on it. Burke considered himself a reasonable judge of character but all that went out the window when dealing with certain types of people, specifically the type that specialised in knowing all and telling nothing. This made her all the more intriguing.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, with the sense of trepidation you got from dealing with someone you knew could have you in a body bag with a phone call, legally, without having to bury you in the woods or explain themselves to the likes of him.

“I’d say in this case Detective Inspector, it’s more a case of what I can do for you.”

“Really?” he asked, wondering if he looked like he needed put down.

“Really,” she confirmed. “And don’t look so nervous. I’m not planning on having you fitted for concrete boots or anything.

“The thought hadn’t entered my head.”

She smiled her knowing smile once more and continued. “What do you know of Leon Williams?”

He let this sink in for a second, taking time to respond. How did GCHQ, MI5 or whoever else know what they were investigating?

“Not a great deal,” he said finally, deciding there wasn’t much to give away. “He is the subject of an ongoing murder investigation, given the fact he has a spot in our city morgue.”

“Quite, but what do you actually know about him?”

“I’m not sure where this is going. What is it you want to know? Is there a reason you’re investigating him?”

“In a sense yes,” she replied. She was probably a good poker player, Burke decided.

“In all honesty we don’t know a hell of a lot,” he admitted. “Ex-marine commando, injured in Afghanistan, seemingly got mixed up with the wrong people after he left the forces and wound up here. We’re not sure what he got mixed up in but it looks like some kind of drug war.”

The spook nodded slowly as he spoke and Burke knew he wasn’t telling her anything new.

“You’re right of course, in a sense. He did get mixed up with the wrong people,” she said with a sigh. “He was one of ours.”

He eventually summoned the energy to take a trip out into the cold. He took a skulking DC Jones who had been hanging around his peripheral vision since this afternoons visitor had presented herself, presumably wanting to know the script. She managed to skirt around the subject, all the way from Gayfield Square to Karpov’s palatial home in Bruntsfield. He wasn’t biting. She’d have to try harder than that.