Quintin Jardine - Poisoned Cherries

‘He said yes, just like that. I told him that in that case he could tender for my business in the normal way. I’ve bought a few things from him since then; his service is very good, and his prices tend to be sharp too. I’ve let myself believe his story that he had a rogue salesman working for him when the dodgy contracts were signed.’

‘But deep down, you still think he’s a Great White Shark?’

‘Yup.’

‘What you’ve told me could be useful, in that case.’

‘Don’t tell your pal, for Christ’s sake!’

‘No, I wouldn’t do that; but if I have to I might let Torrent know that I’m involved. If he’s that smart he’ll know of the connection between you and me and he might get the message to go easy on Alison.’

‘There won’t be a problem, though, if you can deliver Ewan Capperauld.’

‘I’m not sure I want to, if the guy’s like that.’

‘Just do it if you can. Don’t get yourself involved in an argument with Torrent.’

I grinned. ‘As someone said to me today, I wouldn’t get my own hands dirty. I know the very guy who could carry the message for me.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘No one you’ve ever met, as far as I know; a blast from my past, that’s all.’

Ethel knocked on the bedroom door just after seven-thirty, but she didn’t really have to. Wee Janet had wakened the household by then.

Susie took the baby from her and plugged her into the mains once more. I tried to go back to sleep, but it was no use; there was too much gurgling and slurping going on.

‘Do you two want breakfast?’ Ethel called, once the process was complete and I was doing my burping bit. ‘It’s not part of the service, mind, but I’m making my own anyway. It’ll be ready in half-an-hour if you want to get up for it.’

She makes bloody good scrambled eggs, does our Nanny; plus, she knows how coffee really should be made. I asked her if she’d spent any time in the States. ‘No,’ she said, ‘but I did spend some time in Canada, when I was younger. I’m very fond of maple syrup as a result, but it’s hard to find over here.’ The woman was growing on me by the minute.

Susie wanted to get back into a working routine, so she was at her desk by nine-fifteen, sorting through the letters that the postman had delivered, and another bundle that had been couriered from the Gantry Group head office on the south side of the city. She was engrossed in it, and I felt a bit superfluous, so after I’d played with Janet some more, I said my goodbyes and headed back to Edinburgh.

I had nothing planned for that day, other than maybe another session in the gym, so I killed some time in the monster new shopping centre at the top of Buchanan Street. On a whim, I bought myself a new Rolex to celebrate my impending divorce and who knew what else, then headed for Queen Street Station.

I was almost there when my cellphone rang. I had put the apartment phone on divert to its number, so it could have been anyone, but part of me hoped it was Susie, saying, ‘Hey, do you want to stay for lunch?’

It wasn’t, though. It was Ricky Ross.

‘Oz, where are you?’ he asked tersely. No banter, no funny lines; he sounded like a copper again.

‘Glasgow; I’m just about to get the train back through.’

‘Okay; get off at Haymarket. I’ll meet you there.’ He hung up.

I must be getting too old, or too prosperous, for mysteries. I was more narked than curious; a couple of years before it would have been the other way around. I checked the incoming number on the phone and called it back, but there was no answer. Maybe Ross was heading for the station already.

I picked up a Scotsman at the station news-stand; it was just the right length of read for the journey. There wasn’t much in it; a row in the Scottish Parliament, a Tory split over Europe, and President Dubya had pissed off his allies again. I didn’t see any of that as news, but I’m not a journalist. . even if I am cynical enough to be one.

There wasn’t a lot on the back page either; Scottish football clubs were on their way out of Europe and Rangers had signed yet another striker. We were almost in Edinburgh when I saw the small story on page five about the discovery of David Capperauld’s body. Star’s cousin in sudden death tragedy , the headline read.

I glanced over the story.

The well-known parliamentary lobbyist and public relations guru David Capperauld (29) was found dead in his Edinburgh flat late on Sunday night.

The tragic discovery was made by Mr Capperauld’s fiancee and business partner Alison Goodchild, when she called to see why he had failed to turn up for meetings. Police and medical services were called to the scene but Mr Capperauld was found to be dead.

A police spokesman said that it appeared that the victim had succumbed to a brain haemorrhage. Ms Goodchild (30) was said to be distraught. She was being comforted by relatives and was not available for comment.

‘They should have phoned the office,’ I muttered as I read on.

Goodchild Capperauld has grown into one of the most prestigious lobbying and PR groups in Scotland in the two years since its foundation. It blue-chip clients include banks, insurance companies and leading Scottish businesses, including Torrent, the office equipment giant which is said to be heading for a flotation.

James Torrent, group chief executive, said yesterday; ‘I was shocked to hear of David’s death. I will have to talk to Alison and see how it will affect our association.’

‘Nice man indeed.’ I growled, loud enough for the passenger across the aisle to glance my way.

Mr Capperauld was the cousin of film star Ewan Capperauld (41), who last night issued a short statement expressing his sorrow at the death. The actor is expected in Edinburgh this week to begin work on the film version of Skinner’s Rules , to be directed by Miles Grayson, and featuring his wife, Auchterarder’s Dawn Phillips.

Among Mr Capperauld’s other co-stars is up-and-coming Fife actor Oz Blackstone (34), a former boyfriend of Ms Goodchild.

‘Fucking hell!’ I barked loudly enough to have attracted the attention of everyone in the carriage, but for the sound of brakes as the train slowed into Haymarket. I didn’t mind them getting my age wrong, but I did take exception to a gratuitous mention in a story like that.

As I stepped down onto the platform, I ran through the list of people who had known about Alison and me, and who might have spoken to the Scotsman about us. I came up with a few possibilities from the Edinburgh days, and decided that the likeliest was one of my Tuesday football crowd who’d been going out with a radio reporter when I’d seen him last. I took a quick glance at the story, but there was no by-line.

Ricky Ross was waiting at the top of the stairs that led up to the exit; he saw the paper in my hand, and he saw the page I had been reading.

‘All publicity’s good publicity, Blackstone,’ he began. ‘Is that the way it goes?’

I glared at him. ‘Not this. It’s pure fucking cheek.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Mind you, it could have been worse.’

‘Aye, I bloody know.’ I looked at the ex-detective, in surprise.

‘Come on,’ he said, heading for a red Alfa Romeo parked in the station forecourt, ‘get in my car.’

I hadn’t time to wonder what it was all about; I simply followed him.

‘Young Ron Morrow,’ Ricky grunted. ‘He was a DC in my division when I resigned. He’s a detective sergeant at Gayfield now, and he keeps in touch. He asks me for advice every so often and he tells me things in return.’ I knew what was coming. ‘Like for example he told me that when the Goodchild girl found her boyfriend stiff and cold on Sunday night, you were with her.’