Quintin Jardine - Blackstone's pursuits

From behind I could see her shoulders quiver as she surveyed the soiled public official before her. The warden stood there, wishing suddenly that, rather than stopping the first idiot he had encountered with flat feet and a black and white check band round his cap, he had made his way quietly back to his depot, to blame the incident on a large family of incontinent seagulls, attracted by the shine of a car he was booking.

‘Constable!’ hissed Prim. A good hiss is far more effective than a bellow, any time. ‘Get this apparition out of my flat, at once, and take a grip on your manners.’ McArse looked at her, noticing her for the first time. The ponderous wheels of his brain weighed up the situation for a few seconds, until without a word, he took the quailing warden by the collar and drew him backwards out on to the stairhead.

‘That’s better,’ she said.

When I was a kid, if I was ever bullied, I used to get my big sister to sort it out. Standing there behind Prim, I felt a wave of deja vu sweeping over me. ‘Look pal,’ I said to the warden, more from a need to assert my independence as a man — or even my presence — than from any wish to appease the thing, ‘accidents will happen, okay. Sorry and all that.’

Prim looked at me over her shoulder, incredulous again. I made a face that was intended to say, ‘Look I don’t normally throw up at crime scenes, and even less frequently over traffic wardens, but the smell in there just got to me all of a sudden. Okay?’ That’s what it was meant to say, but it didn’t work. Incredulity stayed in place, until it was replaced by one of my big sister’s playground looks, the one she would throw me just before she put the boot into the Primary Three class bully. It said very clearly, ‘You can explain yourself later!’ Oddly, I felt a surge of delight when I caught the ‘later’.

She turned back to the odd trio in the doorway and pulled off a masterful role switch. ‘Yes Constable, we’re sorry, but you see, the most terrible thing’s happened. We were just about to call the police.

‘I’m just back from abroad. My boyfriend picked me up from the airport. When we got in he went into the bedroom and he found …’ From somewhere, she conjured up a sob. ‘You’d better look for yourselves.’ She pointed behind her to the door.

McArse was no better with a tearful woman than with an angry one. He nudged the probationer. ‘Gaun, Jason …’ ‘Bugger me,’ I thought. ‘He’s called Jason!’ ‘… away and take a look.’ He glowered at the traffic warden who had led him into this pit of torment. ‘You! You can go. Ye’re stinkin’ the place oot onywey.’ The Yellow, Orange and Slightly Pink Peril slunk off, out of the picture forever. McArse gave the reluctant boy Jason a shove towards the bedroom.

I know. I should have said something. I’d been in the boy’s shoes once, yet I let him walk unwarned into that bedroom. Rotten bastard, eh? ’Fraid so.

Unlike me, Jason didn’t throw up. Mind you, I’d take throwing up every time rather than what he did. A low, keening sound came from the room. A wailing ‘Oooowwhhh,’ which grew in intensity and distress, the sound of knees and thighs being squeezed tight together in a fruitless effort to prevent the inevitable.

‘Ooohh!’

In the doorway the old soldier pretended not to hear. He stood there like Pharaoh trying, in the midst of the Red Sea, to ignore the fact that something very significant was happening to the water table — an apt comparison in the circumstances.

‘Hector.’ The call came from the room. If you’ve ever wondered about ‘tremulous’, that was it. The veteran looked at the ceiling.

‘Hector!’ Slightly more urgent this time. ‘And whereabouts were you abroad, Miss?’ the reluctant visitor asked Prim.

‘McArse!’ It was a howl from Hell. ‘Get fuckin’ in here!’ Shocked into movement, the constable lumbered through the hall and into the bedroom. Five seconds later, he backed out white-faced.

‘Oh my God, Miss. Was he like that when you found him?’

I almost said, ‘No, you stupid bastard, he was alive!’ but decided that silence was a better option. Prim had figured that one out too; she nodded meekly.

The probationer Jason eased himself awkwardly out of the bedroom, trying desperately not to look at anyone. I didn’t have the heart to ask if he was all right, because I could see that he wasn’t. I could recognise a career cut short when I saw one. I let him go as he shuffled along the hall and out to the stairhead.

At last, McArse, from somewhere, dredged up the memory of what it was like to be a policeman. ‘Where’s your phone, Miss?’ he asked, quietly. The one thing that keeps guys like him alive in the force is their knack of knowing when to delegate, upwards or downwards, and that is just as often as they can.

Prim and I retreated silently to the flat’s small living room as he went into the kitchen to phone.

‘Why did you say that about getting back from the airport?’ I asked her.

She looked at me. Shyness sat oddly on her. ‘I don’t know. It just came out. I suppose I thought it would be awkward for you if I told them what really happened. I mean your client’s secret would be out and everything.’

‘Aye, and I’d be in the frame as Obvious Culprit Number One.’ She smiled. She didn’t say ‘Hardly.’ She didn’t need to.

Instead, she said, ‘What happens now?’

I shrugged. ‘The serious boys arrive. The CID. The Clever Bastards with absolutely no sense of humour. Not a bit like those two out there. Look, Prim, we’re going to have to be straight with them. Nothing held back. What I mean is you’re going to have to tell them that Dawn was living here.’

‘We’ll see.’ Somehow, that didn’t reassure me.

The Clever Bastards who turned up were from Leith CID. Ebeneezer Street was only a short hop from their station and so we heard rubber burning on the road outside less than five minutes after McArse’s call.

The officer who burst into the living room might as well have had ‘High Flyer’ stamped on his forehead. He radiated ambition as he looked down at us, sat together on the couch facing the window. Guys like him can be very dangerous. Turn them loose on a criminal investigation, especially one that’s heading for the High Court and the tabloids, and they don’t see people, they see rungs on the ladder of success.

I knew his face from the wine bars and fancy pubs around Charlotte Square, but not his name. He filled in the blank in my knowledge at once. ‘I’m DI Michael Dylan. The plate on the door says Phillips. Is that both of you?’

Prim shook her head. ‘No, it’s my place. We don’t live together.’

‘You’re telling the truth, Prim,’ I thought. ‘Careful, that could be dangerous.’

She squeezed my arm. I don’t know whether she meant to dig her thumbnail into my wrist, but if she did, it was unnecessary. I’d learned enough about Primavera Phillips in our short acquaintance to be happy to let her lead the dance. I sat there dumb. ‘This is Oz Blackstone, my boyfriend,’ she said. I did my best to look gormless. From Dylan’s expression, I succeeded.

For a DI he looked pretty young. Early thirties, I guessed, not much older than me. He was a real designer polisman, dressed in an olive-green suit that looked like Armani, and with his feet encased in tan leather shoes that definitely were not made for pounding the beat. Someone once said to me that Dylan saw himself as a bit of a cult, and that most of his colleagues agreed … only they spelled it differently.

Everything about him said that he was aiming for the Command Suite, and the predatory look in his eye told me that he could see Prim and me helping him on his way.