Quintin Jardine: Death's Door

Steele winced. ‘Am I supposed to thank you for that?’

The head of CID smiled affably. ‘No. Custom dictates that you say, “Yes, sir.” Anyway, you know I’m right to keep the two investigations under one roof. Don’t worry about DCI Leggatt: I’ll explain my decision to him. And when I do, I’ll bet he bloody thanks me.’

‘Do I keep him in the loop?’

‘If you want to do that as a courtesy, I’ve no objection, as long as you make it clear that it’s in confidence. Otherwise, you report to Detective Superintendent McIlhenney, when he’s back from changing nappies, and to me until then.’

‘What about manpower?’

‘Use the same core team that’s on the Stacey Gavin investigation, but you can augment it out here with locals as you need them, for door-to-door enquiries and the like. I’ll square that with Leggatt as well.’

‘What about the mobile HQ unit?’

‘There’s no point in bringing the van down here, even if we could find somewhere flat to put it: this is too isolated. You’ll have the odd beach rambler, like the man who found the body, and a few family picnics at weekends, but nobody else will come by here. If we have to you can set up the mobile unit in the village, but maybe we can borrow a public building for the purpose. Whatever suits you best.’

Steele nodded back towards the bents. ‘The road I drove down to get here: is that public? Is it a right of way?’

McGuire chuckled. ‘To the likes of you and me, maybe, but even then only by invitation or under warrant. It runs across Muirfield golf course, and that’s strictly private.’

‘So,’ the inspector scratched his chin, ‘only golf-club members would know about it.’

‘In the main, yes.’

‘And there’s no other vehicle access?’

‘There might be one through the Archerfield estate, but you’d need a tractor to get across here.’

‘So if we’re wrong and the victim was brought here, not killed here. .’

A broad, piratical grin spread across the head of CID’s face. ‘I see what you mean, Stevie. Your first port of call will be the golf club itself. In that case, take my advice: walk very carefully.’

‘I’ve just checked the weather forecast,’ Neil McIlhenney murmured. ‘It’s set fair well into May. It looks as if I picked a good time to exercise my new politically correct rights.’

‘Are you dropping a hint of cynicism about gender equality?’ Paula Viareggio asked.

‘Not me,’ the new father replied. ‘I am but a humble servant of the people. If it’s their will. . or at least the will of about a quarter of them, if you look at the percentage of the apathetic buggers who actually turned out to vote for the present government. . that I should have two weeks’ paid paternity leave, then who am I to say that they’re wrong? Who am I to say that it’s another burden upon hard-pressed employers struggling to keep their businesses afloat, or that it’s another cost to be borne by the public purse?’

He held his three-week-old son to his barrel chest, and rubbed two fingers, very gently, between his shoulder-blades. ‘Seriously, though, Paulie, I know that grumpy old bastard of yours thinks of it as an example of the nanny state at work, but seen through my eyes at this moment, it’s a great innovation. My wife and I have two weeks in which we need do nothing but welcome wee Louis into the world.’

‘And spoil the hell out of him,’ came a retort from across the room.

‘You can’t spoil a baby, McGuire,’ McIlhenney retorted. ‘All you do is feed them when they yell, burp them. .’ he paused, ‘right on cue, wee man, well done. . and change them when they yell some more.’

‘Aw, look,’ exclaimed Paula, standing behind him, ‘he’s smiling at me.’

‘They say,’ Louise McIlhenney told her, ‘that at his age, when he does that it’s just wind. Don’t you believe it: he smiles at us too, and at Lauren and Spence. He has done since the day he was born. Do you want to hold him?’

‘If I do, will I get broody?’

‘There’s been no sign of it yet, has there?’

‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never held one of those before.’

Even Mario looked surprised. ‘What?’ he gasped. ‘You’ve never held a baby? What about your nephews, Ryan and David?’ He glanced at McIlhenney. ‘You’d never guess their dad was a Man U fan, would you?’

No,’ Paula confessed. ‘I never got to play with either of them. My sister hardly ever went out when they were very young, and when she did she always asked Mum to babysit. My nephews and I have never been close: no way was I getting stuck with the maiden-aunt tag.’

‘Come on, then,’ said Neil. ‘Take a chance.’

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ McGuire muttered.

‘Ah, you be quiet. You can have a turn too if you like.’ The smiling father leaned over and placed the baby gently into Paula’s arms, as she settled herself against the arm of a big, soft sofa, showing her how to hold him and how to support his head.

‘God,’ she whispered, as she looked at the tiny round face. ‘God. Hello there, wee Louis. I’m your auntie Paula. Will you and I be friends?’ The infant blinked up at her, and the corners of his mouth twitched, to form what might or might not have been a smile. ‘Looks like it, eh?’

McIlhenney turned to his friend. ‘Time for your feed as well?’ He walked across to the bar, which stood in a corner of the living room.

‘Well, if you’ve got something open. .’

‘Since it’s you, I’ve got some nice Valpolicella here.’

‘Perfect.’ He watched as Neil poured two glasses, held one out towards him, then picked up the other. ‘I thought you were off that stuff,’ he said.

‘Not completely. Lou isn’t drinking alcohol while she’s feeding the wee one, and Paula said she’s driving. As for Lauren and Spence upstairs, we do give them a taste occasionally, but very little and never during the school week. So if I don’t give you a hand you’ll finish the bottle all on your own, and probably want to start another.’

‘True,’ Mario muttered. ‘Fuckin’ spoilsport, aren’t you?’

The two men wandered through to the kitchen, where Neil had prepared a bowl of salad, ready to accompany four steaks, which he had seared earlier. He switched on the eye-level gas grill, and sipped his wine as he waited for it to heat. ‘What was that on Scotland Today ,’ he asked, ‘about a suspicious death in East Lothian?’

‘We aren’t allowed to talk shop,’ Mario reminded him. ‘I’d cross many people, but not your wife, not ever.’

‘She can’t hear us.’

‘I’m not going to take that chance. You just concentrate on those fillets.’

The cook fell silent as he laid the four steaks on the grill tray, and slid it under the flame. ‘Near Gullane, was it?’ he ventured, at last.

McGuire gave up. ‘Just by Muirfield; you know, the golf course where half the Supreme Court judges are members.’

‘Mmm. On the golf course itself?’

‘No, on the other side.’

‘On the bents?’

‘No.’

‘On the beach, then.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Mmm.’ McIlhenney peered into the grill, concentrating on the steaks. ‘Does Paula still like hers well done?’ he asked.

‘No, I’m trying to wean her off burned meat; she’ll have it just shy of medium like the rest of us.’

‘That’s good. I can turn them all at the same time, then.’ As he spoke, a pinging sound began and the microwave indicator display flashed. ‘That’s the spuds baked,’ he said, as he switched it off. ‘Sweet potatoes.’

‘Yummy,’ Mario murmured, deadpan.

Neil wore a concentrated frown as he flipped the four steaks over, then slid them back under the grill. ‘Another few minutes and they’ll be fine. I’ll be doing six, before you know it: it can’t be long before Lauren won’t be put off with early supper and insist on joining us. And that’ll mean Spence too.’