Quintin Jardine - Stay of Execution

He looked around at the sea of neon, bright even in the morning light. ‘Times Square, the centre of the universe,’ said his escort. ‘Tacky, isn’t it?’

‘It’s Piccadilly Circus, mate,’ McGuire retorted. ‘Different shape, overall bigger, but the same idea.’ He pointed along 42nd Street. ‘You’ve even got theatre land going off it, just like in London they have Shaftesbury Avenue.’

‘Do you have anything like this in Scotland?’

‘We light up Edinburgh and Glasgow for Christmas. But we’re too fucking mean to pay the electricity bill for a whole year.’ He glanced up at the banner rolling around a building on the other side of the wide street, headlining the morning’s news stories. ‘Ach, that’s not quite true. The castle’s floodlit all year round, and damn nice it looks, but we don’t have any of that stuff. Wouldn’t be appropriate for my city. Wouldn’t look right.’

‘Edinburgh’s that staid, then?’

‘She’s not as po-faced as she used to be, but compared to this she’s still a tightly corseted old lady.’

‘Sounds attractive,’ said Mawhinney. ‘I really am looking forward to seeing it. Will I enjoy it, do you think. . as a cop, as well as a tourist?’

‘As a cop you might well be bored. At your rank, in uniform, you’d spend a lot more time in the office than out on the street. The upside is that when you were out, your equipment belt would be a few pounds lighter.’

For a moment the American looked puzzled, until he caught McGuire’s meaning. ‘Ah yes, being unarmed. Do your guys have a problem with that?’

‘We’d have a bigger problem if we were told that we had to be armed all the time. A lot of my friends would quit if that happened.’

‘But how do you get by as an unarmed force in the twenty-first century?’

‘We’re not an unarmed force, Colin. We have more firearms at our disposal than ever before. They’re just not routinely deployed, other than at sensitive sites; airports in the main. We’re as lethal as you lot when we have to be, but we don’t give guns to ordinary uniformed patrol officers.’

‘Doesn’t that put them at risk?’

‘No more than they’ve ever been: not yet, at any rate. Gun crime is a problem, I’ll admit. We have a law in Britain banning the private ownership of handguns, but it was passed to keep them out of the hands of nutters, people who might suddenly go crackers and shoot up a street without warning. It was never thought that it would reduce the incidence of guns in street crime, for one obvious reason. . criminals don’t obey the law.’

‘Mmm,’ Mawhinney murmured. ‘Interesting.’ He motioned with his hand. ‘Come on, let’s walk up Seventh towards Central Park and watch how our officers handle street patrol. You’ll see plenty of them: we believe in a strong visible presence. As a result, Manhattan is one of the safest tourist places in the world.’

‘Oh, aye? And what about the rest of New York?’

The American grinned. ‘Just don’t get off the subway at the wrong station at night, that’s all I’ll say. Let’s walk, Mario. If we’re meeting Paula for lunch at noon on your last day in town, we’ve just got time to get there. If she’s researching the deli business, she has to see the Carnegie.’

Wee Moash Glazier stared defiantly up at the two faces as they towered over him in the Wee Black Dug, the pub he frequented whenever he stopped over with his Granton girl-friend. ‘Ah dinna ken what yis are talking aboot,’ he protested. ‘Me go oot in that fog? Ye must think I’m fuckin’ daft.’

‘No, Moash,’ Detective Sergeant George Regan growled. ‘We actually think you’re fuckin’ clever. You looked at that fog and what did you see? Santa’s lucky fuckin’ dip, that’s what! But you should have kept your sticky wee hand out, because this time it’s pulled you into a murder investigation.’

The little thief’s mouth fell open. ‘It’s you that’s fuckin’ daft,’ he protested.

‘Is that right?’ the sergeant exclaimed heavily. ‘In that case, you come with DC Singh and me, and we’ll all go up to the Torphichen office for psychiatric evaluation.’

‘Are you liftin’ me?’ Moash raised his voice so that the rest of the bar could hear him. He glanced around, in the hope, perhaps, that some of his fellow drinkers might dislike the police sufficiently to come to his aid. However, he saw nothing but backs turned towards him, and men lost in determined study of the bottom of their glass.

‘By the balls if I have to,’ Regan muttered, seizing him by an elbow and propelling him towards the door and out into the street, where their car was parked on a yellow line.

The little recidivist sat sullenly in the backseat as Tarvil Singh drove smoothly up through Muirhouse, and up towards Crewe Toll. As they navigated the busy roundabout, Regan heard him mutter, ‘Yis have nae right. Ah’ve got nothing on me; yis have nae right.’

The detective sergeant turned in the front passenger seat and stared at him. ‘You have the right to remain silent, and if you don’t exercise it till we get where we’re goin’, you’ll also have the right to a belt round the ear.’

His advice was followed for the rest of the journey. When they reached the Torphichen Place police office, Singh drove to the back, and parked close to the entrance; Glazier was hustled inside and deposited in an interview room. ‘Keep an eye on him, Tarvil,’ said Regan, ‘while I go and fetch Stevie. This wee bastard would nick the table given half a chance.’ He disappeared, ignoring the prisoner’s muttered protests, returning a few minutes later with DI Steele.

‘This is a fuckin’ liberty,’ wee Moash exclaimed as the inspector took a seat opposite him.

‘Shut up,’ Steele snapped. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to and give me straight answers to my questions, and you’ll walk out of here. Piss me about and you will be off the streets for quite a long time.’ He took a tape cassette from his pocket and inserted it in one of the decks of the recorder that sat between them on the table. ‘Listen.’ He pressed the ‘play’ button. There was a hiss, and then a female voice spoke. ‘Emergency services. Which service do you require?’

Moash blinked, as the reply sounded around the room. ‘Nane, but ye need the police in the Meadows. Fit o’ the walkway, ahent the old Royal.’

Steele stopped the tape and rewound it. ‘Again,’ he said, and pressed ‘play’ once more. When it was finished, he stared across the table. ‘This is the point, Mr Glazier, at which you tell me that you have no idea whose voice that is. Correct?’

The thief gave a tiny, cautious nod. ‘Nae idea.’

‘Okay. Predictable so far. Now here’s the next step. DS Regan’s already told you, I think, that we’re investigating a suspicious death, a man found in the Meadows, the subject of that phone call. That means this is far more serious than anything that’s ever brought you to our attention before. It means also that if I have to, I will bring in experts to listen to that recording, compare it with your speech pattern and determine whether or not it is you. Since DC Singh identified you at first hearing, I don’t think they’ll have any bother, but if I have to do that, you will be charged at the very least with withholding evidence in a murder inquiry. The fiscal might even go for accessory.’

He leaned forward. ‘I’ll ask you one more time, and I mean one more. Lie again and you’re in the crapper. Is that your voice?’

Moash Glazier did not scare easily, but this young polis, a stranger to him, had his number. ‘Aye,’ he croaked, ‘it’s me. But I just found the guy, like.’

‘I told you, straight answers only. This is one step at a time. Did you steal the late Mr Whetstone’s overcoat from off his body?’