Quintin Jardine - Stay of Execution

‘Any other marks on the body?’

Sarah nodded. ‘There was a cut on his right wrist, on the inside. It was fresh, and had been bleeding at the time of death. You saw the body. Can you remember whether there was any jewellery on it?’

Steele’s eyes narrowed as he replayed the scene in his mind. ‘Wristwatch,’ he said. ‘Worn as normal on the left wrist; it had a leather strap. And yes, there was a bracelet on the right wrist. It was a chunky gold thing.’

‘That’s what I thought. If the forensic technicians examine it, they’ll probably find traces of skin and blood. That raises the possibility that if the man was helped, or more likely attacked, he was grabbed by the wrists and the gold cut into him.’

‘So if we’re lucky we might get prints as well?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Good. I’ll tell Maggie when I call her. I’m clear to do that now, yes?’

‘Yes, but next door, please.’

She led the way from the autopsy room, and through to an office area, unfastening her tunic as she went, and ripping off her blue surgical cap. Steele did the same, and threw his protective garments into a wastebin on top of hers.

‘What do you do now?’ he said.

Sarah grinned. ‘Right now, I’ll have a shower, and after that I’ll grab a bite, then get round to working on a report for you and the fiscal. What about you? Off to catch a potential killer?’

‘Eventually, but first I’m either going to have a late breakfast or an early lunch, depending on how you look at it. Knowing what I was going to be looking at, I decided not to chance it.’

‘You and me both. I never do when I’ve a morning autopsy to perform. You never know what might crawl out when you open one of these up. So my brunch agenda’s the same as yours. Why don’t we team up? Where were you thinking of going?’

‘Actually, I was going home. My place is between here and the office, more or less.’

‘Sounds okay,’ she said. ‘Got enough for two?’

Steele felt a strange cold tingle in his stomach. Later, hard as he tried, he was never able to work out why he answered, ‘Yes, of course.’

Colin Mawhinney stepped away from the reception desk, key in hand. ‘Thanks, Mario,’ he said. ‘This is a nice hotel. Normally I don’t like them; I find that in the States they treat you like a number not a person, but that guy there couldn’t have been more friendly.’

His host, until recently his guest, smiled. ‘Yes, it has a comfortable feel about it, doesn’t it? I have to confess I’ve never slept here, but Paula and I use the dining room quite a bit: it’s excellent. We checked out the suites before we booked you in here, and they’re up to the same standard. It’s as well after that flight. It’s a long haul to Edinburgh when you come through Heathrow.’ McGuire had been concerned about flying with Mawhinney, given his terrible experience on September Eleven, but he had handled the journey calmly, even if he had been even more than usually serious throughout.

‘I hate airports, period,’ said the American, ‘but they are a necessary evil of our time.’ He grinned. ‘The taxis in this city are pretty good, though. They’re even more colourful than our yellow cabs and, better still, the drivers seem to know where they’re going. Dunno if you noticed, but New York taxis have a customer charter on display inside. It says you’re entitled at all times to a courteous driver who speaks English and knows his way about the city. Two out of three is pretty good, but you’ll never get all three in the one cab. No-hits are not uncommon.’

McGuire glanced out of the window at the police patrol car, bright Day-glo flashes on its side and hood, that was waiting outside. ‘Trust me,’ he said, ‘we got lucky today. The traffic inspector had the good sense to send a sergeant to collect us. If we’d had a rookie, he’d have taken the normal route, and we might still be stuck in Corstorphine.’

‘We may have come here by a back way, Mario, but I really like what I’ve seen of your city so far. And the waterfront out there is just great. The air’s so fresh I can hardly believe it; it’s warmer than what we left in New York, too.’

‘From what I hear we’re lucky we didn’t arrive twenty-four hours ago. My pal Neil told me that we’ve just had the worst fog in forty years; he said it was worse than anything he’s ever seen. The airport was even closed, so it must have been bad; they’re supposed to be able to land blind there. It’s cleared up now, though. You will be able to see the city, thank Christ.’

‘Good. So what’s on the agenda?’

‘Today, nothing. I guessed you’d want some time to settle in, and maybe grab a couple of hours’ sleep, so I thought we’d leave you here, then come back for you around half five. We’ll go to my place for a drink and then maybe go uptown for something to eat.’

‘You live close by?’

‘If you step outside and look across the water you can see it. I have a penthouse in a block over there.’

‘Where do you live, Paula?’

Their companion smiled wearily. ‘In Leith,’ she replied, ‘just off Great Junction Street. That’s not far either, but I’ll crash at Mario’s. If I go back to my place I’ll get into opening mail, and I’ll be at it all afternoon.’

‘So,’ said McGuire, ‘does that sound all right to you?’

‘It sounds perfect. Where will we eat?’

‘We’ll find somewhere with a bit of class; the Secret Garden, maybe. It won’t be a deli, I promise you that. Nice meal, nice glass of wine, and a decent night’s sleep, that’s the idea. Get you ready for the official stuff. That starts tomorrow. You’ll meet the chief, the DCC, and ACC Haggerty, and we’ll give you a presentation on how our force works. After that we’ll show you it working. For now, you head on up to your room, and we’ll see you later.’

They shook hands, then Mario and Paula headed for the door and their waiting car. Less than five minutes later they were in his living room looking back across the water at the Malmaison Hotel.

‘Nice guy, that,’ Paula murmured as she stepped out of her shoes.

‘Yeah, he is. There’s something infinitely sad about him, though. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for him, being there and seeing that second plane hit, then knowing after the event that he had watched his wife die.’ The big detective shuddered. ‘God save us from that, eh?’

‘Too true,’ she agreed. ‘Mario, I’m knackered. I was going to run a bath but I think I’d fall asleep in it, so I’m going straight to bed. You coming?’

‘In a minute. I’ll check my messages then I’ll be through. Set the alarm for about four o’clock, okay?’

‘Sure.’

He grinned after her as she shuffled sleepily off towards the bedroom. Not long before, Neil McIlhenney had asked him to put into words what it was that he and Paula had in their relationship that made it gel. ‘Softness.’ He had said it without even thinking. ‘When we’re together everything in the world seems peaceful. We blend together; each of us knows instinctively what the other’s thinking, or wants, or needs. They say that you have to work at a partnership. We don’t. We make each other content, and it’s effortless. I don’t think I’ve ever smiled as much in my life.’

‘No,’ his friend had conceded. ‘I don’t think you have.’

He thought of that conversation as he listened to his first phone message. It was from McIlhenney, inviting him, Paula and Colin Mawhinney to lunch with him, Louise and the children on the following Sunday. He made a mental note to consult the American before accepting, in case such a family event might be a strain for him.