Quintin Jardine - Gallery Whispers

'Including divorcing her?'

Averting his eyes once more, Weston nodded.

'Tell us about your relationship with her, please,' said the Head of CID.

The man across the desk laughed, softly. 'How long do you have?'

He leaned back in his seat, until his shoulders and the back of his head were touching the partition wall behind him. 'Gaynor and I were married for twelve years,' he began, 'and throughout that time we were extremely happy… or so I thought. Then, on our twelfth anniversary, she told me she was leaving me; just like that.

'She told me that there were things that she wanted to do with her life, and that she simply could not achieve them within the confines of marriage. There was no discussion; she just moved out, to a small flat in Barnton. A year later we were divorced by mutual consent. We had joint custody of Raymond, but it was agreed that he should live with me during the school term.

'During our separation and immediately after our divorce we didn't see much of each other; nothing at all, in fact, if Ray wasn't the reason. I heard about her, of course; heard how her consultancy career was going from strength to strength. Raymond would mention the odd name too; men's names, gentlemen callers, I suppose you'd say.

'Almost all of my life was work at that period; but not quite all. I formed a relationship with Avril, my second wife — at that time she was my secretary at the University — and five years ago, we married.

To my surprise, Gaynor didn't like that at all. She didn't speak to me for a year. Then out of the blue, I had a call from her asking me to bring Ray out to Oldbarns, to which she had just moved, for supper.

'I did that, and we had a good time together; it was like being a family unit again, almost. This became a weekly event, until one time whenRay had flu. I called her to tell her this, but she asked me if I'd like to come anyway, on my own.'

Weston looked at the two detectives. 'You have to remember, I'd never stopped loving her. So I went out there, for dinner, on the excuse that we had to discuss Ray's schooling. Our relationship changed that night: I found myself having an affair with my ex-wife.'

'Did she regret the divorce?' asked Martin.

'No. Not for one minute. The thing about Gay, you see, was her craving for danger; yet conversely, she didn't like to feel threatened.

Futcher, the ad-man, he was married too, like me. There was that element of risk of exposure, but safety too in that the involvement was purely physical.'

'What about you? You still loved her.'

'Yes, and she loved me. But we had defined our relationship long before.'

'So there was you, and there was Futcher,' Mackie intervened.

'Was there anyone else?'

A shadow seemed to pass across Nolan Weston's face. 'There may have been,' he replied. 'She told me once that Futcher and I weren't the only arrows in her quiver. Her phrase, not mine. But she never mentioned a name.'

'Might your son have known?' asked the superintendent.

'It's possible. I'll ask him, but not tonight. He's still in shock, poor lad; as are we all, to an extent.'

'It's important, sir. If you can't, we may have to interview him ourselves.'

'No, leave him to me, please. I'll have a talk with him tomorrow morning.'

'Fair enough,' Martin agreed, 'but no later. When did he get home?'

'Last night. He has a car up in Aberdeen, but I felt happier going up to collect him myself, rather than let him make such a long drive in an emotional state.'

'You must have been fairly emotional yourself. Professor.'

'I'm a surgeon, Mr Martin. I was emotional two weeks ago, when I realised that Gay was going to die. Yesterday I felt an element of relief that she. Ray and I had been spared the weeks and months of torment which we had all faced.'

'You didn't give her the diamorphine did you. Professor?' the Head of CID asked quietly.

'No sir, I did not. To be frank with you, had she asked me for it, I think I would have done. But she didn't.'

'Just as well, then,' said Martin rising slowly to his feet. 'Thank you, Professor, for your help. Brian, give Mr Weston your number, so that he can call you directly once he's spoken to his son.' The superintendent's hand had already left his breast pocket, a business card held between the first two fingers.

Nolan Weston walked his visitors to the top of the stairs. The two policemen made their way silently down to the ground floor, through the reception area, which was much busier than it had been earlier, and outside into the cold grey afternoon.

'What did you think of him?' said Mackie, as the glass doors closed behind them.

Martin stared at him, blankly, a shocked expression on his face.

'What is it, Andy?' the superintendent asked.

'You didn't see them then?'

'Who? Where?'

'In there just now, in the waiting area. They had their backs to us, but I'd know them anywhere: Neil and Olive Mcllhenney.'

'So far, Inspector, there have been seventeen sightings of this man Hawkins across Europe.' Skinner glanced at the report on his desk.

'Every one of them has been checked out, and at the end of every one there's been a wild goose.

'Fake Hawkinses have been seen in Germany, France, Poland, Italy, Switzerland, England and Spain. Oh, sorry, I forgot Luxembourg.

These have all been registered in the past twenty-four hours. The Polish contact turned out to be a tall blonde transsexual, who just happened to have a limp.' He smiled. 'I guess we'll hear about a right … few more before we fasten onto the right man — if we ever do.'

'It's not like you to sound pessimistic, sir,' McGuire remarked.

'Realistic, Mario; I'd rather you said realistic. This bloke is a professional, just like us. Let me ask you something. If you wanted to go undercover for any purpose, how easy d'you think it would be for us to find you? Yes, even us, your close colleagues?'

The swarthy detective laughed. 'You mean if I decided to do a runner from the wife? How scarce could I make myself? 'I suppose I'd do the obvious things. I'd dye my hair and eyebrows another colour, as far away from black as possible… maybe red like Maggie. I'd wear glasses, dark wherever I could, to cut down the chance of eye contact with someone who might know me or might have seen a picture. I'd try to do something with my teeth; dye them too, perhaps, to make them less white and sparkly.' He paused, thinking. 'Yes, and I'd try to do something about my mannerisms as well; to eliminate recognisable things like, for example, the way I smile.

'My ace card, though, would be to speak Italian everywhere I went.'

Skinner nodded. 'Right. Now I don't think that all of those things put together would fool Maggie, or me, or Mr Martin or Neil: not the people closest to you. But someone else, even in the force, they'd have trouble.'

'How many languages does Hawkins speak?' asked McGuire, suddenly.

'Hey,' the DCC responded, 'that's a good question. I'll get on to London and ask them. Maybe we're looking for a German, or an Italian.'

'Not an Italian, boss. Even if he dyed his hair black, like mine, it wouldn't work. His features are wrong.'

'I'll take your word for it. Anyway, it all leads into the point I was going to make. You and I, we're amateurs in the anonymity business.

Hawkins is a pro. His life depends on it. If you can come up with a few simple dodges on the spur of the moment, he's going to pull something really special out of the hat. All that artwork in the envelopes I handed out yesterday, Mario; probably none of it's worth a damn.

'We're blind, my friend, stone blind. As coppers we're used to events and people we can come to grips with, and we've got all sorts of toys to help us look for them. But in this task we're an extension of the intelligence community; groping about in the dark trying to catch a puff of smoke in our hands.