Quintin Jardine - Gallery Whispers

Simmers looked back at Mackie. 'Look, please tell me what this is about. Otherwise, this interview is at an end.'

'Two patients and a lover, sir, all apparent suicides, with injection involved. The only three such suicides in this part of Scotland in the last three years. And you are the only common factor.'

'Are you accusing me?'

'No, sir, we are not. Not yet, at any rate. If you would give us a sample of your saliva, it might help to eliminate you altogether.'

'In that case,' said Deacey Simmers, 'hold on, while I find a swab.'

'We'll have to be present when you take the sample, sir,' said Pringle.

'Why?'

The detective's diplomacy reserve was totally depleted. 'Because however nice and chummy my colleague here might seem, we're both suspicious bastards. We have to make sure it's yours.'

Andy Martin looked around the converted gymnasium. All but one of the desks stood empty; the long table against the wall was heavy with row upon row of processed forms.

'Is that it, then, sergeant?' he asked.

'It is indeed, sir,' said Karen Neville. 'The last Parisian policeman; the last Japanese journalist, all thoroughly checked out and cleared for action. The supply of eagle badges for the armed officers is upstairs, ready for issue at the security briefing on Monday, although I've no idea how we ensure that everybody wears them.'

'We don't. It's up to the head of each security team to ensure that his people comply once they're issued. However the boss or I will tell them at the briefing that anyone found with a gun and without a badge will be arrested and locked up for the duration. Hopefully that'll get their attention.'

'What's left to do, now that the paperwork's cracked?'

'We have to check everybody's hotel accommodation, just to make sure that there's nothing ticking behind a bath panel, or in a toilet cistern, anywhere. Special Branch will co-ordinate that, but it'll be done by Major Legge's army team.

'The first delegations, or at least their advance guards, start to arrive on Saturday, so that leaves tomorrow and Friday to get it all done, and the accommodation sealed off.'

He glanced round the gym again. 'Everyone else has gone home, I take it.'

'Yes, sir, Mario left to pick up his wife around fifteen minutes ago.

I've been waiting for clearance on a Dutch joumo; it's just come though, so I'm off too.'

'Fancy a drink?' asked Martin. 'Or have you got a date?'

Karen was taken by surprise. 'I'm washing my hair tonight, sir — as we ladies say — so I'm okay for a quick drink. Yes, that would be nice.

Where do you want to go?'

'How about O'Neill's on the South Bridge? That's not far from where you live.'

'Fine. I can leave my car in Chambers Street overnight. It's close enough to home.'

They drove in convoy across town, Karen leading the way. As she had guessed, parking was easy in the wide street so late in the day, and they found adjoining bays. For once, the skies were clear, and the night was cold and crisp as they walked the short distance to the bar, one of several with an Irish theme to have sprung up in the capital.

As the burly, red-haired barman poured a pint of lager and a gin and tonic, Karen found a table in the corner. Martin set the drinks down and sat facing her.

'So,' he began, awkwardly. 'How have you liked Special Branch?'

'Very much.' She looked at him as he picked up his beer. She had heard from colleagues that the Head of CID had been a legendary ladies' man in the days before his engagement; but as he sipped his pint she found it hard to believe. He seemed shy, diffident and strangely insecure, by comparison with the powerful, assertive figure which he cut in the office.

'D'you want to stay there?'

His question took her by surprise, and worried her for a moment or two. 'Only if you're kicking me out of your office,' she answered, cautiously. 'I prefer it there.'

He smiled at her: a quick, dazzling, engaging smile, backed up by a sudden sparkle in his green eyes, and in that moment she understood how the legend had come about. 'That's good,' he said, sombre once more. 'I hoped you'd say that, but I thought I should ask. Mario would have you in a minute.'

'It's nice to be popular. Mind you,' she added, 'I thought I was in everyone's bad books a few weeks back.'

'When you dated your Australian suspect, you mean? Yeah, at first, you probably were, but when I heard the full story from Mario, I saw that you were right. It was a means of keeping contact so you took it.

You made a professional judgement, and I'll always back that.' He took another mouthful.

'Things still okay on that front?' he asked.

She grinned back at him. 'Down Under, you mean, sport? Yes thanks, we're getting along. It's not the most orthodox relationship I've ever had, with him nurse-maiding a wheelchair case, but it has its moments.'

'What happens when he has to go home?'

'He goes back to his oil rig. It's off Western Australia, but that's just another piece of ocean as far as Wayne's concerned. He says he'll give up his flat in Perth, and register my place as his home address.

That way the company will pick up the cost of his travel back here every time he has home leave.'

'Good thinking, Ms Neville. What does he do on his rig?'

'He's the drill-master. An important guy: makes a bloody fortune so he tells me.'

'That's even better. You've landed on your feet in every respect; I'm happy for you.'

She nodded. 'Thanks. I just wish I could say the same to you. I'm sorry about your breakup.'

He winced. 'So am I,' he said, hesitating before adding, 'but better here than down the road a piece, as they say.'

'You'll still be friends, though, won't you?'

'We'll never be enemies,' he answered. 'Let's put it that way. But we can't go back to how it was before, when she was just my best friend's daughter. Some cuts go too deep.'

'And is he still your best friend?' she asked, quietly.

'Bob's been great. After I told him about it, he invited me down to Gullane and the pair of us went to the pub and had a few beers… no, a right few beers. It was his way of telling me that some things will never change.'

Neil Mcllhenney's in-tray was empty; he had worked his way through the papers which the DCC had referred to him for action or comment.

He had finished an analysis of the relative clear-up rates, category by category, by each of the CID divisions. As he waited for Skinner's Monday morning summons he sat hunched over the desk in his small office, staring out of the window.

He had done a lot of staring, out of many windows, over the last couple of months, he realised. Almost invariably he thought of sunny days to come, of he and Olive, Lauren and Spence, enjoying a normal lifestyle once again. No decisions were being forced upon them by the education authority, but Olive knew that even if she won complete remission from her illness, her classroom days were over.

They had discussed the respective merits of her accepting an offer to switch to the expanding quality control side of education, or of her resigning and setting up in business as a designer of computer-based teaching packages. Whichever option they chose, Neil understood that in reality it was another target to be pursued, another piece of the scaffolding which underpinned his wife's tremendous determination to beat her enemy.

Deacey Simmers was the most important part of that support structure. And Neil knew exactly why Bob Skinner had excluded him from his meeting that morning with Brian Mackie and that tactless bampot Clan Pringle: it was because Simmers was the only item on the agenda. As he stared out into the crisp winter morning, he could picture the three of them grouped around the DCC's desk, the big man doing his trick of watching the driveway, seemingly far away, while absorbing every word that was being said to him.