Quintin Jardine - Lethal Intent

Although she had been a police officer for over twenty years, Mary Chambers had never faced a press conference. She had been given communications training in Glasgow, where she had begun her career, and Alan Royston had briefed her well, but still she felt uncharacteristically nervous as she read her prepared statement to the media, gathered in a conference room at the divisional headquarters in Torphichen Place.

It was brief, naming the victim and describing the circumstances of his disappearance and the discovery of his body. When she revealed that the dead boy was the son of Detective Sergeant George Regan, a collective murmur rippled across the room. Most of the journalists present knew Regan; all of them recognised a page one headline when they heard it.

She completed her text, laid the single sheet of paper on the table and looked out over her audience inviting questions.

'How are you treating this death, Superintendent Chambers?' asked a grizzled veteran in the front row.

'John Hunter, freelance,' Royston whispered in her ear.

'On the face of it, Mr Hunter,' she replied, 'it's a tragic accident. I'm never keen to anticipate pathologists' findings, but I'm not expecting anything from the autopsy to change that view. However, we are keen to speak to anyone who may have seen George, in Lothian Road, or King's Stables Road.'

'When was the last known sighting of the boy?'

'He and his friends parted company in Princes Street, at the foot of Lothian Road. George lived on a different bus route from the rest of them. We've spoken to all of the boys, and they all describe him as heading for the bus stop in front of St Leonard's Church, just after seven fifteen. The spot where his body was found isn't far from there. The medical examiner put the provisional time of death at eight p.m.'

A woman raised her hand. 'Iris Staples, Evening News,' she said. 'Was George a bit of a daredevil?'

'George was a normal active boy,' Detective Inspector Steele answered, from the side of the room, 'with a keen sense of adventure. I knew him, but I'm not going to stick any labels on him.'

'Would it have been in character for him to go off to try a spot of rock-climbing?'

'That's a question that would be better put to his parents, when they feel up to seeing you.'

'So, Superintendent,' said John Hunter, 'to come back to my first question, we can safely say that there's no evidence of foul play, and leave it at that? Nothing's going to change overnight?'

'No, it isn't,' Mary Chambers replied, 'nor the night after that. We'll await Professor Hutchinson's report, and any witness statements we receive, but I expect we'll be able to make a report to the Procurator Fiscal pretty soon.'

Rolling his suitcase behind him and with his flight bag slung over his left shoulder, Bob Skinner stepped through the international arrivals gateway and out on to the concourse of Glasgow Airport. It was eight a.m., his eyes were gritty… he never slept on aircraft… and he felt in dire need of a shower and a shave. He also felt cold: he had left in late-autumn conditions, but he was returning to a full-blown Scottish winter.

He shivered as he looked around for Neil McIlhenney, not bothering to hide his impatience as he failed to spot him. Suddenly he felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned… to see Aileen de Marco looking up at him. 'Taxi?' she said.

For the first time in a full day he smiled. 'Hi,' he sighed. 'I'd like that, but I'm being picked up.'

'You are indeed: by me.'

'How come?' he asked, bewildered. 'Did you quit after all and go into the car-hire business?'

'Nearly, but I stopped myself. Being chauffeured is one of the perks of my job. I couldn't give that up. As for my being here, I wanted to see you, so I called your pal Neil and persuaded him to let me take his place.'

'I thought you didn't drive.'

'Your information was out of date: I didn't have a car for a while, but I've driven since I was eighteen. I bought myself new wheels six months ago: a sharp deal from Arnold Clark.'

'I'll bet Neil was pleased to hear that.' He leaned forward slightly, and kissed her cheek. 'But I'm glad you did it: I wanted to see you too. I tried to call you yesterday, but Lena said you were tied up all day.'

'I sure was: She took his arm. 'Come on, let's get out of here.'

She led him out of the terminal building and across the road to the short-stay car park. Her car was a Fiat Stilo hatchback; he put his bags into the boot and climbed in, pleased to discover that the interior was still warm from the trip to the airport.

'Have you come from Edinburgh?' he asked her, as she turned on to the M8.

'No, I stayed at my flat in Glasgow overnight. I thought we'd go there now, actually, to let you freshen up, and to have some breakfast.'

He rubbed his chin. 'Good idea. I feel like I've been travelling for ever; it's three flights from where I was to here.'

'There's a Scotsman in the back,' she said. 'There's something in it you should see.'

'Sounds ominous,' he murmured, reaching behind him to retrieve the newspaper.

The report of George Regan junior's death was at the foot of the front page. 'Jesus,' he whispered. 'The poor kid. I met him, too, at the station Christmas party a couple of years ago.' He scanned the report. 'How must George and his wife be feeling?'

'Like any other parents who've lost a kid, I imagine. They'll be going through all sorts of agonies and recriminations: if only they hadn't let him go, and all that.'

'Try caging thunder,' Bob mused. 'My younger son would try to climb Mount Everest if I took my eye off him for a second.'

'Make sure you don't, then. By the way, I've got a message for you from Neil. There's a meeting in Fettes at three this afternoon that you'll want to attend.'

'Did he say what it is?'

'No; he just asked me to tell you the time, and make sure you got there.'

She turned off the motorway and headed into, then through Govan. The traffic was building, but most of it was headed for the Clyde tunnel, so there were no hold-ups. They passed through street after street of sandstone tenements until, suddenly, the river came into sight and with it a tall development of newer apartments. She turned into the car park of the third block, and tucked the Stilo into a space marked 'Reserved. 4a'. Bob took his flight bag from the boot, followed her inside and into the lift.

The flat was on the fourth floor; it was small, but the space was well planned. The living room had a corner window which looked across the Clyde, and eastwards, towards the city. Very nice,' said Bob, impressed.

'I like it,' Aileen replied. 'I wish the parliament was in Glasgow, then I could live here all the time.'

'You could do that if you wanted. The government cars would pick you up from here and bring you back. Like you said, it's a perk of the job.'

'My days are too unpredictable.' She smiled. 'As for my nights, there's nothing to draw me back here.' She reached up and touched his face, feeling the stubble on his chin. 'You look tired. Do you want to go to bed for a couple of hours?'

'Do you mean alone?' he asked her, with a quiet grin.

'That, sir, is up to you,' she murmured, provocatively. 'I have things to tell you, and that might be as good a place as any.'

He put his hands on her hips. 'Honest to God, Aileen, I couldn't do you justice. I'm just off the flight from hell, I've got a chin like a hedgehog, plus… to be honest, the time isn't right'

She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. 'I know. But I thought I'd make the offer anyway, out of devilment, if nothing else.'

'You don't feel snubbed that I've turned it down?'

'No, honestly.' She smiled, shyly. 'I'll regard it as a rain-check. The truth is, I don't know how I'd have felt if you'd taken me up on it' She ran her palm over his beard. 'You're right about the stubble; heavy-gauge sandpaper at the very least.'