Quintin Jardine - Lethal Intent

'No promises, but we'll do our best.'

Skinner rose to his feet. He looked at his three colleagues. 'Willie, Neil, Bandit, you're the lead team on this operation, reporting to Mrs Dennis and me. If you need additional personnel, use only your most trusted people, and tell them as much as they need to know, but no more. Amanda, will you be in a position to give us everything you have on these men at nine tomorrow morning?'

'Yes,' she replied.

'Excellent; we meet in this room.' He headed for the door. 'Now, if you don't mind, I'm getting out of this murky place and going home to my kids.'

'My son was an inquisitive boy,' said George Regan. 'From his earliest years, he was always wanting to know how things worked, always with a — question in waiting to follow the one you were answering.' He smiled. 'It was difficult staying one step ahead of him from time to time.' A tentative laugh rippled through the group of journalists as they faced him.

'I can't deny that he was an adventurous lad too, always up for a dare, always up for showing what he could do. My wife and I are ready to accept that his death was the result of an adventure gone wrong. While it was unusual for him to be so reckless, I can't put my hand on my heart and say that it was out of the question.'

He paused and took one more look around the room. 'But we need to know for sure about his final moments. Jen and I can't face the uncertainty for the rest of our lives. So, if there are people out there who saw wee George after he left the bus stop where he was last spotted, if anyone saw him entering the castle grounds, I ask them through you, ladies and gentlemen, and through the broadcast media, to come forward and help us to cope with what has happened to our son. Thank you.'

Slowly he rose from his chair, behind the table, in front of the backcloth embellished with the police-force crest, and walked from the room. There was no sound as he left; no questions were called after him. It occurred to Stevie Steele that he had never heard a group of journalists so quiet for so long.

He followed his colleague through the door, and back through the CID office to his own room. 'Thanks, George,' he said, as he closed the door, 'I know what it must have taken to do that.'

Regan gave him as sad a smile as he had ever seen. 'With respect, Stevie,' he replied, 'I don't really think you do. I was pleased to do it for you, though; I meant every word I said out there.'

He sat on the edge of the detective inspector's desk, all at once looking completely exhausted. 'You're going to close the book, aren't you?' he said, quietly. 'You're going to pass the file to the Fiscal and let him make the decision.' There was no rancour in his voice: it was matter-of-fact.

'I promise you, mate,' Steele told him, 'that Mary and I have been totally conscientious about this. I admit that we've gone as far as we can in term of witnesses; that's why we asked you to do the public appeal. But we're going to do what you'd expect of us, and what you would do yourself. We'll wait for responses to your statement, and we'll follow them up meticulously. There are no constraints on us.'

'Not even from Dan Pringle? This isn't really a CID job; we both know that.'

'Absolutely no pressure, I promise; and if there was we'd resist it. The head of CID's as gutted as the rest of us, George, believe me.'

'Ach, I do. I've known Dan for years; he's a good bloke. It's just that we're all totally bloody driven by clear-up figures these days. See public accountability, Stevie; setting targets and all that stuff. It's great in principle, but when it affects the way we do our job, or stops us doing it altogether, I wish they'd just let us get on with it.'

'So do I, from time to time,' Steele admitted. 'It's here to stay, though, and I've got a hunch that it might get worse before it gets better. I just heard something on the grapevine that set me back on my heels. A pal of mine in St Andrews House told me that the security adviser's office there has a new occupant: Greg Jay.'

'You're joking!'

'My sense of humour isn't that black. I asked the chief super if she'd heard about it, but it was news to her.'

'That'll be great,' Regan exclaimed, ironically. 'Mr Bitter and Twisted himself, whispering in the ears of the First Minister and the Justice Minister.' He glanced at his colleague. 'Although my own personal rumour mill says that someone has been whispering in de Marco's ear before him.'

Steele frowned. 'Who's that?'

'I'll do you a favour and not tell you. If it's just unfounded gossip you're best not to know.'

Between them, a silence fell; and in it, Regan's grief, from which their conversation had been no more than a moment's respite, returned in full force. 'I've got to go, Stevie,' he said. 'It was a hell of a job persuading the wife not to come here; I have to get back to her now. I'll take a couple more days' leave, yes?'

'You'll take a couple of weeks more; you'll take as long as you and Jen need. Fuck the clear-up figures, George: there are more important things in this world.'

'Pops, there's something I have to tell you,' said Alexis Skinner.

'You're getting married.'

'No. I'm not even seeing anyone just now.'

'So you're not pregnant either, then.'

'Don't be daft. I made that mistake once; it won't be repeated.'

'What is it, then?'

'I'm a bit scared.'

Bob looked at her across the dinner table, eyebrows raised in surprise. 'You're what? You've never been scared in your life. What's the problem? Are you in trouble at work? Are you ill?' He sat bolt upright as his mind ticked off a list of crisis scenarios and stopped at the worst case. 'You haven't found a lump, have you?'

'No, Pops, it's nothing like that, none of those things. I'm fine, but I'm scared for you.'

He picked up his glass and shook his head slowly. 'Is that all? Alex, my love, you're the oldest of my children, but you're not always the most sensible. Why the hell are you scared about me, any more than you have been for the last twenty years?' He rose from his dining chair. 'Come on, let's go through to the comfy seats and you can tell me all about it.'

'Okay, but go and say good night to the sibs first.'

He did as he was told, climbing the stairs to the children's rooms. They had been all over him when he had arrived home, even Seonaid, whom he had thought too young to have noticed his absence. He had given time, and presents, to each of them in turn, explaining as best he could to the two boys why their mother had decided to stay in America for a little longer.

To his surprise, Mark had been the most anxious of the three. James Andrew and Seonaid had accepted his promise that she would be back for Christmas, but his older son had needed more reassurance. 'She isn't ill, is she?' he had asked at one point.

'No,' he had replied. 'She's been very tired, but she's okay. Mum's been through a lot this year. She's in need of a good long rest, that's all.'

He stood in the doorway of Mark's room, looking at him; as he had expected, his younger son and daughter were sound asleep. He was sitting with his back to the door at his computer, as usual, but not at a document or website. He was on-line, in the midst of a video conversation, but he wore a headset so only he could hear the incoming sound. Bob moved silently behind him to see the face on the small square in the centre of the screen: it was Sarah, and from the background he could tell that she was in the internet cafe they had found near their hotel. He waved at the camera. A second or two later, Mark turned, surprised and looked up at him. 'Go on,' said Bob, quietly, ruffling the boy's hair. 'Don't mind me.' He leaned over to be close to the microphone. 'Hi, Sarah, sorry to butt in. I'll leave you to it; my big kid's downstairs.' He read her lips as she mouthed, 'Okay. Good night.'