Quintin Jardine - Lethal Intent

'He's a devious bloody scammer and he always has been. You missed a hell of a lot that went on in that pub in your time here, my friend. And what do you mean "is" a snout of yours? You're gone, Greg, remember?'

'Not gone, Mario; "translated" would be a better word. Clearly the news hasn't filtered down to your level: I've got a new job.'

'What's that? Security at the docks?'

'A little more important than that, and a little more sensitive. Ask your friend McIlhenney next time you see him. He'll know about it, I'm sure; the Great Man will have told him by now.'

Jay pushed himself to his feet. 'I'd better be going. Wouldn't do to interrupt the fight on crime any longer than necessary.' He walked to the door. 'By the way,' he said, 'I hear there's a new regulation in the pipeline. It's going to require complete disclosure by police officers of all business interests, whether direct or through their wives and families. It'll cause quite a stir, I reckon. Where something's deemed unsuitable, the officer involved will be given a straight choice between giving it up or leaving the force.'

'Oh, yes?' McGuire growled. 'And who's going to do the deeming?'

'My new boss, actually… acting on my advice, of course. Be seeing you again, I'm sure.' He opened the door and stepped outside.

McGuire snatched the phone from his desk and buzzed the CID office. Detective Sergeant Sammy Pye answered at once. 'Sir?'

'Sam,' he exclaimed, 'that bastard who's just come out of my office: Jay. Have him followed; in fact, do it yourself if you're clear. I want to know where he goes.'

George Regan stepped out of the Castle Terrace car-park office. The manager had been annoyed at another police visit, but eventually he had co-operated and given him a rundown of his regular customers, those whom he knew and their usual times of coming and going. Most of them were office employees, professionals from the impressive new buildings that had sprouted in the city's West End during the last decade of the millennium, but several were shop-workers, with differing hours and shift patterns that involved them sometimes in weekend working.

He checked his watch: it showed twenty past six. Normally most of the shop people would have been gone by that time, but in December their hours tended to stretch a little. He looked around level five of the well-lit car park: it would have been full during the day, but most of the cars had gone. Still, there were enough around to make his trip worthwhile.

He heard footsteps behind him, and turned to see a woman trot down the stairs and hurry across to a small blue Citroen hatchback. He moved towards her, taking out his warrant card. 'Excuse me, madam,' he called out. 'I wonder if you can help me. I'm a police officer.' She turned, startled; she was mid-forties, with brown, well-cut hair, and she would have been attractive but for the sharp suspicious eyes that seemed to drill into him. He held the card up high, for her to see more clearly, and she peered at it carefully.

'What can I do for you?' she asked, in cultured, clipped tones.

'I hope you can be of assistance,' he told her. 'Are you a regular user of this car park?'

'Yes, I'm here every day during the week.'

'How about weekends?'

'Not normally, but on occasion I come into my office out of normal hours.'

'By any chance were you here last Sunday?'

She frowned, as she scanned through her mental diary. 'Yes, I was, as it happens, but not at work. There was an evening carol concert in St John's Church.'

'What time did it finish?'

'Seven o'clock.'

'And when did you leave the car park?'

'I'm not sure, but it must have been after eight. They had mulled wine and mince pies afterwards, and I stayed around.'

'When you left, which exit did you use: top or bottom?'

'The lower exit,' she said. 'I always go out on to King's Stables Road; it's easier for my route home.'

Regan felt a burst of optimism surge through him, and tried to keep it from showing on his face. 'Would you think very carefully about this, please, ma'am?' he asked. 'When you turned out of the car park and into the road, did you see anyone?'

She looked at him; as she did, the suspicion left her eyes and her tight mouth seemed to soften a little. 'This is about that poor child, isn't it?' she asked. She stared at him even more closely. 'And you're his father, aren't you? I saw you on Reporting Scotland, I'm sure.'

Embarrassed, Regan nodded.

'Oh,' she said, 'I'm terribly sorry, for you and your family, but I really can't help you. When I saw your appeal on television I did think about it, but I can't recall seeing anyone, least of all a small boy.'

'He wasn't that small. He was thirteen.'

The woman shook her head. 'No, I'm sorry,' she said. 'I'd love to help you, but I really can't remember there being anyone in the street at all.'

She was so definite that the detective felt the candle of hope within him flicker and die. Nevertheless, he took a business card from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to her. 'Those are my office and mobile numbers,' he said. 'Please keep them, Mrs…'

'Miss,' she said, as she took the card. 'Miss Bee, Betty Bee. I'm sure I won't recall anything that will be of help, but if anything at all does occur to me, I will get in touch, I promise.'

He thanked her, holding the door of her car open for her as she climbed in. 'Thank you,' he said, as he closed it gently. He watched her as she drove off, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes. That had been pure luck, he knew: he would not find many more potential witnesses so easily. He had to try, though. Slipping his warrant card into the pocket of his overcoat, George Regan made his way down to the barrier that controlled the exit to King's Stables Road, and settled down for a long evening of questioning drivers, even though in his heart of heart he knew that it would be fruitless.

At least he was doing something.

'What's up?' Lena McElhone blurted out the question as she stood with her hands in the sink, washing the pan in which she had cooked the spaghetti that she and Aileen de Marco had shared.

'What makes you think that anything is?' her boss, friend and tenant replied.

'I know you well enough by now to read the signs. You hardly spoke last night, and just now it was like eating in a public library: no talking, please. Did something happen to upset you when you stayed in Glasgow on Monday?'

'Yes and no. But my problem is, Lena, that I can't talk to you about it. In fact, I think I might have to move out.'

The other woman gasped and her face went chalk white. 'But why? What's happened?' she demanded.

Aileen looked down at the tiled floor, then turned and led the way through to the flat's small living room. She had hoped to avoid a confrontation, but finally she recognised that it had to be. 'This arrangement of ours,' she began, 'my living here: it's unique, as far as I know, for a minister and her private secretary to share accommodation. A few of my colleagues, and yours too, I guess, think it's weird, that there's something improper about it.'

'You mean they think we're gay?'

'Some probably do, but that doesn't matter. The point is that my sharing your flat is convenient for us both, and it works, because it's built on trust.' She looked Lena in the eye. 'I have to ask you something. Have you been talking about me?'

'You mean have I been gossiping about you? Absolutely not! Do you actually think I would?'

'No, that's not what I mean, not at all. Have you been asked about me professionally? Have you been asked about my movements, for example, and my meetings with Bob Skinner?'

The private secretary's face went from pale to crimson in a matter of seconds. 'Oh, no,' she whispered; her shoulders shook and she began to weep. 'He couldn't have.'