Quintin Jardine - Lethal Intent

'Was there anything to do there?'

Kerimoglu's face split into a broad smile. 'As it happens, no, but it was a nice drive.'

Haggerty gave a small shudder. 'You'll not be doing that this weekend,' he muttered. 'From the look of the weather we're in for snow.'

'Good. It'll keep our customers here.' The Turk paused. 'So, my old friend, what can I do for you?'

Haggerty grinned. 'Probably nothing, Rusty,' he said. 'Remember a few years back, when I was in Special Branch, and I used to pick your brains about things that were happening in the Muslim community? Well, it's a bit like that again.'

A look of alarm crossed Rusty's face. 'Al Qaeda? You don't suspect that those guys are still active here, do you?'

'No, we're pretty confident that we've seen them off. But there's more than them in the field. For example, there are Albanians.'

'More's the pity.'

'You don't like Albanians?'

'I don't like any I've ever met. Why? Are you looking for some?'

Haggerty nodded. 'As it happens I am. A guy in Edinburgh said I should look among the Turkish community: you know more about that than anyone else, hence this visit.'

'Any names?'

'None they'll be using. Are there any around in Glasgow that you know of?'

'There are some who made their way over among the Kosovar refugees, but very few. Most of them are old, or they're professional people looking to retrain over here. But you're an Edinburgh policeman now. Why do you come looking in Glasgow?'

'We're looking for these people everywhere.'

'Are they very bad?'

Haggerty took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Kerimoglu; he watched as he slid it open and looked at each of the four photographs inside. The Turk winced as he finished. 'They look bad, that's for sure. Can I keep these?'

'No, I can't let you. It wouldn't be wise, or safe.'

Rusty held out a hand. 'Let's have another look, then.' He took the envelope as it was handed back and spread the images on his table. He was standing over them, peering intently, when Bulent pushed his way through the curtain.

'Who are those guys?' he asked. Instinctively, his father tried to put his body between him and the table, but the young man shouldered past him.

'You don't need to know,' said Haggerty. 'Just…'

'Aye, but I do know him,' Bulent exclaimed, pointing eagerly at one of the photographs.

The stocky policeman's eyes narrowed. 'Are you serious?' he snapped.

'Sure, Ah'm serious.' The boy picked up the print and held it up: it showed the smiling face of Samir Bajram. 'He was in here the other day with two other guys; they bought four doners and a pizza.'

'You're certain it was him.'

'Dead certain. He was wearing an Ajax baseball cap… you know, the Dutch fitba' team… and he still had thon earring in. He's got a fair, fuzzy beard now, like bum fluff, but it was him, Ah'm telling ye.'

'Okay, I believe you, son,' said Haggerty. 'Now, what about the people he was with? Do you recognise any of them there?'

Bulent leaned over the table, and looked at the three remaining photographs for around half a minute, before glancing up at Haggerty and shaking his head. 'Naw,' he announced, 'they're no' there. But I knew one of them, mind. We call him Frankie Jakes, but he's a Macedonian. He's a hood; he deals smack and tabs in Partick; drinks in a pub called the Johnny Groat.'

His father stared at him, appalled. 'How do you know these things?'

The boy smiled indulgently. 'Ah went tae school in Partick, Dad, remember? Plus Frankie's brother, wee Bobby, plays fitba' wi' us in the Tuesday half-day league.'

Rusty turned to Haggerty; the policeman could see the concern on his face, and knew why it was there. 'Okay, Bulent,' he said. 'Now listen to me. You've never seen that man before in your life. You've never heard of him, you've never heard of me, and I was never here. Understood?'

The smile was gone. 'Clear as day.'

'Next time you see wee Bobby, you do not go and ask him about his brother or his mates. Understood?'

'I get the picture.'

'No, you don't, and you don't want to know what's in it.' Haggerty turned to his friend. 'Rusty, I'm out of here. I'm sorry I parked my car outside. What I just said to Bulent… it goes for you too.'

The Turk nodded. 'Sure, Willie. And not for the first time either: it's been a long twenty-five years. Next time, just come for a take-away.'

Neil McIlhenney smiled as he stepped into All Bar One; for the first time in days he felt refreshed. The dream had not returned the night before, and he put it down to Lou's excellent consultation with her obstetrician, the Amanda Dennis lookalike, who had told her that all was well with her pregnancy and that she could look forward to delivering a healthy child in a few months' time, wiping away her last concerns about becoming a first-time mother at forty plus.

But there was more than that behind his grin. His lunch date had made him think about where he stood in his career, and he felt good about that too. In his early years as a policeman, his service had been solid but not spectacular. He had been like a stereotypical cop, overweight, a shade heavy-handed and more than a little cynical about the character of his fellow man.

It had taken Bob Skinner to look into him and see what else was there. Under his tutelage he had developed both as an officer and a man. At first he had wondered why he was being favoured, but as he had come to know the Big Man, he had come to realise also that he surrounded himself with people whose values reflected his own.

Now he was prepared to admit to himself, and to anyone else who asked, that in his early years he had been freewheeling, holding down a nice cushy job which, with his late wife Olive's teaching salary, had given them a comfortable if not opulent standard of living. It had taken Skinner, then head of CID, before his move to the Command Corridor, to draw out his best and largely untapped qualities, identifying him and his mate McGuire… known to most of their colleagues in those days as the Glimmer Twins, for their joint love of a bevvy and of the Rolling Stones… as two-under-performers with much more to offer the force.

Mario's special gift, apart from sheer innate ferocity when in a threatening situation, was a cool analytical brain, inherited from his mother and his grandfather, Papa Viareggio, who had founded the family's small business empire. His had been the ability to size people up and to know instinctively who was a straight-shooting, valued contact, and who was simply shooting the breeze.

His lunch companion had arrived before him. She was sitting at a table, away from the other diners, in the furthest corner of the restaurant; it was a converted banking hall, as were half of the other eating places in George Street. She was in her forties, plump, with shiny black hair that was swept back and held in a short pony-tail, and she wore a dark, heavy sweater and a long grey skirt. She glanced up as he approached. 'What happened?' she asked. 'You're ten minutes late. Couldn't you find a parking place?'

'As it happens you're right,' he told her. 'It's a real bugger in the Christmas period, even at lunchtime.'

'I thought you guys didn't have to worry about yellow lines.'

'Tell that to the Blue Meanies,' he retorted. 'We hate them just as much as you civvies do. One of them put a ticket on the chief constable's car a few weeks ago, even though he had left his uniform cap on the steering-wheel.'

'Did he pay it?'

McIlhenney nodded. 'The chief is like that.'

'Is the guy still in a job?'

'That I do not know, and I don't want to.' He settled into the seat facing her.

'I've ordered lunch like you asked,' she said. 'Soup of the day… it's minestrone… and a chicken salad. Are you sure you want salad? It's December, Neil.'