Quintin Jardine - Lethal Intent

Skinner would have laughed, but in that room of mourning he found himself unable. 'As if I'd ever have listened to him,' he said, as he rose.

'Delight' was pitching it a bit strong, Sean Green thought, but overall the place was not too bad. The furnishings were reasonably comfortable and, from what he had seen on his way through to the small office behind it, the kitchen looked clean.

'Hello,' said the bald, thick-set man behind the desk, as he rose to his feet, 'I'm Peter Bassam. You're the guy who phoned about the job?'

'That's right,' he said, extending his hand. 'John Stevenson.'

'Do you have references?' Bassam's English seemed impeccable, although his accent reminded Green of a Turkish villain in an old James Bond movie.

'Sure.' He took an envelope from his jacket and laid it on the desk. 'Plus there's a list of the places I've worked.'

'Where are you from? You don't sound Scottish.'

'Neither do you,' he responded, with a grin. 'I'm from Sussex originally; I came to Scotland a couple of years ago.'

'Why?'

'Girlfriend. I met her in Brighton, and followed her up north. She lives in Stirling so I took a job there.'

'Why are you moving on?'

Green fingered his nose, tenderly, under the new, plain-glass spectacles. 'Because her husband found out.'

'Ahh,' Bassam exclaimed. He grinned, and Green knew in that instant that he had the job. 'Always a risky game, my friend. What did the husband do?'

'He was a wholesaler; only a little guy, but he knew a couple of big guys.'

'This place you worked in Stirling, what was it?'

'Asian.'

'And before?'

'In Brighton? Asian again, but before that a couple of Cordon Bleu places, the kind where you're embarrassed about the size of the portions you're bringing to the table.'

'You won't have that problem here, I promise.' Bassam opened the envelope and slid out five sheets of paper, all different colours. 'These are all glowing, I take it,' he said.

'They're all honest. You'll find addresses and phone numbers on every one. Please, check me out.'

'I will, don't worry.' Somehow Green doubted that he would phone them all, but if he did, each call would be switched to an operative who would endorse the testimonial. 'When will I hear from you?' he asked.

'Where do you live?'

'I've rented a place in the West Port.'

Bassam glanced at his watch. 'That's good. Get yourself home and make sure you've got the proper dress for the job. My waiters are all expected to come to work in a clean white shirt, black trousers, black shoes and socks; we supply the red tie. Come back for six this evening, John, and I'll give you a trial.'

Green smiled. 'Thanks very much,' he said, meaning it. He shook Bassam's hand again as he rose.

'Just one thing,' said his new employer, with a raised eyebrow. 'If you ever meet my wife, don't get any ideas. The people I know break much more than noses.'

Andy Martin had passed through Broughty Ferry only once or twice since his move to Tayside, and he had never stopped there. It was not the type of place to give the police any trouble, and so there was little reason to go there other than to show the flag and keep its people content that they could sleep safely in their beds.

Councillor Diana Meikle, retired, slept safely in hers, that was for sure, thought Martin, as he approached her house, in a leafy street a few rows inland from the esplanade. Two large alarm bells were fixed to the facade of the detached villa, one above the garage, the other above the front door, and a sign on the wall advised that the premises were monitored by a security company. Since the house was probably listed, the policeman wondered if it had occurred to Mrs Meikle to seek planning permission for the installation, but he dismissed the idea as none of his concern.

The front door was opened by a maid attired in a black uniform. Andy remembered his father telling him, long ago, about an old doctor he had known whose household had a domestic servant, but he had supposed that, in urban Scotland at least, those things had died out with the tramcars.

'Who shall I say is calling, sir?' asked the woman, who looked not far short of sixty.

'Deputy Chief Constable Martin,' he told her. He had come in plain clothes, not wanting to advertise his visit. 'Mrs Meikle is expecting me.'

Clearly, the maid had known this all along, but she had been following the routine of a lifetime's service. 'Come this way, sir,' she said, 'and I'll announce you.' Stifling a smile, he followed.

He was shown into a conservatory, a great solid construction that had probably been built with the house itself, rather than one of the mass-produced extensions that the previous owners of his own home had added. Diana Meikle was pruning a bush as he entered. He had no idea what it was: he left gardening to Karen. The former councillor turned to greet him. 'Mr Martin,' she boomed, extending a hand in a way that seemed to invite either a kiss or a handshake. He chose the latter. 'Thank you, Gretchen,' said Mrs Meikle, dismissing the maid. He noticed, near two wicker armchairs, a table set for afternoon tea, complete with an old-fashioned cake-stand, adding to the impression that he had stepped back into his grandparents' time.

'Come and sit down,' his hostess instructed. For all the trappings around her, she did not seem in the least old fashioned. She was not much older than her maid and was dressed in slacks and a light blouse that had probably come from Marks amp; Spencer. 'Find me odd, do you?' she asked, reading his mind. 'Don't blame you. My late husband, God bless him, was quite a bit older than me, and I was middle-aged myself when we married. Gretchen was his maid; he was in shipping, and it was the norm in those circles. After he died I kept her on because I knew that's what he would have wanted. When you've been in domestic service for as long as she has you can't just go and work in a shop, can you?'

She poured two cups of tea and offered one to him. He took it, adding a little milk, but no sugar. 'Cake,' she offered, 'or a meringue?'

'No, you're quite right,' he said, helping himself to a plate, and a chocolate eclair.

She smiled at him as she sank into her chair and he perched uncomfortably on his, balancing the crockery. 'So, Deputy Chief Constable,' she began, 'what brings you here? When Graham Morton called to arrange your visit, he said there were a few things you wanted to discuss with me, but he wasn't specific. He did, however, use the word "discreetly". That suggests that you want me to spill some beans. Since there's nothing in my life of any interest other than my days on the council, I assume that's what you want to talk about.'

'Correct,' said Martin, laying the plate on the floor while he sipped his tea. 'You were a regional councillor rather than city, yes?'

'Indeed; and I still think that abolishing the regions was a great mistake. I served for ten years till the electors bumped me off. The Tories are an endangered species in most of Scotland; here we're pretty much extinct.' She looked at him sagely. 'I suspect that doesn't bother you.'

'It does, though,' he countered. 'How I vote isn't relevant; I believe that there should be the widest possible choice.'

'Say no more,' she announced. 'You're a Liberal.'

'Whatever I am, don't hold it against me, please.' He was warming to the woman.

'I promise you, it's nothing to me,' she said. 'Politics are a thing of the past for me; I often wonder why I became involved in the first place. Because of my husband, I suppose: he talked me into standing for the council. Now he would have held it against you. He hated the Liberals; he was very proud of the fact that his father was active in the defeat of Winston Churchill in Dundee in the 1922 election.'