Quintin Jardine - Lethal Intent

Malky Gladsmuir did not have the sunniest of dispositions at the best of times, and his mood was never improved by a visit from the police. So when Mario McGuire shoved his way through the heavy swing doors and into the Wee Black Dug, he was greeted with the scowl that he had expected.

The detective superintendent glanced around as he shook the snow from his jacket. The looming weather had taken a drastic toll of the evening turn-out: only two drinkers leaned against the bar, while another sat at a table in the furthest corner of the saloon. The assistant barman, with little to do, fixed most of his attention on a snooker tournament on television.

'What can I do for you?' asked Gladsmuir, with a degree of belligerence that almost brought a smile to McGuire's face.

'Your office: now.' He stepped behind the bar, as the pub manager shrugged and opened a door behind him.

'You're not to bother me,' he protested. 'Did you not get told?'

'Sit down, Malky.'

'Ah'll stand if I want.' Gladsmuir backed towards his desk, reaching behind him with his right hand and picking up a heavy glass paperweight.

'Okay, if that's how you want it.' He took half a pace forward; the cornered man swung at his head, hard and fast, but the detective simply smashed aside his assault, sending the weapon flying into a corner of the room, then hit him, once, hard, in the middle of the forehead. The publican's eyes glazed, his legs turned to jelly and he slumped semi-conscious into the chair behind him.

McGuire grinned. 'I told you to sit down.'

He waited until Gladsmuir's eyes began to focus once more, then pulled up the small office's other chair and sat facing him. 'That's the second time we've done this dance in here, Malky,' he said. 'When's it going to dawn on you that it'll only ever get you hurt? Or did your talk with Greg Jay make you think you were safe from me? Tell me something, my friend, which of us really scares you the most? Me or Greg?'

'You don't scare me,' Gladsmuir retorted; but his tone branded him a liar. 'Mr Jay never threatened me; he never came in here looking for trouble.'

'Neither did I; all I wanted was a conversation. It was you who took a swing at me, remember? But, Malky, did you really think that you could just go whining to Greg and that he'd warn me off, tell me to let you carry on with whatever sleazy understanding you and he had? I've told you before and I'm telling you again: I know that in his time this place was a police-free zone, but those days are gone.'

'I don't know what you mean.'

McGuire laughed. 'Don't give me that! Of course you do. What I want now is for you to tell me how it operated, what sort of stuff you were feeding him to make it worth his while. It doesn't show from my divisional records, that's for sure. I've been talking to my guys as well. None of them could recall a single arrest that was made on the basis of a tip from you. All they said was that Greg let it be known that you were his. I'll say this for him, he kept your cover bloody well. Come on, what did you give him?'

'Stuff,' the publican mumbled.

'What you mean "stuff"?'

'This and that, just wee things I heard in the pub.'

'Such as?'

'I can't remember.'

'You'd better start, pal. While you're thinking about it, tell me how you came to complain to Greg about me.'

'Ah didn't, honest. He came in here to see me. It was him that asked me how things were going wi' you. I told him the truth, that you wanted me to keep on feeding stuff to you, but that there were to be no more scams going on in here.'

'Is that you admitting that there were, and Greg knew about it?'

'I'm admitting nothing.'

McGuire leaned forward and stuck out his chin. 'Take another swing at me, Malky, go on.'

'Naw! Why? Are you daft?'

'No, I'd just like another excuse to get your attention, that's all. I'll ask you again. Was something happening here, and did Greg Jay know about it and turn a blind eye? I want the truth, or you and I are going to my office, and very publicly too, for as long as it takes. Now, give me a one-word answer within the next five seconds. One…'

He had reached 'three', when Malky Gladsmuir muttered, 'Yes.'

'That's good,' said the big detective. 'That's the first sensible thing you've said to me since I walked in here. Now we've made this breakthrough, let's have the rest, all of it.'

Stevie Steele had never found it more difficult to concentrate on the job. Fortunately his workload was light and he had been able to afford himself the luxury of dwelling upon a turn in his life that would have been astonishing only a month or two earlier.

The night before, he and Maggie had celebrated with a bottle of cava from the fridge, and a home delivery from Pizza Hut. They were still shell-shocked from their discovery, and had ended the evening in helpless laughter at the prospect of a pregnant chief superintendent in uniform.

Although a smile was never far away, he had managed to keep a straight face at the office for most of his shift, even in the face of the apprehension of a thief in a Father Christmas suit who had tripped over his own hem when running out of the Cameron Toll shopping centre with a snatched handbag.

However, his new-found contentment was swept to one side when his door opened just after five fifteen, as he was finishing his paperwork and making ready to leave. He had expected Mary Chambers, calling to wish him good night, or perhaps to ask him what had made him so bright and breezy. Instead, George Regan stepped into the small room.

A glance at the sergeant's face told him that the reality of his loss had begun to catch up with him. His eyes were hollow and his hair, normally impeccably groomed, was untidy. Instead of the usual grey suit, he wore a heavy jacket over a sweatshirt, jeans and trainers.

'Hello, mate,' said Stevie quietly. 'How goes?'

'Bloody terrible, thanks. I'd to get the doctor to Jen yesterday afternoon; she broke down completely and he had to sedate her. She's on industrial-strength Valium now; walks about like a zombie for most of the time.'

'And you?'

'I'm trying to stay off the helpers, other than the odd beer or two.'

'Want one now? I'll come to the pub with you, if you like.'

'Cheers,' said Regan, gratefully, 'but I'd better not. I don't want to be away too long. I just called in to tell you that we've arranged the funeral. It'll be next Wednesday; twelve noon at Warriston Crematorium. Family flowers only, by the way.'

'Can we make a donation to charity instead?'

'If you want; something that benefits children would be nice.' He sighed. 'I'm done, Stevie,' he murmured. 'Looking at Jen, I just feel so bloody helpless; I don't know how to stop her crying, man.'

'Maybe if you joined her, George, just for a while.'

Regan looked at him. 'If I start to cry, I might never stop; that's what scares me.' He slumped into a chair. 'I've tried everything else, mind. I even pulled your report from big Tarvil and staked out the Castle Terrace car park for a couple of nights, with the daft notion that I might find someone who'd seen something on Sunday. I'm not implying that you didn't do a proper job,' he added quickly. 'I suppose I just hoped I'd get lucky.'

'Of course you did. I told Tarvil he could give you the report. No joy?'

'Of course not. I found a couple or three people who'd been there around that time, but none of them had seen a damn thing… because there was nothing to see. The silly wee bugger just tried one of his stunts, Stevie, that's all there is to it, and broke his parents' hearts in the process.'

The signs for Hawthorn Moor Golf Club had occasionally caught Andy Martin's eye as he commuted from his home in Perth to his office in Dundee, but he had never followed them until Rod Greatorix directed him into the car park outside the clubhouse. It was an old building that had been adapted and greatly expanded to fit the purpose, clearly chosen for its location. It was dark and so Martin could see nothing of the course, but it was clear that during the day the members' lounge offered a panoramic view.