Quintin Jardine - Lethal Intent

'Is that Detective Sergeant Regan?' a prim female voice asked.

'Yes, who's this?'

'It's Miss Bee, Betty Bee. If you remember, we met in the car park the other night, although I'm sure that I'm only one among many people you've spoken to.'

'I remember you. What can I do for you?'

'You can accept my apologies, for I believe they're owed to you. Normally I have excellent recollection; I don't know what came over me this time. I can only suppose that I took your question too literally. You asked me, if you recall, if I had seen anyone in the street after I drove out of the car park. I told you that I hadn't, and that remains the case. However, I've just remembered something else that might be of interest to you. I'm only sorry that it didn't come to me sooner.'

Out of the corner of his eye, Regan saw Jen, standing in the kitchen door. She was looking at him curiously, and seemed about to ask who was on the phone, until he put a finger to his lips. 'What was it?' he asked.

'It was a man. He wasn't in the street, though; he was in the car park itself. I was on the last of the down ramps, close to the barrier, when he came running up towards me. I really do mean running, as if someone was chasing him, only there wasn't anyone else, there was just him.'

'How close did he get to you?'

'Not close enough for me to be able to give you a detailed description, I'm afraid. I caught him in my headlights for an instant, but he swerved off to the side, into the dark.'

'Was it your impression that he didn't want to be recognised?'

'Mmm.' Betty Bee paused. 'That might have been the case.'

'Can you tell me anything about him, race, size, age, even if they're approximations? Could he have been a teenager?'

'Definitely not. His clothes were wrong for one thing: he wore a long overcoat, hardly a young person's garment. I only had the most fleeting glimpse of his face, but I don't think he was that young. He was a white man, dark-haired and solidly built. That's all I could swear to.'

'In the circumstances, that's pretty good. Thank you very much.'

'Does it help?' she asked.

'Honestly, I don't know. But it's interesting. How can I get back to you if I need to?'

She recited a mobile number; he wrote it down, then read it back to confirm that it was correct. 'Thanks again,' he said. He ended the call, staring out of the kitchen window as he pondered its potential significance.

'What was that?'

He looked across at Jen. 'Maybe nothing, but it's got my brain working again. If you don't mind, darling, I'm going to postpone that trip to the travel agent till later. First, I want to talk to my boss.'

Thanks to a sperm count that was much closer to twenty than the twenty million regarded as a marker of fertility, Mario McGuire knew that his chances of having children of his own were of the same order as those of a single tadpole trying to swim the Atlantic. Since he had made the discovery, early in his marriage to Maggie Rose, he had been philosophical about it, but he had taken particular pleasure in the company of Lauren and Spencer all through their childhood.

He was godfather to them both, and took his responsibilities seriously; their first communions had each brought a tear of pride to his eye.

The big detective's soft centre would have come as a surprise to the many villains he had terrorised over the years, but it was in evidence as he pulled his borrowed car into the park at the Midlothian Ski Centre. It had been known as Hillend when he had first brought the children there four years earlier, and he doubted that many of the citizens of the Edinburgh area were aware of the name change. When first he had looked out on to the morning, he had been concerned that it might have been closed because of the severity of the overnight snowfall, but a phone call had reassured him that it was operating normally.

Its beauty was that it had artificial runs, and was floodlit; it was in use all year round, apart from the two weeks in June when it was closed for maintenance. Both Lauren and Spencer had taken naturally to the sport, and after four years had reached expert status and had graduated to the most severe runs. They donned their ski-suits and boots eagerly; when they were all ready, Mario bought them each a strip of tickets, and they set off for the lift to the top of the slope. He let Lauren go in front, but kept Spencer beside him.

When he stepped out of his seat, he realised that they were almost alone. He felt himself frown, wondering if the sport was on the wane.

'Is this as good as Italy or Switzerland, Uncle Mario?' Spencer asked him. He had learned the basics of skiing in the Italian Alps, on holiday with his parents. He smiled as he thought of it: his dad, big Eamon, had been absolutely useless, but fortunately he had inherited his mother's eye and sense of balance.

'It's not the same thing at all,' he replied. 'What you have to remember is that this is an artificial slope. It's very good, and it's a far more reliable place to ski than any of the Scottish resorts, just because it doesn't need snow, and has the lights, but don't think for a minute that it's anywhere near as good as the Alps.'

'I want to be a downhill racer when I grow up,' the boy said.

'I thought you wanted to be a rugby star?'

'Maybe I'll be both.'

'I don't think you'll manage that, kid. If you play top-class rugby, they won't be keen on you skiing. There's too big a risk of injury.'

'Maybe I won't tell them. Will I be as good as you one day?'

'You're as good as me now. This slope is just about the best I can do these days, and you two handle it easily.'

'It's great to be on snow,' Lauren exclaimed, 'and not just the artificial.'

'So enjoy it, then.' He watched as she set off, gliding carefully but gracefully down the run. Spencer set off after her, and soon overtook her.

'Hey, no racing,' Mario yelled after him.

They made run after run, staying on the slope for over an hour, until there was hardly anybody else there, and their passes were almost used up. 'Two more runs each and that's it,' he said, as the slope's only other occupant, a bulky figure in a white suit and heavy goggles, a designer skier if ever Mario had seen one, made his way to the lift. He paused. 'Tell you what, you two go up on your own this time. I'll watch you from down here and see how your style looks. And remember, Spence, no racing!'

As he spoke, he was aware of the snow beginning to fall afresh. 'Get up there: if this gets any heavier, that'll be us for the day, for they'll close the slope.'

Handing two tickets to the attendant, the youngsters poled across to the lift, jumped on and headed for the top once more. When they were a little more than halfway up, Mario felt a pang of concern: the snow had thickened and they were out of his sight. He waited for a few minutes, his unreasonable anxiety growing, until finally he saw Lauren's red suit as she slalomed her way downhill.

She was smiling as she reached the foot, turning to look at her brother. But Spencer was nowhere to be seen. 'Where is he?' she asked. 'He was ready to come after me; he said he was going to race me anyway.' She raised her goggles and he could see the alarm in her eyes. 'Maybe he fell,' she ventured.

'Maybe,' Mario conceded. 'Let's go up and find him… although if the wee sod skis past us when we're on the lift I'll kick his arse for him.'

They made their way across to the lift, but it had stopped. 'Closed,' the attendant said, firmly. 'The snow's too bad.'

'Start it up,' the detective ordered. 'The boy's still up there.'

'He'll ski down; I watched him, he's good.'

Mario raised his goggles and looked him in the eye. 'I'm a police officer,' he told him, more calmly than he felt. 'Start it up and that's an order.'