Quintin Jardine - Lethal Intent

He turned, to see Andy and Karen Martin approaching, pushing the infant Danielle in her chair. 'Fancy seeing you here,' Andy exclaimed, with more than a hint of a laugh. Bob pulled up two more chairs, making sure that one of them was next to his own.

'What do you think of the aquarium?' Karen asked Mark, and the two of them embarked on a discussion of its high points and other merits.

'How are you doing?' Bob asked Andy, as they sat together.

'I've been getting an idea of the life and times of Tommy Murtagh. He's a creepy bastard, but we knew that' He took his friend step by step through the First Minister's meteoric career, from the shop floor to the power and trappings of high office, and through his family background.

'Brindsley Groves, eh?' Skinner mused as he finished.

'Have you heard of him?'

'I've heard of the firm, but not him: Dundee's a closed book as far as I'm concerned. The Courier, the Discovery, and that's all I know about it.'

'There's more to the city than that.'

'Maybe, but let's concentrate on Mr Groves. Have you met him?'

'Thanks to Rod Greatorix, I met him on Friday evening. Mrs Groves is Rod's sister.'

'Is that awkward for you?'

'No. They're not bosom pals.'

'What's he like?'

'He's like a lot of rich men, amiable as long as you know your place with him, but his kids didn't stick around long, so there must be another side to him. He's fifty-eight, so Rod said.'

'And he was banging Murtagh's mother, while she worked for him?'

'So the great Dundonian rumour mill has it.'

'Maybe more than the rumour mill.'

'What do you mean?' Martin asked, intrigued.

'Did you know that there's a Groves family trust in existence?'

'No, but it wouldn't surprise me. There has to be a hell of a lot of money there.'

'There is. Now guess who one of the beneficiaries is.'

The younger man's green eyes gleamed. 'The man himself?'

Skinner nodded. 'There's nothing illegal about it, in that it doesn't require to be declared on any public register, but it's a fact. We can't use the information in any way, because that would probably betray the source, but it begs a few more questions.'

'Damn right it does. It's time I took a closer look at Tommy Murtagh's antecedents… beyond the official biography.'

It would have been wrong to say that Neil McIlhenney was nervous as he drove through to Glasgow, with Bandit Mackenzie in the passenger seat of his car. He knew that his family could not be safer: they were being guarded round the clock by an experienced police team, and the children would be taken to school in the morning by detective escorts. Despite all of that security, he would rather have been with them.

In fact he had been offered the opportunity, but he had declined. To pull out of the stake-out would have been to leave his colleague exposed, and he could not contemplate that. So he pressed on with the assignment, hoping that Samir Bajram would show himself, that he would lead them to his three companions and that they could wrap the whole thing up.

Bandit was quieter than usual on the drive through. Although legal constraints had prevented the press from using Spencer's name, the incident had been reported, and word had spread rapidly through the police ranks that he was the child involved. However, the link to the two earlier deaths had not been picked up.

'Is your kid all right?' Mackenzie had asked, as they left Edinburgh.

'Yes, thanks, but I don't want to talk about it. I want to stay focused on tonight's job.'

'Have they got any leads?'

'Yes. Now shut it, please.'

They listened to music for the rest of the journey, until finally they arrived in Partick. McIlhenney parked under a light in the next street to the Johnny Groat, and they walked the short distance. The pub was quiet as they arrived: Dolly was either occupied, working elsewhere or taking a night off for her corner of the bar was empty.

They ordered their drinks and settled down for a night in front of the television. Adept though he was at nursing a pint, Mackenzie was on to his second before the door swung open and the Jakes brothers appeared. Bobby looked as edgy as ever, but Frankie smiled as he walked across to them. 'Hello, boyz. Night shift again?'

'Afraid so,' McIlhenney grunted.

'You have a chance to think about that thing we talk about the other night?' he asked.

'Give us time. It might be possible, but we'll need to be sure that no fingers get pointed at us. We'll let you know in a few days whether we're up for it or not.'

'Okay, I stay patient. You wanna drink?'

'No, thanks,' said Mackenzie, 'we've just got them in.'

'Ah,' grunted Frankie, accepting a pint from his brother. He glanced up at the television set above the bar. 'Anything on?'

'The usual Sunday-night shite.'

The Macedonian laughed. 'Could be worse. You could be working already.' He turned as the door opened again, and his ugly face split into a huge grin. 'Sammy!' he exclaimed.

Samir Bajram looked just like his photograph. Even without the crescent earring the two detectives would have recognised him. It was his eyes that were compelling: they were a deep brown colour and they seemed to sparkle, radiating danger and an eagerness to do harm. The beard they had been told about was still there, but it was so fair that it was almost invisible.

He embraced the Jakes brothers. Frankie turned towards them. 'Boyz, this is my cousin Sammy. He's visiting for a while. Sammy, this is Mac and David, I might do some bizniz with them.'

The dark eyes fell upon them in a silent challenge. McIlhenney guessed that this was how he greeted all strangers. He longed to hold his gaze, to send him a message, but he resisted the temptation. 'Hello,' he murmured, picking up his glass.

'Pleased meecha,' the Albanian replied.

Frankie took him by the arm. 'Boyz,' he told them, 'Sammy and us got to talk bizniz. See youse later.'

The two brothers and their cousin turned their backs on them and walked to the far side of the bar, taking a table behind Dolly's empty corner, where Bobby ordered another pint of beer. McIlhenney and Mackenzie turned their eyes back to the television, but listened elsewhere. From time to time, a buzz of conversation drifted across to them in a strange language. They waited: their cover story would allow them to stay until ten thirty at the latest. If necessary, they agreed, they would go back to the car and wait close enough to observe Samir leaving, then follow him.

They were almost ready to go when the three stood up. The bar had filled up by that time, and they eased their way through the drinkers, Frankie greeting those he knew and shouldering past the rest. 'So long, boyz,' he called out to them, as the trio left.

'Count to twenty,' said McIlhenney. 'Let's give ourselves long enough to make it look as if we drank up before we went, rather than that we followed them straight out. We'll cop where they're going and take it from there.'

Mackenzie counted off the numbers slowly and quietly. Finally he whispered, 'twenty' and they rose.

Once outside the pub, they glanced left and then right. Fifty yards away, three figures slouched along, backs towards them. 'You wait here; I'll bring the car.' Mackenzie nodded agreement, and stepped back into a close, making himself invisible to their targets, but keeping them in sight.

As he watched, they stopped beside a car. Frankie bent over beside the driver's door, as if to fit the key into the lock, then the doors were opened and all three stepped inside.

'Get a move on, N-' Mackenzie began, and then the street erupted in a great orange glow, engulfing the car and the three men. The noise of the blast assaulted his ears a millisecond later.