Quintin Jardine - Lethal Intent

Instinctively, forgetting McIlhenney, he jumped from his cover and pounded down the street. Flames were erupting from the mangled vehicle; as he drew near, there was a second, smaller explosion, which radiated searing heat, stopping him in his tracks. He stared in horror, until McIlhenney's shout, from just behind, interrupted him.

'Get in.'

Without thinking about it, he obeyed. He jumped into the Vectra; even before his door had closed, it was roaring away from the scene.

It was a quiet night in Delight, inevitably, because it was Sunday, and because the snow was still thick on the ground. Nevertheless, there was still a full staff complement, and Sukur the chef was still ranting and raving in his kitchen, terrorising his underlings.

Sean Green was on time as usual: he had passed his audition with flying colours, so much so that he had been designated head waiter by Peter Bassam, and presented with a black dinner jacket that almost fitted him. 'It's a job I've been wanting to fill, John,' the owner told him. 'I didn't want to advertise it as such, that's all.'

To his surprise, he had actually been pleased, not just to be so solidly embedded in the restaurant but that his skills had been recognised. There was an extra bounce to his step in the restaurant that night; he knew it, and he made no attempt to hide it. If the other waiters resented him, they gave no sign; he guessed that they were simply glad to be in a job.

The evening started out as if it would be busy; by seven o'clock, there were seven tables occupied. However, as time went on, no new customers appeared, and Bassam appeared to grow more and more edgy. Finally, just after eight, he beckoned Green across. 'John,' he said, 'I'm going to go out for a while, maybe have a meal in someone else's place for a change. You're in charge: look after the till, keep it smooth out front, don't let that crazy chef kill the dishwashers, and I'll see you later.'

Green nodded, thinking that he might take up this line of work permanently.

His sudden elevation did nothing to attract business. At nine thirty the restaurant was empty; just after ten three couples appeared, taking a table for six. At ten forty-five two men entered, but one was so blatantly drunk that Sean told him, quietly but firmly, that the kitchen was closed.

The sextet lingered on: each had three courses, and they drank four bottles of wine. As they sipped their coffee, the new head waiter and acting manager told the kitchen staff and one of the waiters that they could go home.

Finally, at eleven forty, the six paid their bill and left: Sean told the last remaining waiter, who had been looking after their table, that his night was over. He was alone, an opportunity that he had not expected.

Quickly, he went through to Bassam's office. He was still convinced that the restaurateur was clean, but he had a job to do. He fanned quickly over his boss's desk, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. A quick check of the drawers told the same story. He was on his way back to the restaurant, through the tiny bar, when his eye was caught by something that had actually been there all night.

The corner of a piece of paper protruded from under the till, as if it had been shoved in there hastily. Taking care that it would not catch and tear, he withdrew it. He frowned: it was a street map of St Andrews, golfing capital of the world. He struggled to think whether he had ever heard of a Turkish golfer, but could not come up with a single name. But St Andrews was not built on golf alone, he reminded himself. It was a holiday resort, he was sure. In all probability Bassam had been planning a weekend break for his wife back in the summer; the thing could have been there since then for all he knew. Idly, he folded the map and shoved it into his trouser pocket.

He stood there, the man in charge, surveying his empty empire. He had begun to doubt long before that his boss was coming back at all that night, and wondered whether he should leave himself, until he realised that that would leave him with the keys in his possession. Of course, he could always come in early in the morning…

As he weighed his choices, the door opened: there stood Bassam, behind him the flash of something white moving away from the pavement outside.

'John,' he called out. it's like a grave in here.'

'It was like a funeral for most of the night,' Green replied. 'Not many punters.'

'Is everybody gone?' The owner stepped over to the bar.

'Yes, long gone. Time I was off too: I've got a bus to catch.'

'Ahh, have a drink with me before you go. I'll give you a lift. Gin and tonic?'

'I'd prefer Bushmills, straight, no rocks,' Sean told him honestly.

Bassam poured him a double and took a Cognac for himself. 'So how do you like my restaurant?' he asked.

'Very much, Mr Bassam; it's a good place to work.'

'Call me Peter, man. I'm pleased with you too. It's good to have someone here at last that I can trust to take the weight off my shoulders.' He finished his drink. 'In fact, I'll show you how much: I'm going to give you a bonus, cash, so you don't need to declare it.' He headed for his office. 'Come on through,' he said, over his shoulder. 'I keep some money in my safe.'

He stepped into his office. Amused, and wondering whether he would declare his windfall to Mandy Dennis, Sean followed.

Before he had taken two steps into the room, two men appeared from either side of the door. His arms were seized and pinned to his sides, a hood was pulled over his head, and everything went dark.

'We must stop talking like this,' Bob Skinner chuckled, as he answered the phone just after midnight, 'Trish will get suspicious.' There was no laugh from the other end of the line. 'What's up?' he asked suddenly serious.

'Samir Bajram is,' McIlhenney replied, tersely. 'Him and the Jakes brothers; I'd reckon they're about three miles up by now and heading for orbit.'

'They're what?'

'As far as we could see it was car bomb. Sammy showed up in the pub. Frankie introduced him to us as his cousin, then the three of them went to the other end of the pub. They had a drink, went outside, got into a motor and were blown to smithereens.'

'Were you close?'

'Not close enough to get hurt, although the Bandit nearly got his eyebrows singed.'

'What did you do?'

'We got the hell out, as fast as we could. Since we weren't supposed to be there in the first place, I didn't reckon you'd want us giving witness statements.'

'Too damn right. We'll leave it to Strathclyde, and maybe the SDEA to clear up. You are sure it was Samir?'

McIlhenney growled. 'I won't dignify that with an answer, boss.'

'Okay, sorry. Did you get any idea what he might have been up to?'

'Frankie said that they were doing some business… or bizniz, to use his word. I guess it was that other thing he was talking about.'

Skinner frowned. 'Given his background that must mean drugs. Could that be all there is to these guys' presence here after all, a drugs shipment?'

'Maybe, but if so, where were the other three? No, I don't think so.'

'No, that's true.' He sighed. 'It's a bugger, though: I was counting on Samir to lead us to the rest; now we're back to scratch. Plus, it leaves us with another question. Who did the three of them in, and why?'

'The way I see it, Sammy was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It looks like a Glasgow gang hit, with the Jakes boys as the target. I could understand Frankie pissing somebody off badly enough.' He laughed, softly. 'He was an annoying so-and-so.'

'You sound as if you'll miss him.'

'Strangely enough, I will. I actually liked the ugly wee bastard. Whoever did him just joined the long list of people I'd like to meet.'