That did not mean that all opportunity had been ripped from the teenager’s grasp. His father, big Eamon McGuire, had been a modestly successful building contractor, while his mother, Christina, had set up a recruitment consultancy, and had shown her Viareggio genes by building it into one of the most successful in Edinburgh. Neither parent had put any pressure on him to join them, but each had made the offer.
There were two photographs on the head of CID’s desk. One was of Paula, the silver-haired cousin he had loved for years; they had been inseparable as children, and had come to realise, eventually, in the wake of the collapse of Mario’s marriage to Maggie Rose, that there was no reason, legal or moral, why they should be separated as adults either. He smiled as he looked at her image, and blew it a kiss.
The other frame enclosed his parents. He reached out and picked it up; the picture had been taken at a wedding, when they were both in their mid-forties, his mother slim, dark and beautiful, his father massive and unforgettable in a white dinner jacket. They had both gone from his life, although Christina was not too far away, having sold her business a few years before and retired to Italy. Eamon, though, had gone on a longer journey, having died of cancer in his early fifties. Mario tried not to think about him too often although, in fact, a day never passed when he did not. He had loved his father, and had looked forward to his companionship well into his own middle age. He was a big man in every respect, with a personality to match his physique. While he had more or less grown up on building sites and, they said, was not a man to cross in business, he had left that side of his life behind him the moment he had taken off his work boots. His son, grown hard as nails himself, regarded him, and always would, as the gentlest man he had ever known. More than ten years after his death his memory could bring a lump to his throat.
He replaced the frame and turned to the item at the top of the pile in his in-tray, the final paperwork covering the transfer of Becky Stallings from the Met, sent up by Human Resources. He was about to pick it up when there was a soft knock on his office door. He looked up, expecting it to open, but nothing happened. After a few seconds, the knock was repeated.
‘Come in,’ he called out.
The door opened and a strikingly blonde woman stepped into the room. She wore baggy red denims and a T-shirt with a big rocking-horse symbol on the chest. She carried a bag, slung over her shoulder.
‘Yes,’ he began, frowning, ‘what can I do. .’ and then he saw the smile spread slowly across her face. ‘Maggie, for fuck’s sake!’
‘How long were we married?’ she exclaimed, as she took a seat. ‘How many years was it? You used to say you could recognise me in the dark. Now all I have to do is put on a blonde wig and I could be just another young detective constable making a nuisance of herself.’
‘And a very nice blonde wig it is. When did you decide to go for it?’
‘Yesterday, not long after Mr Ronald finally put his reputation on the line by telling me that I’m not going to die any time soon.’ She reached up and touched her new coiffure. ‘Not bad, is it? I thought I’d have to be measured for it, and have to wait for a while before it was ready, but no, they fixed me up right there and then; this is an Irish jig straight off the peg. I went in there virtually baldy, and came out a foxy blonde babe.’
‘You’ll be beating the men off with a club.’
‘Damn right I will,’ she agreed, ‘if any of them are insensitive enough to come near me. Neil said I can expect that.’
‘He’s been to see you?’
‘Yes. He called in last night, with a present for the baby and flowers for me. I asked him what it’s like being a widow. It’s something I haven’t considered until now. I’ve been fully focused on staying alive. He told me that people will be falling over themselves to be kind to me, and that if quite a few of them are men, I shouldn’t be surprised.’
‘Don’t be offended either. Maybe I didn’t tell you this as often as I should have, but you’re a very attractive woman.’
‘Maybe I didn’t need you to tell me,’ she said archly. ‘But you can add another adjective: a very attractive, menopausal woman.’
‘Menopausal? But you’re still well shy of forty.’
‘That matters not: I’ve stopped ovulating, on account of having no ovaries any more. I’ve had my first hot flush already.’
‘What can you do about it?’
‘Grin and bear it. After what’s happened to me, do you think I care?’
Mario shook his head solemnly. ‘No, love, I don’t suppose you do.’ He looked across the desk. ‘Want a coffee?’ he asked.
‘No, thanks.’ She delved into her bag and produced a bottle of water. ‘I’ll stick to this; I have to drink plenty just now, with the chemo.’
‘How did you get here? You’re not cleared to drive yet, are you?’
‘Not quite; I’ll give that another week or so. No, I came by taxi; a real one this time. I’ve been taking Bob Skinner and Brian Mackie up on their offer of using police transport, but I caught a cab from the hair studio along here.’
‘It’s good to see you out and about again.’
‘After thinking you never would?’ A look in his eyes told her that she had hit the mark. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘There were moments when I thought the same, more than a few of them.’ She drank some of her water, straight from the bottle. ‘Mario, can I ask you something?’
‘Of course. What?’
‘Remember at my going-away do, when I went on maternity leave, when I shocked the world by saying that I wouldn’t be coming back to the job?’
He chuckled softly. ‘Who will ever forget it?’
‘In that case, do you think that I would have any credibility among my colleagues if I went back on my word, once I’m ready?’
Mario leaned back in his chair and gazed at her. ‘Mags,’ he murmured, ‘I don’t remember you ever asking a stupid question, until now. I can’t think of a senior officer who doesn’t expect you to do just that. When you do, you’ll be welcomed back with open arms. We all miss you like hell.’
‘I might put Mary Chambers’s nose out of joint. She probably expects to succeed me permanently, on promotion.’
‘Mary’s not so petty. Besides, I wouldn’t let that happen; I wasn’t best pleased when she was moved out of CID, but in the circumstances I couldn’t say so. I was promised a period of stability, but with Mackenzie crashing and burning and Mary being moved into your job, my divisional commanders are going down like ninepins.’
‘Mackenzie? How is the Bandit?’
‘We don’t call him that any more. He wants to put those flash Harry days behind him. He’s Chief Inspector David Mackenzie now, back in uniform as staff officer in the command corridor.’
‘Does that mean that Jack McGurk’s staying at Torphichen Place?’
‘Yes, with DI Stallings, our new arrival from the Met.’
‘You’ve put her in there?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘I could hardly send her to the Leith office, since she’s shagging Ray Wilding.’
‘What?’
‘He was part of the reason for her move, probably the main reason.’
‘God, I really am out of the loop! All this office gossip I’ve been missing out on. I’ve got to get back.’
‘Yes, but not before you’re ready.’
She held up a hand. ‘I know, I know: it’ll be a few months yet. But still. .’ She frowned. ‘Mario,’ she continued, in an untypically tentative voice, ‘if I called on everything we’ve been to each other over the years, would you do me a favour?’
He stared back at her, wondering what was to come. ‘Jesus, when you put it like that it must be a big one. Spit it out.’
’Okay. It has to do with Dražen Boras, the man who killed Stevie.’
‘What about the bastard?’
‘He’s still on the run, isn’t he?’
Mario nodded. ‘I’m afraid so,’ he admitted. ‘By the time the boss and I tied him to it, and the Met went to pick him up, he was gone. He and his Bosnian father were mixed up in some serious Balkan stuff, running people in there for the CIA, and for us. He has contacts in the States and we’re pretty sure he used them to help him disappear.’