‘That’s right. I’ve been there.’
‘About Dowley,’ said Broughton. ‘Any chance you could persuade the chief not to take it any further? To be honest, it would suit me if he stayed in post. As you know, the deputy Crown Agent is staring retirement in the face. If Joe went I’d come under renewed pressure from colleagues to apply for the job, and I’d really rather not. I don’t mind stepping into the deputy’s shoes, but with Phil on the Supreme Court bench, the top job would be too high profile for me.’
‘On the other hand, a big chunk of the police service would like a change,’ Martin pointed out. ‘Dowley isn’t popular. The promotion’s gone to his head.’
‘I can control him, Andy, especially if I become his deputy. This embarrassment is bound to bring him down a peg or two. Let me work on him, and I’ll make him manageable. I’ve seen a couple of Crown Agents come and go in my time.’
‘If that’s how you feel. We owe you a couple, Gregor. I’ll try to talk Jimmy and Bob out of going for his throat.’
‘Bob?’
‘Of course. Dowley crossed one of his guys; demanded that he be disciplined. You do that at your peril.’
Broughton laughed. ‘I’ll remember that. Be seeing you.’ He headed for the door, then stopped, admiring one of the works of art that decorated the walls of the absent deputy chief constable’s office. ‘Nice picture. The Crown Office has works on loan from the Scottish Arts Council. I wonder if that’s one of theirs.’
‘No. That’s one of Bob’s own. He has more pictures than he has wall space at home, so he brings one or two in here.’
As the fiscal closed the door behind him, Martin stepped closer to the painting, studying it. He had been glancing at it for much of a day and a half, aware of it, without paying it too much attention. It was an oil on canvas, around two feet square in a blue wooden frame, a coastal scene. In the background the sun was rising out of the sea, giving its waters a reddish tinge. To the left of the picture were distant hills, to the right a rugged, castellated building, and in the foreground, on a beach, a small female figure kneeling as if in prayer.
His eye moved to the signature: it was a single word, and it could have been either forename or family appellation. ‘Sebastian’.
Sixty-one
‘You know, Jack, I’d forgotten that you could have nights like this, on the town, just hanging out. Theo’s idea of a fun evening usually involved the Odeon, then Ben and Jerry’s.’
‘I know what you mean. Mary and I got out the habit too. Mostly my fault, I think; most evenings I’d have a pint or two with Dan Pringle after work and fall asleep in the armchair after dinner. I don’t blame her for chucking me.’
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ she said. ‘It’s a two-way street. If she’d been that keen herself she’d have dug you in the ribs. The truth of it is, I settled for what I had with Theo. He’s a good-looking guy. . I have to give him that. . and he made me believe that what we had going was best for both of us, him with his place and me with mine. That’s how good a con-man he is. I see now it was never “mine”, always ours.’ Her face twisted with the bitter recollection. ‘What a swine he is!’ she hissed. ‘He took that neck charm off a dead girl and gave it to me.’ She looked up at him. ‘He really did that? You’re not making it up?’
‘Lisanne, I couldn’t make that up. That’s what he did, all right. We have his signed statement admitting it.’
‘And he’ll go to jail, for sure?’
‘One hundred per cent sure. How do you feel about that?’
She stared at the array of bottles lined up behind the bar, or perhaps she stared at nothing at all. ‘Who’ll decide where he goes?’ she asked.
‘The system will. It’ll depend on how long he gets; if it’s more than four years he could go to Shotts, or maybe Kilmarnock, for the first part of his sentence.’
‘Could you fix it for it to be somewhere really nasty?’
Jack caught her eye in the mirror behind the Rose and Crown bar. ‘It’s the jail, kid; wherever he goes it’s not going to be nice. And with him being a cop. . Need I say more?’
‘Good. Let’s see if he likes it up the. .’ She stopped herself in mid-sentence. ‘Sorry: I nearly said something awful there. We’d got through a meal and a couple of drinks without talking about him. Subject closed for the rest of the evening, I promise.’
He put a finger on her chin and turned her face towards his. ‘Get it out your system if you need to.’
‘I have done.’ She smiled. ‘The thing that amazes me, Sergeant McGurk, is that here I am out with another plod. Does that show a lack of imagination, or what?’
‘I’d like to think it shows good taste.’
‘I’ll accept that analysis for now.’ She finished her drink. ‘Here, let me get them in.’
‘Okay,’ he agreed, ‘but not here. It’s beginning to fill up.’
‘Let’s go to Kay’s, in Jamaica Street. It’s nice, and a bit off pitch: I’ve been a couple of times with my work crowd.’
‘Take me there.’
They left Rose Street behind and headed north, crossing Queen Street, then turning into India Street, off Heriot Row. Kay’s was half-way down, a few yards into Jamaica Street; as Lisanne had promised, it was busy, but not thronged. ‘Pint of heavy and a vodka tonic,’ she called to the barman, from the doorway. Some of the drinkers looked round, appraising the six-foot-eight-inch detective for a second or two before returning to their conversations.
‘Jack!’ The call came from the far end of the bar. He waved in response.
‘Who’s that?’ Lisanne asked, glancing along at the dark-haired woman, as she picked up their drinks and handed the beer to McGurk.
‘The deputy chief constable’s daughter,’ he told her, ‘Alex Skinner: with, if I am not mistaken, Detective Constable Griffin Montell.’
‘He’s brave, isn’t he?’
‘So they say. But I reckon he’s a handbag.’
‘What’s a handbag?’
‘My worldly wise female cousin tells me that it’s a bloke you’re not really serious about, there to keep the wolves at bay.’ He took a mouthful from his glass. ‘I’d better go and say hello.’
‘Want me to stay here, in case of awkward questions?’
‘Hell, no. Come on.’ The customers parted for them as he eased his way along the bar. ‘Alex. Griff. This your local?’
‘One of them,’ Alex replied. ‘It’s a bit of a lawyers’ pub.’
‘It’ll suit you, then. This is Lisanne.’ He slipped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her into the circle.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Montell. ‘Are you two an item?’ he asked, with a wicked grin.
‘That remains to be seen,’ she told him. ‘First date.’
‘What do you think of the sarge so far?’
‘I’m impressed.’
‘That’s good to hear.’ He glanced up at McGurk. ‘You’ve had a busy week.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘but let’s not talk shop in front of the ladies.’
‘Come on, man, Alex is practically one of us. The guy you had in court this morning, are you doing him for the murder?’
Alex leaned forward on her bar stool and jabbed him forcefully in the chest. ‘Montell,’ she said, ‘is there any part of “Shut the fuck up” that you don’t get? Lisanne doesn’t want to hear this, and I’ll get it soon enough from my old man.’
‘It doesn’t bother me,’ Lisanne told her. ‘I don’t think he did it. Theo’s a shit, but he isn’t a murderer.’
‘Inside knowledge?’
‘I was married to him. Jack and I met when he and his boss came to turn my flat inside out. Finally, the bastard did me a bit of good.’ She smiled up at McGurk, and slid her arm around his waist. ‘There you are, it’s all out in the open now, so you needn’t make both of us feel awkward any longer.’