‘My dad was a good copper, Addy,’ she told him, all formality gone. ‘He had a good nose and he was sure Paton was involved. And, come on, it’s a bit too much of a coincidence, don’t you think? Him dying around the anniversary of the murder?’
‘No more than you turning up on the guy’s doorstep five minutes before he pegs it,’ Addison reminded her.
‘Yeah but…’
‘Yeah but nothing. Who was the mystery guy in the passenger seat when you went to Paton’s?’
Narey hesitated and was furious to see it spark a faint smirk on Addison’s face.
‘That was just a friend who happened to be in the car.’
‘Right…’
Narey’s relationship with Winter was a secret but they both wondered if Addison suspected something. It was hard to tell because he was the sort who always gave the impression of knowing more than he let on. This time, he let Narey squirm uncomfortably before bringing the meeting to a close.
‘Look, Central say it’s a coincidence, so it’s a coincidence. You stay out of their patch and get on with your own job. You hear me?’
Narey opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.
‘You hear me, Sergeant?’
‘I hear you.’
‘I mean it, Rachel. They’re gunning for your ass as it is. Don’t give them an excuse to do anything about it.’
CHAPTER 17
It was only six o’clock when Winter strode off Highburgh Road and began to climb the stairs to the flat but it had already been dark for two hours. There was a clean pint glass sitting at his usual place on the pine kitchen table and it caught his eye the moment he entered the flat. There was a strange smell too, something unusual. A tour through his memory bank told him it was food.
‘You’re cooking?’ he called out.
‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ Rachel’s voice came back at him from somewhere out of sight.
‘You don’t cook. You never cook.’
‘That’s not true.’
She had reappeared from behind the fridge door with a can of Guinness in her hand, a welcoming hissing sound escaping as she tore back the ring-pull.
‘It is true,’ Tony persisted. ‘Reheating ready meals isn’t cooking. Putting something in the microwave isn’t cooking. Toast isn’t cooking. You don’t cook.’
Rachel stopped in front of the table as if ready to argue but instead forced a smile and slowly poured the Guinness into the pint glass.
‘Well, tonight I’m cooking. There’s a steak and ale pie in the oven and roast potatoes in there too. That okay with you?’
‘Um, sure. Lovely.’
Tony fell into his chair, lifting the glass to his lips and his eyebrows to the ceiling. He watched her produce another pint glass and place it on the table opposite him. Winter wiped a foamy moustache from his lips and sat back, wondering what the hell was going on.
Suddenly, the intercom buzzer barked into the room. Winter jumped at the noise but Rachel didn’t seem surprised. She picked up the wall telephone and listened for a second before replying.
‘Hi. Come on up.’
Tony supped on his stout again, waiting for an explanation that wasn’t forthcoming. Instead Rachel went to the fridge and brought out a can of lager, immediately opening and pouring it. Shortly after, there was a brisk knock at the door and Rachel opened it to let the slightly out of breath and burly figure of Danny Neilson inside. Winter’s uncle grinned at him, enjoying the look of surprise on the younger man’s face.
‘All right, son?’ Danny asked him.
Tony shrugged.
‘Um, yeah. I’m not sure.’
‘Dinner will be about ten minutes, Danny,’ Rachel told their visitor.
‘Fine, love. No rush.’
Love? No one called Rachel ‘love’ without getting his ear chewed off. Winter was even more confused.
Danny slipped into the chair opposite, raised the glass towards Tony and said cheers.
‘So how’s tricks, son?’ Danny asked him after a long sup on his beer, dragging a hand through his greying but annoyingly full head of hair. ‘You photographed any good deid bodies recently?’
‘No, it’s actually been pretty quiet on the corpse front recently.’
‘Ach, never fear, it’s Glasgow. I’m sure there will be another one along any minute. A nice shotgun wound to the head maybe. Or a machete attack. Maybe even a wee double murder.’
‘Aye, Uncle Danny, very good. Now look, what the fu—’
Tony never got to finish his question, as Rachel reappeared and sat down at the table, a glass of white wine in her hand.
‘So, Danny,’ she began, ‘how are things with you? Still working the rank at night?’
Tony’s uncle was a former policeman, thirty years on the force and most of those spent as a detective sergeant. He wasn’t a man for sitting on his backside during retirement though and had taken a job marshalling late-night revellers at a busy taxi rank. Keeping drunks in line in all weathers was no position for a man in his sixties but Danny could more than handle himself and he blankly refused all suggestions that he should give it up.
‘I am, love,’ he told Rachel. ‘The work of the taxi rank superintendent is never done. There were some right bampots out last night. I’m guessing they were full of the drink after watching the match on the telly. Did you see it, Tony?’
The normality of the conversation was doing Winter’s head in. Uncle Danny, for all that he had been virtually a father to Tony after the death of his parents, was the first person ever to visit Rachel’s flat while Winter was there. Their relationship remained a secret to all except Danny and he knew only because Winter had desperately needed his help a year before. Rachel had been threatened by a vigilante sniper and rogue cop, and it was Danny Tony had turned to when he needed help to protect her. It was Danny who’d known what to do. Despite all that and knowing about Tony and Rachel, Danny had never been invited to Chez Narey. Yet, out of the blue, here he was, large as life, at the dining table. Cosy.
‘What the hell is going on?’ Tony finally asked them.
Danny shrugged, seemingly amused at Winter’s confusion, while Rachel shook her head at him in exasperation. Finally she blew out her cheeks and arched her eyebrows in surrender.
‘Okay, okay. I’ll explain but let’s eat dinner first. If you knew how tough it was for me to cook this bloody stuff, then you’d know I don’t want it to be wasted. Another drink?’
They ate with little more than polite, strained conversation, each appetite ruined by the anticipation or dread of what was to be said.
‘First of all, Danny,’ Rachel began at last, ‘I want to tell you about my dad. He was a cop, just like me, just like you were. He’s ages with you so maybe you even knew him. His name was Alan Narey and he was a chief inspector in Central Scotland. No?’
Danny shook his head.
‘He was from Glasgow, born and bred, but he preferred not to work over the shop. So he worked out of Stirling, drove in every day. He figured, given the nature of the job, it would be better for me and my mum if he didn’t have too many enemies who knew where we lived. That’s the way he always was — put us ahead of anything else. He could have made at least superintendent if he’d sacrificed a bit more but it wasn’t in his nature. Not that he wasn’t dedicated to the job; he was. He cared about people and about the right thing being done. He was my hero. He still is.’
Rachel stopped and took another swig of wine. When she spoke again, her voice was stronger.
‘Anyway, you’ll remember the Lady in the Lake case, the winter of 1993 and ’94.’
Danny’s eyes furrowed.
‘Lake of Menteith?’ he answered. ‘Young woman found battered to death on the island in the middle? I remember it. It made headlines for weeks, months.’