‘Why do you think? Because I’m not so bloody liberated that I like trawling bars and restaurants on my own.’ Finally she relented and allowed him a small smile. ‘Come on in.’
He stepped into the flat. ‘Where do you want to go?’
‘Nowhere.’ She reached up and rubbed the back of her hand against his chin. ‘Griff, you look knackered, plus you need a shave: I wouldn’t be seen dead with you like that. I’ve cooked something for us. . against my better judgement, mind you.’
‘How did you know I’d ring your bell, me being so late and all?’
‘I told your sister to send you in when you got back; from what you said she was subtle about it.’ She frowned at him. ‘Before you get any ideas about the two of us around the supper table, I asked her if she’d like to join us, but she’d already eaten.’
‘What sort of ideas would I get?’ he asked, affecting an innocent expression.
‘None that are going to do you any good.’
‘I could go next door and shave, if that would help.’
‘Not in the tiniest,’ she answered sincerely. ‘We’ve had one fling, you and I, and it was very satisfactory, but we agreed afterwards that it was just between friends, and that we weren’t going to let it become a habit. What you can do, though, is come into the kitchen and grab yourself a beer from the fridge, while I finish throwing the salad together.’
Griff winked at her as he followed her out of the living room. ‘That sounds like a decent compromise,’ he conceded. ‘What are we having, apart from the salad? I’m not being presumptuous,’ he added. ‘You did say you’d been cooking.’
‘It’s a chicken casserole, Spanish style, a recipe I picked up from my dad.’
‘He cooks too?’
‘You better believe it; while I was growing up he didn’t have the option. Now he’s a one-parent family again, he has a live-in nanny to do that for the kids, but he still has to fend for himself, and cook for them all at weekends.’
‘How long was he on his own after your mother died?’
‘About fifteen years,’ she told him, ‘and he really was on his own too. If there were any women around, I never knew about them. I was so pleased for him when he took up with Sarah.’
‘I suppose you must have been gutted when they split up.’
‘Only for the three kids. The pair of them had grown well apart by then, so it was for the best. I’m glad that they came to an amicable agreement about parenting, even if it does put most of the responsibility on him.’
‘What if she remarries and wants to change the deal?’ he asked.
‘Then she’ll have to go to court in Scotland,’ Alex replied, ‘and take me on into the bargain. But that won’t happen. Sarah left for her career. Truth is, she’s doctor first, mother second. Damn!’ she exclaimed suddenly, in the act of taking the lid off the casserole dish.
‘What’s up?’
‘I left my apron in my bedroom. Be a honey and get it for me, will you? I’ve got my hands full here, and this may splash when I stir it.’
‘Sure. I remember where your bedroom is. . even if it is off limits now.’ He laid his beer on the breakfast bar and headed off on his errand.
Alex replaced the lid and waited for him, easing off her oven glove so that she would be able to tie on the apron when it arrived. He was gone for longer than she expected. She assumed that he had gone into the bathroom en route, until she heard him call to her. ‘Come through here, will you, please?’
‘Griff,’ she called back, ‘what is it? If you’re thinking of chancing your arm, you’ll be wearing this bloody supper.’
‘I’m serious. I need to talk to you.’
Puzzled by his sudden change of mood, she did as he asked. She found him standing at the foot of her bed, staring at a picture set on the wall above the headboard. ‘Has that always been there?’ he asked.
‘It’s been there since I got it. You’ve seen it before; it was there when we did our thing. Obviously you were too preoccupied to notice it at the time. Why? What’s so special about it?’
‘This morning I found myself looking at a houseful of work by the same artist. You know who did this?’
‘I confess that I don’t.’
‘Stacey Gavin, the girl who was murdered in South Queensferry two months ago, killed we now know by the same man who shot Zrinka Boras. Where did you get it?’
‘My dad gave it to me,’ she replied. ‘It was my Christmas present. He’s a bit of a closet connoisseur, my old man. He said I should look after it, that it was an investment. He’s got one himself, out in Gullane. The picture I bought him, by the poor Boras girl, was partly to thank him. God, that’s weird, isn’t it? My father has work by two murdered artists hanging on his walls.’
Twenty-seven
There had been a period in his career, when he had been Bob Skinner’s executive officer, when Brian Mackie had been a regular visitor to the Edinburgh procurator fiscal’s office. But times had changed, and the promotion ladder had taken him back into uniform, so he felt almost a stranger as he stepped into the Chambers Street building.
The fiscal had moved on too since those days, into a grand new home, cheek by jowl with that of the Lord Advocate, of whose department he was a functionary. The assistant chief constable looked around with a slightly cynical eye. He was not comfortable with opulence in government offices: having seen his mother die in a shabby, badly painted room in an outdated, overcrowded hospital, his preference was for more spartan conditions for civil servants … and he counted himself among their number. . and maximum investment in areas of greatest need.
Inevitably some detectives are antipathetic towards fiscals, seeing them as nit-picking barriers to the clearing up of a crime, rather than as players on the same team, but in his CID days, Mackie had always done his best to understand their position and the needs of the court in terms of evidence. However, from time to time, he too had found himself frustrated.
Gregor Broughton had been no roadblock, though: he and the ACC had worked together on several occasions over the years and the police officer had always found him to be constructive and co-operative. ‘Hello, Brian,’ he said warmly, rising from his swivel chair as Mackie was shown into his office. ‘It’s good to see you again, even if it is a surprise. I can’t remember the last time a cop in uniform walked through that door. I was quite taken aback when my secretary said you wanted to see me. Have a seat, man, have a seat. Would you like a coffee?’
Mackie shook his head. ‘No thanks, Gregor. I ration those, and it’s not that long since breakfast.’
‘Welcome to the world of regular office hours.’ The big lawyer chuckled. ‘How’s Sheila?’
‘She’s fine. How’s Phyl? I’m presuming that we’re still on first-name terms since her elevation to the bench.’
‘I’m not even sure I can do that, mate. Lady Broughton is very well, thank you, although it can be a bit of a bugger when she’s on circuit, sitting in the High Court in places like Airdrie, Inverness and, next week, bloody Wick.’
‘All new Supreme Court judges have to go through that, though, don’t they?’
‘Yes, it’s part of the breaking-in process. It doesn’t matter that we have two sons at secondary school. Mind you, it’s never mattered for her male colleagues, so why should it for her? It’s a part of the changing world we live in. In the old days, in the unlikely event of a woman being appointed to the bench, she’d have been a grandparent by the time it happened. The judicial appointments board has swept all that away, for better or worse. Now, when a vacancy comes up, applications are invited, and recommendations are made to the First Minister on the basis of ability and experience; there are no barriers on grounds of age or gender.’
‘Which do you think, better or worse?’
‘Privately? A bit of both. The principle is okay, but the practice isn’t. I don’t know a single lawyer who agrees with the present make-up of the board, half lay members and half professional, with a lay chair having the casting vote. Lawyers will always know better than lay people who will make a good judge.’ He paused and smiled. ‘Of course, my disapproval is tempered by the fact that they chose to recommend my wife.’