‘Collins will behave himself from now on if he wants to go on collecting a salary at the end of the month. Turns out that his boss is more honourable than he is.’
‘Are you going to tell me, in confidence?’
Fred Noble reached across and touched her on the shoulder. ‘June,’ he murmured, ‘think about this. I’m happy to leave you to hear this on your own if you want, but do you want? You’re going to be quizzed by half the journos in Scotland, and one of the things they’re going to try to find out will be the cause of death. If you don’t know, and if I don’t know, we can’t have it tricked out of us, can we?’
She took a deep breath and nodded. ‘I suppose that’s true,’ she admitted.
Pye seized the moment, and moved on quickly. ‘Was Mr Glover’s diabetes a continuing problem?’ he asked.
‘It worried me from time to time, but he managed it pretty well. It presented in his early thirties, and he’d been on insulin since then. He knew the long-term risks, so he was careful with his diet. He still enjoyed fine wines, though, and knew how to adjust his daily dose to allow for different levels of consumption.’
‘Was his condition generally known, or did he keep it to himself?’
‘No, no, no; he didn’t keep it a secret at all. Far from it, in fact; he referred to it often and he was a big supporter of diabetes charities. If you look at his website you’ll find several links to them.’
‘OK. Now, a few minutes ago, you said that Mr Glover was working on a new project. What did it involve?’
For the first time, June Connelly gave a hint of a smile. ‘This might sound strange,’ she replied, ‘given our dual relationship, but I honestly do not know. Ally wouldn’t tell me. He could be like that. He was open in every other respect, but when it came to his work he was often secretive. Some writers involve their agents in the creative process; they talk over ideas for stories and some let them see their work for comment every step of the way. Ally never did that; he’d work away on his own and when he was done he’d email me the finished novel, but it would go to CJ at the same time.’
‘CJ?’
‘CJ Carver, his editor at Smokescreen Publishing.’
‘What contracts did he have with the publisher?’
‘He was working on the third Walter Strachan story in a four-book deal. Once he’d delivered it, I’d have been sitting down with CJ to discuss terms for another four.’
‘We’ve been told that he wasn’t too happy with his publisher,’ said Pye, ‘over the way his books were being sold.’
‘You’ve been talking to Sandy Rankin, haven’t you?’
Pye nodded, with a small grin.
‘She was Ally’s other great sounding board. Well, it’s true he wasn’t ecstatic with the way the market’s been moving, but he wasn’t alone in that. Stop ten authors in the street. . you could in Edinburgh at this time of year. . and nine will tell you the same story. But the fact is that he was more successful than most, and his political exposure wasn’t doing him any harm either; it got him on to a lot of chat shows. He was even on Question Time two months ago. Believe me, that would have counted in the discussions over the next Strachan deal.’
‘But this new project, whatever it might have been, wasn’t contracted?’
‘Not yet. Ally was well in with Smokescreen but not even they would buy something without having the faintest idea what it was.’
‘He hadn’t given you any clues?’
‘I had the impression that it was political.’
‘To do with his role as an MSP?’
‘Possibly.’
‘To do with Trident?’
‘Given his obsession with the subject, that would be a reasonable guess, but guess is still all it would be. Maybe I’ll find the answer on his computer. More important, though, hopefully I’ll find the whole of the Strachan novel. He told me a few days ago that he was pretty much finished with it. For sure, it’ll be a best-seller; Smokescreen will want to milk every last penny out of it, so they’ll put a big budget behind it.’
‘That may be a problem,’ said Pye heavily.
Thirty
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?’ Aileen asked.
‘Not this time,’ Bob answered, smiling. ‘But you never know, if it goes well I might invite them back for a bite of supper.’ He felt her eyes on his back as he closed the front door behind him.
It was early evening, but there was still warmth in the day as he walked down Hill Road, flanked on either side by substantial stone dwellings, wondering what their owners would say if they knew where he was headed. Apart from Colonel Rendell, two other concerned neighbours had called him to discuss the travellers’ arrival, and a check with the duty inspector in Haddington had told him that twenty-three other complaints had been made to the police. He had arranged, through Brian Mackie, the assistant chief constable responsible for uniformed operations, that patrol cars should drive by more frequently than was usual, but only as a public relations gesture. No police approach was to be made to the encampment.
He picked up his pace as he turned into Sandy Loan, then cut through Goose Green and across the Main Street. As he passed the parish church and turned the corner, the Mallard Hotel came into view. Fifty yards ahead, he saw two figures, the men he was meeting, Derek Baillie and Asmir Mustafic. The former still wore jeans and T-shirt, but his companion had changed into well-used dark trousers and a shirt that might once have been pristine white. He caught up with them just as they reached the conservatory that served as an entrance to the inn. ‘Gentlemen,’ he called.
Baillie turned, pausing in the act of opening the door. ‘Mr Skinner,’ he exclaimed. ‘Am I pleased to see you; you’ve won me a bet.’
‘How come?’ the DCC asked as they stepped into the glass foyer.
‘Hugo Playfair reckoned you wouldn’t be here. He told us that all you wanted was to get us off the site, away from the rest. He said we’d find guys waiting to lift us when we got here.’
‘How much did you have on it?’
‘A tenner.’
Skinner laughed. ‘In that case he’s buying; that’s enough for three pints. Mine’s Seventy Shilling.’
They made their way inside but, finding the bar filled by day trippers, decided to return to the conservatory. They settled into armchairs, around a coffee table. A red-bearded barman, looking uncomfortably warm in a multicoloured waistcoat, served three pints of beer from a tray.
‘Thanks, Andrew,’ said the police officer as he left. ‘So, guys,’ he continued, ‘how’s the new pitch?’
‘It’s flat, and that’s the main thing,’ Baillie told him.
‘Your first requirement, I guess. Those screens will go up tomorrow, and the sanitary arrangements will begin on Tuesday. . unless you’ve decided to move on by then.’
‘Or been moved? Mr Skinner, I’m neither so stupid nor so provocative that I’d choose to set up camp in front of the deputy chief constable’s house. . or the First Minister’s, for that matter. I’d almost expect to be shifted.’
‘Have you been doing your homework since this morning?’
‘Didn’t have to. Hugo Playfair told us all about you.’
‘Don’t believe too much he says. Mind you, he’s got the basics right. When you speak to me, you also have, informally, let’s say, the ear of our head of government. Now, as for moving you on, that won’t happen, not at this stage at any rate. The policy of my force is to seek civil solutions to the problems your communities cause.’
‘There you are,’ Asmir Mustafic snorted. It was the first time the DCC had heard him speak; his accent was thick, not western European, he guessed. ‘You hear, Derek, we are problem.’
Baillie held up a hand in admonition. ‘Ssh. Hear the man out, Az.’
Skinner looked at the smaller of his companions. ‘But you have to accept that you are just that. You have to realise that whenever you pitch a new camp, you cause real resentment in that neighbourhood. I’m not being judgemental when I say that; I’m stating a fact. I’ve read the statutes that cover camping. Pretty much wherever you go, the locals see you as lawbreakers, and on the face of it, they’re right.’