‘Witnesses? What am I supposed to have seen?’
‘Who, not what. Last night you were at the Book Festival opening party, yes?’
‘That’s right, me and a couple of hundred others.’
‘It wasn’t as many as that, but never mind. Late in the evening, you were seen talking to Ainsley Glover, the author.’
‘Inspector Walter Strachan’s daddy, the MSP; that’s right. I bumped into him late on, just as the thing was starting to wind down. He was in good form; he told me he’d just had a barney with that arrogant shite Bruce Anderson.’
Recalling Dr Mosley’s comments, Pye was interested in McCool’s confirmation that there had been an argument. Given Glover’s medical history, such as he knew of it, excitement might not have been good for him. ‘Did he say what they had rowed about?’
‘I’m just repeating what he told me, mind, but it was about Trident. Anderson’s in the “anti” camp now, but Ainsley said he couldn’t help reminding him that as a member of the UK cabinet he’d been four-square behind it, and behind the nuclear submarine base at Faslane. You might remember, Bruce took part in a demo there a few weeks back, and got himself carried off the road by your lot. Last night Ainsley told him that was one of the most cynical things he’d ever seen. He reminded him that when he was Secretary of State, Bruce went out of his way to condemn an identical protest, and to praise the cops who put the boot in when they were breaking it up.’
‘What did Anderson say to that?’
‘As accurately as I can quote Ainsley off the top of my head, Bruce told him that he was an opportunist who didn’t even know how to organise a street meeting, far less understand the complexities of global politics, and that he had only stood for the Holyrood Parliament to sell his fucking books. He also described Ainsley’s Inspector Wattie as a stereotypical character without a shred of originality and wound up by calling him a fat, predatory hack. Ainsley thought that was great. He laughed out loud. . Bruce is famous for having no sense of humour, and he doesn’t like people laughing at him. . and asked him if he could put that on his next book jacket. At which point Bruce told him what he could do with it when it was printed, turned on his heel and strode off to bore our High Commissioner to Australia.’
‘It sounds like quite an exchange,’ Pye commented.
‘It was, but there’s history between them. I didn’t know this until last night, but according to Ainsley, a few years ago, one of his books. . he mentioned the title, but I can’t remember it now. . had a character in it who was a fictional Secretary of State for Scotland. In the book he was a nasty bastard who got what was coming to him. Bruce decided that it was based on him, although Ainsley denies it to this day. After it was published, Anderson cut him dead at a Scottish Arts Council function. Later on he let it be known around town that Ainsley’s name had gone forward for an OBE, and that he’d blocked it because he didn’t believe he was worthy of it.’
‘Nice man.’
‘Not,’ the journalist grunted, ‘and that I can confirm at first hand. Nobody I know in politics would call Bruce nice, not since he lost his wife, at any rate. I knew him before; he wasn’t to be trusted even then, but afterwards he became one hundred per cent bitter and twisted.’
As he spoke the waiter arrived with a tray, laden with a coffee pot, two cups, a sugar bowl and milk jug. He poured for the two men, then handed McCool a slip of paper. Pye waited until he had signed it.
‘And Mr Glover,’ he asked, as he added a little milk to his cup, ‘what sort of man was he?’
‘Ainsley’s fine, in his crusty academic way. He can get your back up if he chooses, but there’s no badness in him, only mischief.’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Hold on. You used a past tense there. Is that why. .’
The inspector nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. Mr Glover was found dead this morning, in the hospitality tent at the Book Festival.’
McCool’s face went from pale to ashen. ‘Bloody hell! What was it?’
‘Our medical examiner’s saying heart attack. We’ll know for sure once they’ve done an autopsy.’
‘When did it happen?’
‘I was hoping you might help us with that, Mr McCool,’ said Pye. ‘The Festival director told me that the last time she saw Mr Glover, you and he were heading off together. Is that so?’
‘It is, and it isn’t. I was going to the yurt to pick up my bag; you can leave stuff safely there. The security people keep a pretty good eye on it. Ainsley was on the same mission, but he had something to take care of there. He told me he needed a place to inject insulin for his diabetes, and that Randy Mosley had suggested he do it there, for privacy.’
‘So the two of you went into the tent?’
‘That’s right. Ainsley collected a wee pouch thing from a drawer behind the reception desk, then headed for the quiet area, round the corner. I didn’t hang around; I picked up my bag and got out of there. One or two of us had agreed to meet up in the Oxford, along in Young Street. It all got a bit hazy after that.’
‘Was there anyone else in the yurt when you got there?’
‘No, just Ainsley and me, some curly sandwiches from earlier in the evening, and a tray full of dirty glasses, waiting for the caterers to replace this morning.’
‘And you’re sure you saw Mr Glover disappear out of sight?’
‘Certain. I called after him as he went off to do his thing. Told him to be careful where he stuck his syringe. He laughed, and said he didn’t use one. He said he was a writer so he used a pen injector.’
Pye looked at him. ‘Think carefully, now. When you were with Mr Glover, did he seem in any distress? Did he complain of anything? Shortness of breath, for example.’
‘Did he hell, as like. He was at full volume, triumphant after his run-in with Anderson. He must have had a fair bit to drink in the course of the evening, maybe more than he should have. He was slurring his words, and maybe he was a wee bit unsteady on his pins.’ McCool frowned. ‘Now that I think about it, when he told me where he was going, he did say that it wasn’t before time, as he was starting to feel a bit hyper. Poor guy. The confrontation with Anderson must have got to him more than he knew, aye, and maybe the drink too. What a bastard, eh?’
‘Are you speaking of Anderson?’
‘Not this time, Inspector, not specifically. I meant life in general. We’re on a high, and then it kicks the feet from under us. Tough on Ainsley: this time he didn’t survive the fall. I suppose it’s a lesson to all us middle-aged guys.’ He exhaled heavily; then his expression changed, subtly. ‘All that said, this is something I have to be interested in, professionally.’
‘I appreciate that,’ Pye told him. ‘Give me a minute.’ He took out his mobile and called Wilding’s number. ‘Ray, where are you?’ he asked as the detective sergeant answered.
‘We’ve just got to the mortuary.’ he replied quietly. ‘Miss Glover’s just about to make the formal identification.’
‘OK, thanks. When I’m done here, I’ll join you there. We’d better both witness the post-mortem for form’s sake.’ He turned back to the reporter. ‘What are you going to do with this?’
‘For myself, nothing,’ McCool told him. ‘I work for an evening paper and today’s Sunday, so I don’t have an edition. But I should let the news desk on our sister daily know about it.’
‘Ten minutes,’ said the detective. ‘Call them in ten minutes. By that time I’ll have rung my boss and been in touch with our press officer.’
‘You know anything about next of kin? Ainsley had two kids, hadn’t he?’
‘Yes, but that’s as much as I’m telling you. I know you have to contact them, but you’re on your own with that.’
‘Give me something else, man, some sort of edge on the rest. Who found the body?’
Pye considered the question; eventually he decided that he had no reason not to answer it. ‘Randy Mosley did, when she and the security manager unlocked the yurt.’