‘What’s your name?’
‘Clyde Houseman.’
‘Well, Clyde, if it ever occurs to you that it might be a good idea to get out of this hellhole and get a life that gives you a chance to be different, you call me, on one of those numbers, and I’ll show you how.’
And I gave him, with none of his pals seeing it, a business card, the one that he’d just handed back to me.
I felt a huge surge of pleasure, maybe even pride, as I examined it. ‘All this time,’ I murmured.
‘Fifteen years,’ he replied. ‘At first I kept it as a reminder. Eventually I held on to it in the hope I’d be able to give it back to you one day.’
I laughed. ‘Amanda said you were bricking it. That’s why?’
‘Yes, sir, that’s why.’ He seemed to have left his accent behind in the slums.
‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘Tell me your story.’
‘You scared me that day,’ he replied, ‘on two levels. One, I was a sixteen-year-old kid, the toughest in our street, no question. I didn’t think anyone in the world was harder than me, until I looked you in the eye and realised I was very wrong. Then on top of that there was what you said; it made me look around, and ahead. I lived with my mother and my stepfather in those days. She was a serial shoplifter and he was a serial alcoholic with a gambling habit; hopeless, the pair of them. My father was long gone, doing life in Peterhead Prison for stabbing a taxi driver in a row over the fare. When I met you I was on the fringes of grown-up gang stuff, not dealing, but protecting dealers. I’d never used drugs myself, but sooner or later I would have. You were right, sir; I was living in a hellhole, but it was all I knew so I didn’t recognise it as such. When I met you, you opened my eyes. Nobody had ever said anything positive to me before, never.’
‘Why didn’t you call me?’ I asked. ‘Why didn’t you use the card?’
‘I had to get further away,’ Clyde replied, ‘as far away from Edinburgh as I could, far away from everything I’d known until then.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I joined the Royal Marines. I walked into an armed forces careers office and said in effect, “Please help me, I have a shit life and I want to be different.” They told me I had to prove myself and I did. I blew the preliminary course away; I was a fit strong boy, and a good swimmer, so the physical stuff came easy to me. On top of that I had a stack of O Grades from school, so the intelligence tests were a breeze. To cut a long story down a little I was accepted. I served as a marine for three years, around the world, and I loved it; I made corporal by the time I was twenty, then I was invited to apply for a commission. Two years later, I joined the SBS, the Special Boat Service. That’s. .’
‘I know what it is,’ I told him. ‘Did you see much action?’
He nodded, and his eyes went a little dead. ‘Iraq; I did a couple of tours there operating out of Basra, targeting terrorists the Iranians were slipping over the border. When we caught them we sent them back.’
‘Intact?’
He looked at me. ‘What do you think?’ Answer enough.
‘After that,’ he continued, ‘it was Afghanistan; black ops.’
‘Not too many boats in Afghanistan,’ I observed.
‘They put our skills to use where they were most needed, sir.’ He glanced at the door; it was closed. ‘We were on constant stand-by. If intel picked up reliable information that a Taliban leader was on the move, we’d be mobilised. The Americans would watch them by satellite; if a window opened, we’d go in very fast by chopper, kill the target and get out again before the opposition even realised they were one down.’
‘Winning their hearts and minds,’ I murmured.
‘That was someone else’s job,’ Clyde said. ‘Ours was to blow their heads off.’
I nodded. ‘I know. So,’ I went on, ‘how did you get from being SBS in Afghanistan to being MI5 in Glasgow?’
‘My SBS engagement ended just over three years ago. I was Captain Houseman by that time, back in the Marines with a more conventional career ahead of me, but I had the sense that I’d plateaued. My special forces experience wasn’t going to help me climb the ladder; there aren’t many opportunities at major and above, and my time out of the mainstream had put me at the back of the queue. I had a conversation back in Plymouth with my unit commander. About a week later I was invited to go to London for a meeting in Whitehall. It turned out to be a job interview, with Amanda Dennis. She told me that the security service was responding to the terrorist threat by expanding its operations across the country and was looking for people with. . a broad range of skills, was how she put it. A few days after that, she offered me a job, and I accepted.’
‘What’s your area? I asked. I know how the security service works; a few years ago I was asked to help it sort out some in-house problems.
‘Counter-terrorism,’ he replied. ‘I spent my first two years in Thames House, then I was moved up to Scotland, in charge of the Glasgow regional office.’
‘How long have you been there?’
‘Best part of a year.’
‘So how come I haven’t heard of you before?’
‘Amanda told me not to get involved with the police,’ he said, bluntly. ‘She feels that the Strathclyde force is too big, and that because of its size the risk of leaks is unacceptable. Its Counter-Terrorism Intelligence Section feeds information to SO15 at Scotland Yard and we work with them. My contact with the locals is at a minimum.’
‘So, Clyde,’ I asked, ‘why are you so keen to talk to me today, other than to give me back that card?’
‘The image you sent to Amanda last night, the body that was buried for you to find; we know who he was.’
Mario McGuire
Once Sarah’s people had taken the burnt logs away, Lowell Payne and I were surplus to requirements at the crime scene, four feet that Dorward’s crew didn’t need on their ground. My appetite hadn’t been too badly affected, but I wasn’t in an Asian mood any longer; no, my taste buds were talking Italian. Since I was within sight of home, I called Paula, to see if she was okay, and to ask if I could bring a pal with me for whatever we could throw together.
She said yes, on both counts.
I could tell that Payne was impressed by our home, and doing his best not to let it show. I didn’t feel like explaining our family circumstances to him so I left him to ponder on how a cop could afford such a pad, even on a chief super’s salary of around eighty grand at the top of the scale.
I was going to make the lunch myself, but Paula wouldn’t hear of it. She ordered us outside, on to the deck. I gave Payne a beer and watched him with a trace of envy: I knew I’d have to drive again, if only to get him back to his car, and with me, one thing usually leads to another.
My lovely other half joined us about ten minutes later with a couple of sandwiches consisting of warm focaccia bread, spread with olive oil rather than butter and stuffed with sweet red peppers, olives stoned and halved, feta cheese and anchovies. Sure as hell, they put pakora in perspective.
She didn’t join us; she’d eaten already. ‘You ready for tonight?’ I asked her.
‘Yup,’ she replied. ‘Aileen called to finalise the arrangements. Chauffeur-driven car no less. She’s staying in Glasgow just now, so it’s easier for her.’
I don’t know why, but that made me a little curious. She was in Glasgow, the boss had passed on the show; anything to be read in to that? Nah, no chance! Away you go, McGuire, you’ve been a cop too long.
‘I ruined her day, I’m afraid,’ Paula continued. ‘She asked what I was wearing and I told her, a red dress.’
‘So?’
Payne laughed; he got the message.
She nodded in his direction. ‘Exactly. So is she. I should have known, her being Labour and everything. However, all is not lost, I remembered that I’ve got a trouser suit I had let out at the waist just in case. It’s black satin and formal enough for tonight. So she can breathe easy again; nobody will wonder which of us is the politician.’