‘Why?’
‘Because all kidding aside, this man sounds dangerous. Your two victims probably intended no more than to rough him up a wee bit and nick his wallet, but what they got in return… Gay man out on a Saturday night tooled up? That’s hardly typical of our pink community.’ I paused. ‘You’re not part of the pub trawl, are you?’
‘No, it’s boys only, Superintendent Grant said.’
‘So you could come back here tonight?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I’ve got something on. I’m going to my friend Leona’s for dinner. She’s married to an MP, he’s away to South America on some parliamentary jaunt or other, she’s pregnant, and we’re having a girlie night.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Roland McGrath. He’s a real prick; I can’t stand him.’
I sensed bitterness. ‘Let me guess: he tried it on with you.’
Her eyes turned grim. ‘A week before their wedding. The stag and the hen nights merged into one later on. Everybody was a bit pissed and Roland caught me in a quiet corridor of the hotel and offered me what Leona was going to be getting for the rest of her life; that was how he put it. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, so…’
‘So? So what?’
She laughed, suddenly, beautifully. ‘So I threatened to arrest him. He didn’t believe me until I cautioned and cuffed him.’
‘You took your handcuffs to a hen night?’ I gasped.
‘I surely did. We’d been going to have a rag with Leona, but we thought better of it. Yes, I cuffed him and it was only then that he said he’d been joking all along.’
‘How did it turn out?’
‘Eventually it was me that made the joke of it. I left the cuffs on him for the rest of the night and told everyone I was showing him what marriage was all about. I’ve never told anyone the real story until now.’
‘Not even Leona?’
‘Especially not Leona. She thinks that the sun shines out of his fundamental orifice.’
‘Will you tell her about you and me?’ I asked her.
‘I have done, a while back, when we first started… seeing each other.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Well,’ she began, ‘she wanted to know if you were a good shag, and I said you are, then she wanted to know if I was in love with you, and I said that I wasn’t. She said that was a shame, because you were probably looking for someone just like me. And I told her that was absolute bollocks, because you were looking to make chief constable, just like me, and that we both know that any relationship that competes with that ambition in either of us will be doomed to failure.’
I wasn’t sure I’d wanted to hear myself summed up so bluntly, or so accurately. Oh yes, she was right, but still, there was one difference between us that she’d overlooked. Elvis had never sung about her. She’d never woken crying in the night, from a dream of grievous loss, to the realisation that it had all been true. She’d carried her ambition from the start, untarnished. Mine was a substitute, even if it did burn bright in those days.
I smiled, though, and ruffled her carefully composed hair. ‘You keep on telling her that, but be sure you add that I’m going to get there first.’
‘Oh I do, but the glass ceiling’s there to be shattered.’
‘And you’re the woman to do it. You have a good night and don’t spare the gossip.’
‘No danger of that. Call me.’
We left together, each in our own car, but her Nissan was out of my sight in the Discovery by the time I reached Aberlady.
I arrived in the office at quarter to ten. McGuire, wearing black jeans and a muscle-hugging polo shirt, was at his desk, and Martin was waiting for me, his green eyes full of life. ‘It’s Saturday,’ I said, ‘and the rugby season’s over. But if it wasn’t…’
‘The job comes first, boss. I still play rugby at top club and district level, but I’ve told the national selectors that I’m no longer available.’ Recalling the awe in Alf Stein’s voice when he’d described the young man’s playing style, I realised that if he had taken that step, then I was looking at someone whose career ambitions matched Alison’s and mine.
‘Okay. I promise I’ll do my best not to let work interfere. What other games do you play?’
‘Squash and golf; that’s all.’
‘Me too. There’s a squash court in this building; we’ll need to work each other over some time.’ I turned to business. ‘Any calls since you got here?’
‘One from Stevie Steele. He and Brian have been down that manhole since eight. Bella’s been down to the shops for rolls and milk and the Daily Record, and there was someone with her. A very large bloke; a Chieftain tank on legs, Stevie said.’
I grinned at the answer to a question I’d been asking myself. How would Tony Manson have reacted to the news of Marlon’s murder? I’d come up with one proposition. He’d have had the same thought as me: like son, like mother? But he wouldn’t be relying on the police to protect his woman.
‘In that case, we don’t need to bother about her safety.’
McGuire looked at me. ‘You know who he is, sir?’
‘I do. He’s the best insurance policy I can think of.’
‘Did Manson send him?’ Martin asked.
‘Yes. I know where Tony is, Andy, and when he’ll be back. I’d like this business sorted out before he gets here, otherwise it will get messy.’ I headed for the door. ‘Come on, let’s knock a couple of doors. I’ll drive.’
I’d parked the Land Rover in front of the building rather than round the back. As we stepped outside I saw that the chief constable had arrived after me, and thanked my stars that I hadn’t nicked his space.
Martin tried to stay impassive when he saw my wheels, but couldn’t quite cut it. His eyebrows rose, very slightly, but they did. ‘Pile of old shit,’ I told him, ‘but it doesn’t stand out in a crowd. I put a couple of the dents in it myself, for added authenticity, so to speak. It’s reliable under the bonnet, though; our garage makes sure of that.’
The DC smiled. ‘It’ll never catch a getaway vehicle, though.’
‘It doesn’t have to, son,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s got a police radio in it.’
As I drove out of headquarters, into Fettes Avenue, my mind went back to Alison’s division’s open investigation. ‘Andy,’ I began, ‘do you live in Edinburgh?’
‘Yes. Haymarket.’
‘And you’re a young single guy, so you’ll get out and about?’
‘Yes.’
‘Got any gay friends? Or doesn’t your faith allow that?’
The question took him aback. ‘I’m not that Old Testament, boss. There’s a gay couple that are regulars in Ryrie’s Bar, part of the crowd. We’re not bosom buddies… bad choice of phrase… but we talk. Why?’
‘Do they ever say anything about anti-gay prejudice in Edinburgh? We’ve got this image as a tolerant society, but there are bigots everywhere. Is there a problem that we don’t know about?’
I glanced at him and saw him frowning. ‘Well,’ he replied, thoughtfully, ‘those blokes are body-builders, both of them, but one of them did say something about there being parts of the town where they always go together, just in case. Look, is this important? I’ve got a date tonight, but I could go into Ryrie’s early on, check if they’re there.’
‘Nah,’ I said. ‘Don’t do that. It’s not our business, just something I heard.’
‘Okay, but if it would help anyone, I’ll do it.’ He paused. ‘Where are we going, sir?’
‘We’re paying a house call,’ I told him, ‘on a man called Douglas Terry.’
‘Are you sure he’ll be in?’ he wondered.
‘A practical man, eh, Andy. I’m not certain, but I don’t think that Dougie sees much of the day before noon, not at the weekends, at any rate.’
‘What does he do?’
I had to think about that. ‘Do you read much?’ I asked him.
‘A bit.’
‘My dad brought me up on short stories,’ I said, ‘almost all of them American. He liked Thurber, Dorothy Parker and Damon Runyon, but his number one favourite was William Sydney Porter, who wrote under the pen name O Henry. Of all his stories, the one that’s stuck in my mind is called “Man about town”. That’s what I would call Dougie Terry … a man about town. You might call him a freelance. He does a bit of everything for everybody, but mostly he’s involved with a man called Jackie Charles.’