She smiled, with a gentleness that none of her colleagues would have recognised. ‘Wee darlin’,’ she murmured. An instant later she glared at her husband. ‘As well for you though that it’s the holidays, and tomorrow’s not a school day.’
‘Well it’s no’,’ he shot back, ‘and that’s an end of it.’
‘Aye fine,’ Lottie sighed, deciding that further hostilities were pointless. ‘Where did you go, the pair of you?’ she asked.
‘We got the bus out tae Strathclyde Park. There’s a big funfair there; he had a great time. Ah got him a ticket. . a wristband thing, it was. . for all the rides.’
‘What about you? Did you go on any?’
‘Shite, no! Me?’
‘Come on, Scottie,’ she chuckled. ‘You’re just a big kid at heart. What was it? Too dear for both of you?’
‘No, Ah just didnae fancy it.’
‘Did I not give you enough money?’
He shook his head. ‘No, no,’ he insisted. ‘I had enough if Ah’d wanted.’ He paused. ‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she lied. ‘I had a sandwich earlier. I just want a cup of something then I’m off.’
In truth, she would have considered committing murder for a brandy and dry ginger, but she refused to keep alcohol in the house, unless they were entertaining, when she bought wine for their guests. She had seen her husband drunk too often to do anything to undermine his constant, daily, effort to stay sober.
‘Ah’ll make you a cup o’ tea,’ Scott said. ‘Go and take the weight off your plates.’
She did as he told her, slipping off her shoes and her jacket, then slumping into her armchair. She was almost asleep when he came into the living room a few minutes later, carrying what she saw was a new mug, with the theme park logo, and a plate, loaded with cheese sandwiches and a round, individual, pork pie.
‘Eaten?’ he laughed. ‘My arse! Where are you going tae get a sandwich anywhere near Pitt Street on a Sunday night? Wee Danny Provan’s no’ going to run out and get you something, that’s for bloody sure.’
She squeezed his arm as he laid her supper on a side table. ‘You’re a good lad, Scott,’ she murmured.
‘Ah do my best,’ he replied. ‘Honest, Ah really do.’
‘I know.’
‘So,’ he continued, ‘how’s it goin’? Have you solved the case yet? No’ that there’s much to solve.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, but there bloody is. For a start, we’ve established who the two dead guys were.’
‘Ah thought you knew.’
‘We knew who they had been, through our “intelligence sources”,’ she held up both hands and made a ‘quotation mark’ gesture with her fingers, ‘so called. But now we know about them. That’s why I’m so late in. One of them went under the name of Bryan Lightbody. He lived in Hamilton, New Zealand, with a wife and a wee boy Jakey’s age, and he owned four taxis there.
‘The other one was known as Richie Mallett, single, well-off, low-handicap golfer. He lived in Sydney, in an apartment near somewhere called Circular Quay, and he had a bar there. Both of them seem to have been very respectable guys, apart from when they were moonlighting and killing people.’
Scott whistled. ‘They’ll no’ kill any more, though.’
‘No, but they did leave us a wee present.’ She broke off to demolish half of the pork pie. ‘Do you remember when you were in the job,’ she continued, when she was ready, ‘hearing of a guy called Bazza Brown?’
He frowned. ‘Remind me,’ he murmured.
‘Gangster. Fairly small time in your day, but come up in the world since then.’
‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Aye, but vaguely.’
‘Well, they’d heard of him,’ Lottie declared. ‘We traced their car this afternoon, and we found Bazza shut in the boot.’
‘Eh?’ her husband exclaimed. ‘So he must have been in it all night. Was he still alive?’
‘No.’
‘Did he suffocate?’
‘I don’t think so. I doubt if he’d time before they shot him in the chest.’
His eyes widened. ‘Fuck me!’ he gasped.
She chuckled. ‘Those may very well have been his last words.’ She ate the other half of the pie and washed it down with a mouthful of tea.
‘No’ much use to you dead, though, is he?’ Scott remarked, recovering his composure. ‘He’ll no’ be much of a witness.’
‘He’s not going to tell us a hell of a lot,’ she conceded. ‘But nevertheless, even dead, he’s a lead of sorts. We think we know why he was involved with them. I don’t believe for a minute that he was behind the whole thing, too small a player for that, but if we can find who he was in touch with before he died, that may lead us to whoever ordered Toni Field killed.’
‘My God,’ he whispered. He looked at her, frowning. ‘You’re sure she was the target, and no’ the de Marco woman?’
Lottie nodded. ‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘There’s no doubt about that now, sunshine. The crime scene team found her photo, tucked away in Botha’s false passport.’
Twenty-One
‘Sod this!’ Skinner muttered. When he had plugged his landline into the wall ten minutes before six o’clock, it had told him that nineteen messages had been left for him. In theory his number was private and unlisted; he knew that some of the Scottish news outlets had acquired it by means he had chosen not to investigate, but he had no idea how many. The call counter gave him a clue. Making a mental note to have it changed, he held his finger on the ‘erase’ button until the box was empty. If any friends or family had called him, he guessed they would have rung his personal mobile as back-up.
He switched that on; there were no message waiting, but he had only just stepped out of the shower when it rang. He answered without checking the caller. No journalists had the number. . no active journalists, but there was a retired one who did.
‘Bob,’ a deep familiar voice rumbled, the accent basically Scottish but overlaid with something else.
‘Xavi,’ Skinner exclaimed. ‘How are you doing, big fella? And those lovely girls of yours?’
Xavier Aislado, and his ancient half-brother, Joe, were the owners of the Saltire newspaper. Their father had escaped from Civil War Spain to Scotland, and eventually they had chosen to return, although in different circumstances and at different times.
Xavi, after a promising football career cut short by injury, had been the Saltire’s top journalist, and had been responsible for its acquisition by the media chain that Joe, thirty years his senior, had built in Catalunya.
Their family structure was complicated. Xavi’s mother had left him behind as a child, and had gone on to have twin daughters, by a police colleague of Skinner. One of the two had taken over from Xavi as the Saltire’s managing editor, although she had been completely unaware of their relationship until then.
‘We’re all fine,’ he said. ‘Sheila and Paloma are blooming and Joe’s hanging in there. He wasn’t too well during the winter, but he’s got his love to keep him warm too. But more to the point, what is happening in your life? June called me at some God-awful hour about a story that everybody’s chasing, about your wife. She and I want you to know that we owe you plenty, so if it’s all balls, you have open access to the Saltire to help knock it down. If it’s true. . we’ll ignore it if that’s what you want.’
‘I appreciate that, Xavi,’ Bob assured his friend. ‘As it happens it is true, but we’re proposing to deal with it like two grown-ups. Tell June to be ready for a joint statement this morning; that should put a lid on it.’
‘How about this man Morocco? Look, I’ve been there; I know how you’re liable to be feeling about him.’
‘Liable to be,’ he agreed, ‘but I’m not. Morocco’s a relative innocent in this carry-on, so don’t go looking to give him an editorial hard time. Let him stay a Scottish celebrity hero. Between you and me, the guy’s done me a favour.’
‘If that’s what you want, I’ll pass it on to June.’ He chuckled, a deep sound that made Skinner think of one of his vices, a secret that he shared with Seonaid, his younger daughter: a spoonful of Nutella, scooped straight from the jar. ‘I don’t tell her anything, you understand. On the Saltire, she’s the boss.’