‘In that case, go and see Sullivan, Sauce,’ I advised him . . . although it probably sounded like an order, ‘and find out.’
There was nothing else to cover, other than the bill. I gave the waiter the universal signal, and dug out a credit card as he approached with the tab and a terminal in hand.
‘How are ye going to do it?’ Provan asked, as I keyed in my PIN.
‘Do what?’
‘Get back in. You’re no different from me. You’ll always have the itch and you’ll always have to scratch it.’
I smiled at him, cheerfully, even though I knew he was right. ‘There are other ways of soothing itches,’ I said. ‘Why would I want to get back in? As you said, the service is heading to hell in a handcart. Your problem is you’re still on board.’
Fifty-Six
One of my cures for skin irritations called me that evening, on FaceTime. I hadn’t expected to hear from Amanda Dennis in person, far less by video link, given that the head of MI5 tends to send messages rather than give them in person, but she and I go back a long way, and each of us knows things about the other that would send your average tabloid newspaper editor into a potentially fatal state of orgasmic delight.
‘My chap Houseman passed on your inquiry, Bob,’ she began without preamble. There was something about the way she said ‘my chap’ and the look in her eye as she said it that made me wonder, but I let it lie; I don’t know her that well.
‘Getting info out of defence intelligence is difficult at the best of times,’ she continued, ‘but when you’re asking about one of their nuclear warriors . . . Jesus, you can hear the chains rattle as the drawbridge is hauled up.’
‘Even though some of what I wanted to know is history?’
‘Even though. The military works by a rule book. Its little brain can’t cope without it and nobody has the authority to depart from it in any way. I had to go all the way to the head of their house to get an answer, and even then it had to be across the desk in his office.’
‘With the recorder running, no doubt,’ I suggested.
‘Of course,’ she laughed. ‘We all have to protect ourselves. It’s taken me years to get into this bloody chair. I’m not going to be forced out of it by some dispute over what I did or I didn’t say.’
‘How secure is this?’ I asked.
‘Secure enough,’ she assured me. ‘Even so, no names will be mentioned.’
‘No need,’ I said.
‘No. The first part of the message is thus; on the dates you gave me, the officer in question was on shore leave. At the present time, he’s operational, and not even the Prime Minister could speak to him.’
‘How about the Queen?’
She grinned. ‘Possibly, but only if her husband placed the call, him being the Lord High Admiral.’ She paused, long enough for the smile to fade. ‘This much I can tell you. The man is on a short cruise; there’s a new piece of kit on his sub and they’ve taken it on a proving voyage. They’re expected back at some point in the near future. Does that help you?’
I thought about it. ‘Yes, it does,’ I said. Then I really pushed my luck.
‘You’re joking,’ she exclaimed when I told her what I wanted. Then she looked at me and saw that I wasn’t.
‘Can do?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘But bloody hell, Bob, this is going to cost you.’
‘Name your price,’ I said.
‘I want you to agree to join my team. Not full-time of course, but on a case by case basis.’
We’d danced around the subject before but it was a very serious request that she was making. I thought hard before I answered.
‘Okay,’ I told her when I was ready, ‘as long as it doesn’t involve me being a cowboy. I have a young family, and another on the way, and I really would like to see them all grow up.’
Fifty-Seven
‘Why do you need this?’ Callum Sullivan asked. ‘I’m a bit leery about passing people’s names on to the police without them knowing.’
‘It may be relevant to our investigation,’ Sauce Haddock replied. ‘That’s all I can tell you just now.’
‘Are you saying it might help you find who killed Anna?’
‘It’s one line of inquiry among many, but yes, that’s possible.’
‘Then it’s yours, no problem. I’ll look it out and get it to you. Email okay?’
‘Absolutely. I’ll text you my address. Thanks, Mr Sullivan.’
He ended the call, then tapped in his promised message and despatched it. ‘Done,’ he declared.
Pye grinned. ‘Didn’t you offer to go to North Berwick and pick it up personally?’
‘Fuck off, sir,’ the DS grunted. ‘I forgot to ask you yesterday,’ he continued, a few seconds later, ‘since we were too busy talking about the boss; what did you think of our colleagues?’
‘I liked them,’ the DCI replied. ‘Mann’s formidable and Provan’s a character.’
‘It’s all an act with him: the way he spoke to the big man, his whole rebel “Don’t give a shit” attitude. There’s a guy hiding behind that, and he’s very, very clever.’
‘You heard what Bob Skinner called him: “the best detective in the city” wasn’t it? So why’s he still a DS, that’s the question.’
‘I asked him,’ Haddock said, ‘straight out. He told me he was offered DI, when Mann was promoted, but he turned it down.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘According to him it was so he could stay below the radar, but it was pretty clear to me, he did it for her. He worships the ground that large lady walks on. He loves her.’
Pye laughed. ‘Romance in the ranks? That’s a bit fanciful, mate. He’s twenty years older than her.’
‘Nonetheless. When you and Lottie were talking I asked him about her, whether she was married and such. He told me her husband’s in jail. When he talked about him, his eyes were telling me that if the guy ever tries to come back, wee Dan’ll kill him.’
‘Indeed? Are you saying they’re . . . ?’
‘Hell no! That’s the sadness of it. On the surface he acts like he’s her uncle, but underneath . . .’
‘Then I hope it stays that way. They’re an effective CID team, obviously, but they’d probably make a lousy couple.’ He unsnapped his seat belt as Haddock brought his car to a halt outside the building that was their destination.
The detectives stepped out, buttoning their coats against the bitter east wind as they surveyed their surroundings. The headquarters and factory of Destry PLC were located together in a long white building, by far the largest in an industrial estate in what once had been the New Town of Glenrothes, until it was stripped of that status by a Westminster government.
‘One good thing about being part of ScotServe,’ Pye remarked as they headed for the visitors’ entrance, ‘is that we don’t have to tell our colleagues in Fife that we’re coming on to their patch.’
‘Yes,’ Haddock agreed. ‘Now name another.’
Double doors opened automatically, admitting them to a reception area, with a waiting area on the right and an enclosed booth on the left, where a young woman sat at a desk with a switchboard. She wore a headset and was speaking into its microphone as the newcomers approached. ‘Just one moment, caller,’ they heard her say, ‘and I’ll put you through.’
She flipped a switch, then rose. ‘Yes, gentlemen?’ She was tall, dressed in a black suit with a tight-fitting skirt that stopped just below the knee, and a man’s white shirt underneath, the first two buttons undone to reveal a hint of cleavage. A badge on her lapel introduced her as Marcella Mega. The cut of her dark hair made Haddock think of Cheeky.
‘We have an appointment with Mrs Stewart,’ Pye began.
The receptionist glanced at a wall clock. ‘Yes. You’ll be her ten thirty. If I could see your credentials?’ Her accent was not local; Edinburgh, private schooling, the DCI guessed.