‘His boss made him stay with me,’ said Masters. ‘Not a happy man.’
‘He’s a bloody fool, then.’ Her big eyes, and a sudden surprised smile, flashed up at him.
Mr Shaw returned within three minutes, holding several photocopied sheets. ‘It seems to be a holding company,’ he said. ‘Very small. It lodges a balance sheet every year, for minimum compliance with the law. It seems to have nothing but fixed assets, depreciated over different periods. That usually means that it’s a device for holding property.’
Skinner stood up. ‘Just the device we were after, Mr Shaw. Thank you for being so patient with us. Come on, Pam.’ He took the photocopies, shook the man’s hand, and ushered Masters out of the office.
‘Yess,’ they hissed in unison, outside in the corridor.
‘Jackie Huish,’ said Skinner. ‘Pretty obvious if you know the key. Carole’s maiden name, Pam, in combination with his Christian name. And she’s a sole director. I wonder if even Jackie knows all the details of this company.’
‘Surely he would, boss?’
‘Not necessarily. Not if he felt he didn’t need to. Or maybe, not if Carole felt that he didn’t.
‘Tomorrow we’ll look at the property register to find out what Thirty-First Nominees actually owns.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘But that’s tomorrow. Tonight I’m bloody starving. The Atrium Restaurant’s in this building. Some say it’s the best in town. Fancy a bite?’
She laughed, and laid a hand on his arm. ‘Boss, I can’t let you feed me all the time. I’ve got food in the fridge, and you’re going home to an empty house. Come home with me, and I’ll make us both dinner.’
He looked down at her, doubtfully, for a few seconds, pondering her invitation. ‘What the hell,’ he said at last. ‘Why not? You’re on, Pam.’
Three inches of fresh snow had fallen on his car in the half-hour they had been in the building, and it was growing deeper by the second. He swept it away from the front and rear screens and from the side windows, with a cleaning blade which he took from the boot. As they slid into the car the snow created a fantastic winter scene as it swept through the yellow beam of Edinburgh Castle’s floodlights, high above them.
‘March can be a demon of a month, can’t it just,’ he said as he drove off, slowly and more carefully than ever. ‘Every year, when we think it’s spring at last, it chucks this sort of stuff at us. Remember how mild the weather was at the weekend too.’
He reached the lights at the foot of Lothian Road, and turned, into the clutches of Edinburgh’s notorious one-way system. ‘I would like to take the buggers responsible for this maze and lock them away for a very long time indeed,’ he muttered, almost to himself. ‘I told Jimmy we should oppose this tooth and nail, but the Police Board is stuffed with sympathisers of the sods who dreamed up this nonsense.’
In the darkness, she smiled, amused by his frustration.
Even with the car’s state-of-the-art steering, the treacherous crawl down Leith Walk was a nightmare. But at last they reached Pamela’s flat in one piece, and parked in a vacant space outside. The snow was heavier than ever, almost blinding. Skinner looked out from the shelter of the doorway as his assistant fumbled in her bag for her key.
‘I should really head for home,’ he said. ‘Trouble is, I doubt if I’d make it as far as Portobello.’
‘It’ll ease off,’ she said, opening the door. ‘And if it doesn’t,’ she added, cheerily, ‘I’ve got a spare room.’
She paused, as they stepped inside. ‘Or would that embarrass you?’
Bob smiled down at her. Had he thought about it at that time, he would have realised that for the first time in months, he did not feel completely alone. ‘I’m going on forty-six,’ he said. ‘All my life, I’ve been too easily embarrassed. Too old for that now. Whether it would be appropriate, though, that’s another question.’
The flat was on the attic floor. She showed him into a spectacular loft-style living area, perhaps eight metres square, with two large windows set into the wall looking for all the world like at inverted ‘W’. A large green leather sofa sat, facing out towards the blizzard, with a single matching armchair beside it, both set before a Sony television set. The floor was sanded, varnished beech, with small rugs strewn about here and there.
‘Make yourself at home, sir,’ she said. ‘I have to change into my cooking gear.’
‘I will if you stop calling me “sir”. I hope I’m here as a friend, not a senior officer. “Sir”’s for out there.’
‘What will I call you then?’
‘In here? Anything you bloody like.’
She grinned. ‘Okay, Eagle.’
‘What?’ He laughed, surprised. ‘What’s with Eagle?’
‘Because that’s how I think of you. When I was in marketing, the consultancy hired a personnel development consultant. Part of her technique was to make us see everyone in our group as the particular creature which they most resembled. It was a team-building exercise. . I think.
‘I still play the game, for my own amusement. I see you as an eagle. A great big bird, flying high, watching everything. Always ready to swoop when you see something wrong, and when you do, unstoppable.’
He was still laughing as he took off his jacket and threw it across the back of the sofa. ‘Hey, hold on a minute; an eagle’s a bird of prey, a ruthless hunter-killer.’
She nodded. ‘I know. That’s how I see you. And I’ll bet that’s how you’ve looked to some of the people you’ve put away.’
She grinned again. ‘What about me? What animal do I make you think of?’
He gazed at her, appraising her; studying her tumbling hair, and her big, round, smiling eyes. And suddenly, for the very first time he realised, consciously at least, of whom she reminded him: a wild creature at times, but human. Every time he looked at her, at the back of his mind he thought of Myra.
He played the game, nonetheless. ‘Okay. I see you as a panther. A big, sleek cat,’ he laughed, ‘with a purr like thunder.’
She whistled. ‘Wow! I’m flattered. A panther. What makes you see me that way?’
‘I knew another panther, once.’ He loosened his tie and grinned again. ‘Now, what did you say about dinner? This is one hungry eagle.’
Six doors opened off the room. She disappeared, with a wave, through the one closest to the window, on the left. As he waited for her return, he stood and looked out of the great uncurtained ‘W’. Although the central heating radiators kept the room at a comfortable temperature, a rim of ice had formed on the glass outside, and the snow had turned the waterfront into a belated Christmas card. It was piled high on the rigging of the floating night-spot, which was moored against the east embankment of the Water of Leith. It lay like icing on the pointed roof of the Malmaison Hotel, transformed from its earlier state as an abandoned customs house. There was no more traffic. The blizzard had won, and was rubbing in its triumph.
Pamela’s cooking gear turned out to be a blue and white apron, worn to protect a plain white teeshirt and baggy cotton trousers with a pattern which reminded him of the waiters in a certain beachfront Spanish bar. She showed him how to operate the television remote, but instead he followed her into the kitchen.
‘How can I help?’ he asked her.
‘If you’re serious, you can wash and cut up the peppers and stuff.’ She pointed to an assortment of vegetables, lying on a chopping board, and handed him a broad-bladed knife.
‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked. ‘Sorry I’ve none of that Spanish Eagle beer, but there is some San Miguel.’
He glanced out of the kitchen window. ‘Appropriate or not,’ he said, ‘your spare room looks inevitable, so I might as well. Not beer, though. I could murder a vodka and tonic.’
Pam nodded. ‘Good choice. Me too.’
They sipped their drinks as they worked, Bob preparing the vegetables for the wok and washing the rice, Pamela defrosting a brick of frozen fish soup in the microwave and cutting chicken breasts into strips. Gradually their meal took shape, until, as they finished their second vodka and tonic, Pamela pronounced it ready.