There was a tall uplighter in the corner of the room, but in spite of it Pam lit two candles on her round dining table. They ate, mostly in silence as they concentrated on their food. The fish soup was followed by the chicken, stir fried and served over the rice with a robust tomato, courgette and pepper sauce, all with a bottle of strong, smooth Argentinian red wine to wash it down.
‘Pam,’ said Skinner, as he forked up the last of the rice, ‘ten days ago I had a slap-up dinner in the best restaurant in Los Angeles. It wasn’t a patch on that.’
She smiled back, almost coyly, through the candlelight. ‘Thank you, sir. . sorry, Eagle. Food’s always at its best when you’re really ready for it.’ She drained the last of the Echart from her glass. ‘There’s no dessert, I’m afraid, but. .’
She skipped through to the kitchen, returning a few seconds later with a tray bearing cups and saucers, a jug of steaming black coffee and a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream liqueur. ‘Try this,’ she murmured, as she poured the coffee and topped it off with the Bailey’s, added as if it were milk. ‘Irish coffee, the Pamela Masters way.’
Intrigued, he picked up his cup and took a sip. His eyebrows rose. ‘My God, that’s indescribable. Why have I never done that myself?’
They emptied the jug and much of the Bailey’s. Finally Pam produced goblets and a bottle of Hennessy cognac. ‘What’s the good of being a single woman if you can’t indulge yourself,’ she said.
With their brandies warming in their cupped hands, they sat on the green leather sofa, looking through the window at the falling snow, Pamela at one end, with her legs curled under her, Skinner at the other. On the table, the candles still guttered, but the uplighter was dimmed, and the only other light in the room spilled in from the waterfront outside.
‘Who was she, then?’ she asked at last, in its silver glow, ‘Your other panther?’
He looked down at her, settling into the sofa, feeling warm, muzzy, replete and very comfortable. ‘It was Myra. She was quite a bit taller than you, but. . Your eyes, the way your hair is, the way you move: you’re different, you understand, but in a way I can’t pin down, you’re very like her.’ He smiled.
‘And what about me. Who do I remind you of?’
‘No-one,’ she laughed. ‘You’re an absolute one-off.’
There was a long silence as they sat gazing out of the window at winter’s last shout, sinking deeper into the leather cushions. It was Skinner who broke it. ‘I’m thinking, Pam,’ he began, ‘that I should really phone Fettes and have one of the Traffic Department Landrovers pick me up and take me to Fairyhouse Avenue. There’s a spare room there as well.
‘You could bring the BMW in in the morning, if the roads are okay by then.’
She nodded. ‘I will, if that’s what you decide. But can you trust the Traffic boys?’
‘What do you mean?’ He looked at her puzzled.
‘Can you trust them not to put two and two together and make seventeen, when they pick you up from my flat at going on for one in the morning?’
He laughed. ‘That is a very cynical view of the loyalty and discretion of your average Traffic Department colleague. And it’s absolutely spot on. It’s a fair bet that the news would be on the canteen grapevine before the current shift was over.’ He paused. ‘Of course, I could always threaten them with crucifixion if they breathed a word.’
It was Pamela’s turn to smile. ‘That would really start them thinking, wouldn’t it.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. If they hadn’t been picturing the worst, that would do it for sure. Okay. Your spare room it is, then. And it’s time I was off to it. We’ve got a big day before us tomorrow.’
He stood up, reaching out a hand to help her to her feet. ‘Thanks a million, Pam. It’s been a smashing evening, and it’s done wonders for me. I was getting pretty doomy, without knowing it. I really needed to relax, and I’m grateful to you for helping me do it.’
She looked up at him. ‘It was a pleasure. With one thing and another, you must be having a tough time just now.’
Bob shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe so, but no-one’s immune from problems, and no-one can assume that any marriage, any relationship is so strong it’s fireproof. Maybe too, if I was honest about it, I’d see that some of my problems are of my own making. Yes, maybe.
‘But for Christ’s sake, Pam,’ he burst out. ‘How are you supposed to react when you feel betrayed by someone you love?’
65
She sat up in bed, her legs pulled up under her chin. It had been a long time since her parting from Alan Royston, and since a man had spent a night under her roof.
The heating had been on all night and, despite the winter outside, the room was hot, so she had thrown back the heavy quilt. She was still thinking as she had been when she had fallen asleep, of his surprising vulnerability, and of his obvious helplessness in the face of his split from his wife. She knew the feeling herself, having been through divorce, and she knew that it was an area too personal and subjective for her to lend any more support than a sympathetic ear.
She jumped when the bedside telephone rang, and looked automatically at the alarm clock. It showed 7.19 a.m. Wondering who the early morning caller could be, she picked up the phone. ‘3179,’ she answered.
‘Pamela.’ A clear voice, familiar to her already, came down the line. ‘It’s DCS Martin here. I don’t suppose the Boss told you where he was going last night, did he? I need to contact him, but I can’t raise him at Gullane, and his mobile’s switched off. He’s not at his Edinburgh number either.’
She gulped, and hesitated for a second, before making up her mind. ‘Actually, he’s here, sir,’ she told the Head of CID. ‘He drove me home last night, then got snowed in. Hold on, I’ll call him.’ She jumped out of bed and slipped on her robe, then skipped across the living room.
‘Boss,’ she called out, loudly, rapping on the closed door of the spare room. ‘Telephone. It’s Mr Martin. You can take it in the kitchen if you like.’
‘Okay, Pam, thanks,’ came the voice from within. ‘I heard it ring. I’m just coming.’
A few seconds later the door opened and he stepped out, barefoot, with a black shadow around his jawline, and wearing the trousers of his suit. He smiled at her and headed for the kitchen. As he passed, she could see, showing red and vivid still, the scar of the surgery through which his life had been saved a few months earlier.
Skinner took the phone from its cradle on the wall. ‘What’s the matter, Andy? Did you lift Terry earlier than planned?’
‘We never got to Torphichen, Boss. We picked up a treble-9 call forty-five minutes ago from the cleaner in his office in Stafford Street. That’s where I’m calling from. I think you should get up here.
‘The Comedian won’t be turning the key on Jackie Charles for us, I’m afraid. At least not without the aid of a medium. His brains are all over the floor, and he isn’t getting the joke at all.’
66
Skinner showered, then shaved, using a razor and foam left months before by Alan Royston. He was barefoot, but otherwise fully dressed when he rejoined her in the kitchen. She had thrown on jeans and a sweatshirt. Two mugs of coffee, a plate of buttered toast, and another of sliced tomatoes were set out on the breakfast bar.
He looked at her and smiled. ‘Royston didn’t leave any socks behind, did he? I hate wearing the same pair twice running.’
She shook her tousled head. ‘No, he didn’t. He never wanted to move in. . not that I’d have let him, mind.’
‘More fool Royston,’ said Skinner, taking her by surprise. ‘Sound man, Alan. He’s good at what he does, but he lacks imagination. I expect he’ll be on the scene at Stafford Street.’
Pam frowned. ‘It’s a big blow, isn’t it, losing Douglas Terry?’
‘Yes it is, in terms of getting Jackie Charles. We’re not just back to square one, we’re right off the board. Terry was our best hope of a lead to Carole’s killer too. I tell you, Pamela, it’s worrying.’