`Maybe so, Mario, but it could be that London is so big that change just isn't as obvious.'
Cyril Kercheval's nice little Italian place was opposite two of McGuire's fondly remembered ale-houses. Mackie gazed through the window and was pleased to note that it was much quieter than their Chinese meeting place. Kercheval was waiting for them inside, with a raffia-bound bottle of Chianti uncorked on the table.
`Hello again,' he began, rising to greet them. What have you been up to since yesterday.. or can't you say?'
It's all right. Special Branch isn't nearly as cloak and dagger these days. We leave most of that to your outfit. Mario's new to the section, so I've taken the opportunity to introduce him to some of our opposite numbers down here.'
Kercheval nodded in what seemed to be approval. `Good, good. Not a wasted moment, eh?'
He looked at the menu, with a knowledgeable eye. Inspector,' he said, putting it down and filling their glasses with the dark red Chianti, 'you're a touch Italian, I think. How about choosing for us. On the MI5 tab, of course.' He sipped at his wine. 'Good stuff, this.'
If you insist,' said McGuire, a good enough detective to know when he was being patronised. He spoke rapidly to the waiter in Italian. The man scribbled on his pad, reddening in the face at one point, and disappeared down a narrow staircase set in a corner of the dining room.
`Well? What did you order?'
`Scotch broth — that's soup of the day — and three Aberdeen Angus sirloins, medium rare, in a whisky sauce, with chips and peas. Sherry trifle to follow. My nose tells me that's all they're capable of cooking here. Oh yes, and I said to him that even without tasting it I could tell that the Chianti was shite, and could he please bring us a real bottle and uncork it at the table, otherwise there'd be hell to pay on account of us being coppers.'
He smiled showing all of his gleaming front teeth. 'That's only a rough translation, of course.'
Kercheval was as red as the waiter. 'Oh, I see. Glad to have you along in that case.' He turned quickly to Mackie. `What a, new s from the North? About Skinner, I mean.'
`None, either way. Mario phoned his wife an hour ago. They say that today will be crucial.'
`Mmm. Must be a worrying time for you both. Of course, you may not know him that well, what with him being Deputy Chief and all that.'
Mackie looked at him coolly, wondering at the sea change in, his manner from the day before. 'Doesn't matter what rank he is. He's a copper and he's one of us. As it happens, Mario and I have both seen action with the boss. I was his PA before Maggie took over the post.'
Oh,' said Kercheval, 'when you used the term PA yesterday, I assumed that Mario had married the boss's secretary.'
McGuire grinned meaningfully at the bachelor Mackie. 'A man could do worse,' he said,
'but my wife's a Detective Inspector. She outranked me until a couple of days ago.'
The waiter reappeared with a fresh bottle of Chianti, and opened it ostentatiously, handing the cork to McGuire as he poured a tasting sample into a clean glass. McGuire sniffed the cork, sipped the wine and nodded. The waiter filled three new glasses. As he withdrew, McGuire handed him the original bottle and spoke again in Italian. The waiter took the bottle with a thin, ungracious smile.
`What did you say then?' asked Mackie.
I told him to take the first stuff home, put it in his car radiator and wait for a really cold winter.'
The DCI shook his balding head in mock despair. `So Cyril,' he said to the MI5 man.
'What have you got for us?'
Kercheval sipped the replacement Chianti, eyes widening at the difference. Slowly he replaced his glass, then looked solemnly up at Mackie. 'Nothing, dear boy, I'm afraid.
The two Scots stared at him, astonished. 'What?' said McGuire, his black eyebrows coming together in a heavy frown.
'As I told you, I went to see the DG, and asked if I could release the file on Davey to your investigation. He told me to give him a couple of hours. He called me back in last night, and said that we couldn't do that.'
'Why the hell not?' demanded Mackie.
I don't question my DG, dear boy. Especially not when he's been to the PM about it.'
`You sure he did that?'
Oh yes. I shouldn't tell you this, but it was the PM who stopped it. I'd have let the file go, especially since Davey's dead, and the DG always trusts my judgement.'
`So it seems that our fearless leader, the bastard, must have a short memory when it comes to people saving his life,' Mackie snarled.
Either that,' said McGuire, who had stood behind the man as a human shield on that same rain-soaked evening, 'or he has a bloody good reason for keeping that file closed!'
FIFTY-NINE
‘This husband of yours definitely wants to waken up, Dr Grace. It's a bit ahead of my schedule, but if you agree, then I think I'm going to let him.
From her seat by the right-hand side of Bob's bed, Sarah looked up at Mr Braeburn. 'As far as I can see, he'd be less stressed off sedation. So yes, I agree. Take him off the drip.'
The tall, lugubrious consultant, dressed on this occasion in a white coat, beckoned to a waiting nurse. 'Disconnect Mr Skinner's IV sedative, please. Continue with the nutrients, but take him off the grog.'
The young woman did as she had been instructed, disconnecting the tube through which the drug had been flowing into Bob's arm.
`Given the dose he was on, I'd expect it to be about three hours before he's ready to come round, but with this fellow, God alone knows. Normally I'd take him off the ventilator in about an hour, but if we're both satisfied that he's ready to breathe on his own, I'll take the tube out now.'
Sarah almost blurted out her, 'Yes,' but stopped, forcing herself to think like a doctor, rather than a distraught, exhausted wife desperate to hear her husband speak. She thought back to his reactions over the last few hours, and looked at the steady, positive signs showing on the monitors. She glanced across at Alex, who sat on the other side of the bed, holding her father's left hand tight and watching her anxiously.
‘I’m happy with that. Let's take the tube out before he wakens and chokes on the bloody thing.'
`Right,' said Braeburn. 'Would you like to assist me?' She nodded and moved round behind him. Gently, she raised Bob's shoulders slightly and tilted his head back, allowing the surgeon to ease the wet, mucus-strung ventilator tube from his throat. In spite of herself, she glanced at the monitor again, and saw happily that his breathing was continuing at the same steady pace. She held him up as the nurse, from the other side of the bed, pushed pillows under him to support his weight in a more normal position.
Alex's eyes glistened as she watched the beginning of her father's return to life.
`You stay with him,' Sarah said, 'and I'll get us some coffee. We could still have a wait until he's back with us.'
They finished two coffees as they sat by the bedside, watching and waiting. Alex continued to hold his hand as if both of their lives depended upon it. Occasionally, Sarah would stroke his forehead, to confirm that his body temperature was coming back to normal.
Gradually, as they studied him for signs of wakefulness, Skinner seemed to become less inert. Once or twice, his legs moved slightly beneath the cover, and his toes flicked and twitched.
`You want to shake him, don't you,' said Alex, 'to waken him.'
`That's the one thing we mustn't do,' said Sarah. 'He has to recover consciousness gradually.'
`Not that it was ever easy to shake Pops awake. I remember when I was a wee girl, I always wanted to go to the beach on Sunday morning, sun, rain, hail or snow — but that was the one day when he used to sleep late if he had a chance.