Thursday legends

Spike Thomson: in a sense the odd man out, the senior disc jockey on one of Edinburgh's commercial radio stations, the nearest thing North Berwick had to a resident celebrity.

Howard Shearer: the Diddler — Mcllhenney had often wondered where the nickname had come from, but had still to ask — the most enthusiastic, if least skilful member of the squad. A high-ranking fund manager, whose secretary arranged his diary to ensure that he was always at home for the five-a-sides on Thursday evenings.

And on his right, Bob Skinner: boss, friend, benefactor, whatever

… the man who had brought him into the squad, at a moment in his life when he had needed it most, killer squash player, karate maestro, golfing shark, but rough-and-ready footballer.

'The real high point of my night, though,' — the Diddler's high-pitched voice broke into his thoughts — 'was shifting big Mcllhenney here off his feet.'

'Ye'd better bring some extra padding next Thursday night then,' Grant Rock told him. 'The sergeant's going to be looking for you.'

'No need for padding, Grock,' said Neil. 'Not with an arse like he's got.' He drained his glass and stood up, waving across to Lauren and Spencer. 'Got to get these two home, lads. See you next week, and thanks once again.'

'He's a good bloke, that,' said Andrew John, moving his seat closer to Skinner, as the door of the lounge bar closed on the father and his children. 'You did well bringing him along here. Hellish shame about his wife.'

'Aye, it was that.'

'How long's it been now?'

The big policeman scratched his chin. 'Let's see. He's been with us for five months, since January, and she died about six weeks before that. Yes, just over six months.' 'What was she like?'

'Olive? Simply the best, like the song goes. A tremendous woman.'

'Cancer, was it?'

'Aye, in the lung. She gave it her best — they both did — but it was too much for her.'

'And how's he settled down since? It must be difficult for him with the two kids.' The banker paused. 'Of course, you would know that, wouldn't you?'

'That was a long time ago, Andrew, and I was only left with one — wee Alexis. You could argue that having the kids will have helped ease the loss, in a way, but it's not true. It occupies you, but you never forget; not for a second.'

'This boys' club of ours must help him too.'

'It does. Gets him out of the house once a week at least.'

'He's not a bad footballer.'

'Better than that. He played Junior, for Armadale, before he joined the force.'

Andrew John's eyes lit up with a new respect. 'Why d'you not bring him before, then?'

Skinner grinned. 'Never thought to. Anyway, he'd gone to seed. Since Olive fell ill he's lost a couple of stone at least, and got himself back into training. His father died of a heart attack a few years back; it's all the more important to Neil now that he stays fit, for the kids' sake if nothing else.'

'Talking about kids,' John continued, 'how's your new one getting on?'

The grin turned into a beam of delight. 'Our wee Seonaid? She's absolutely great. Sleeps all the time, unlike her brother.' 'And Sarah? How's she?'

'Loving it. For the first time in her adult life, she isn't thinking about work at all. The day after Jazz was born she insisted on being picked up from the Simpson to go to a crime scene. Not this time, though. Motherhood's finally got to her… thank Christ for it too, with three on our hands.'

The banker nodded. 'Of course, your adopted lad. He's settled in.'

'Fine, thanks. He's an intense wee boy, very clever; to see Jazz and him together you'd never know that the two lads weren't natural brothers.'

'Your older daughter, how's she?' John grinned. 'Might as well ask about them all,' he added.

'You'd be better asking Mitch Laidlaw about our Alexis. He sees more of her than I do; ten hours a day in the office at least. She's living in Leith now; nice wee flat she has.'

'No romantic entanglements?'

Skinner looked at him and sighed. 'I never ask, my friend. I never ask.'

3

Andy Martin stared at the wall. He had become familiar with it since moving into his town house in Dean Village. One or two friends and colleagues had asked him why he had bothered, since his new home was less than half a mile from his Haymarket flat; but those who really knew him needed no explanation.

Since his break-up with Alexis Skinner, the detective had been focused almost completely on his work. Sure, there had been the odd night out with his team. Sure, Bob Skinner and he remained as close as ever, and if Andy suspected that his friend was secretly pleased that the engagement was over, neither of them ever discussed the matter. Sure, on more than the odd occasion, he had dipped into his old address book for dates and the odd one-night stand, instant flings which more than anything else had served to show him that he had virtually no friends outside the job. And even they, or most of them, tended to be just that bit more distant now that he was high on the ladder, and on the fast track for Chief Officer rank.

He had never thought of himself as a lonely man; now he realised that, before Alex, he had been just that and, without her, he was once more. The Haymarket place had become intolerable for him. The part of him which mourned her loss saw her in every shadow; but the part of him, the stronger part, which could never forgive her, could never forget either, never forget the shock of discovery or the choking, blinding, deafening rage which had overwhelmed him when she had told him, in that damned house, that she had aborted their child.

So he had sold it, to a young, upwardly mobile couple, as they had been once, and had moved into the modern three-storey end-terraced house with a living room on the first floor, a small balcony overlooking the Water of Leith, and with at least one bedroom more than he felt he would ever need. And the wall had become his companion.

Of itself, it was nondescript, without windows, painted in a pale pastel colour, a barrier between his solitude and the busy life of his neighbour, a pleasant, middle-aged woman with a senior job in the Scottish Government administration, two daughters and a Vauxhall. But since moving in he had hung it, and most of the others, with his collection of paintings by contemporary Scottish artists, acquired over the years from galleries and sale rooms in and around Edinburgh, and on one or two occasions, from exhibitions at the city's respected College of Art.

Each one had for him its own personality, and said different things to him. They were his friends, although they were still acclimatising, blending into their new surroundings as he moved them around, finding the arrangement within the room's differing patterns of light which showed all of them at their best. 'Maybe now they're right,' he said aloud as he sat in his armchair and gazed at them. It occurred to him that he had not felt as peaceful for months, not for more than a year, when all was serene with Alex and him, before their conflicts had arisen; yes, maybe now they were indeed right.

The ladies liked them too; he grinned at the recollection of his pleasure at showing his collection to someone for the first time. Sally, an old flame, had been bowled over by them — literally, as it had turned out — only a week before. So had Jane, a month or so back. Karen Neville had never seen them, though, and he doubted if she ever would. The others were… safe; Karen was trouble waiting to happen.

He and the spectacular sergeant had come together in the wake of violence and of two vastly different personal tragedies. They had both meant it to be a one-off, but there had been a repeat performance, then another, and another, until finally he had allowed the relationship simply to fade away, before it reached the point at which he would have been obliged to move her out of her job in his office. He liked Karen, and undoubtedly they were great together under the duvet, but the memory of Bob Skinner's indiscretion with a member of his personal staff was too strong for him to push away.