'How about Tony Manero?' Pye suggested. Martin and
Neville stared at him. 'You know, the guy in Saturday Night Fever?'
'Jesus, boy,' said the Head of CID, 'you need a spell as a Blue Meanie, out on the street persecuting motorists, to cure that sense of humour. For the record, this guy was not wearing a white suit when we fished him out, nor was he in any condition to go dancing.
'You get off to see Mr Pringle right now. Karen'll join you once she's been to St Leonard's.' Pye nodded and left the room with what looked like a quick disco shuffle. Neville turned to follow him, but Martin laid a hand on her sleeve. 'Hang on a minute, Karen.'
She sat down once more at the briefing table. 'You doing anything tomorrow night, after work?'
'Afraid so. I'm going down to Cockburnspath to see my mother; I'm staying over and driving back in the morning.'
'How about Thursday?'
She shook her head. 'Sorry again; I'm baby-sitting for Neil while he and the Boss kick each other around… not that I should be calling Lauren a baby. She's carrying the load amazingly well.' She paused. 'He'll be back before eleven, though. You could always come round to my place later.'
'Nan, that wouldn't do.'
'Andy,' she asked, 'what's up?'
He gave her a wry smile. 'My head, that's what's up. Completely fucked up. I need someone to talk to, someone close, someone who can help me get my priorities right.'
Karen looked back at him, not smiling; not at all. 'That's a coincidence. I need much the same myself. Yes, let's have a joint shoulder-soaking session. But not this week, eh?' She stood and kissed him, quickly. 'Sorry,' she said. 'Improper in the office and all that. 'Let's make a date for next week; if you still want to talk to me by then.' 'What d'you mean?'
'I mean that you're going out with Ruth McConnell on Saturday night. She let it slip in the girlies' room this afternoon.'
'Damn!' he swore. 'That's part of the problem; but only part.'
'And what about me?' she asked him, quietly. 'Am I part of it too?'
'I thought you and I were like-minded,' he said, eyes narrowing. 'I thought you wanted us to be the way we are.'
'You can't always get what you want… Am I?'
He sighed and walked towards the window. The view was not as panoramic as Bob Skinner's, but he could still see the front door. Sammy Pye was leaving the building, his light sports jacket slung over his shoulder. 'Yeah,' he murmured, at last. 'Yes, I think you are.'
'In that case,' she replied, 'don't be so crass as to think you can use me like that. In that case, I only want to talk to you when you've got something to tell me — or ask me. There's no point in having a sounding board who has an axe to grind — or plant in your head, as the case may be.'
He looked back at her, seeing things in her eyes that he had never seen before. No more steady, reliable, good buddy Karen; no more hot nights and hot breakfasts, with no complications. Should have known better, Martin. It always gets complicated, sooner or later.
'I'm off to St Leonard's, sir,' she said, suddenly businesslike. 'Then to Torphichen. When do you want me back here?'
'Whenever Dan gets a result,' he answered. 'Karen, I'm sorry. I know I'm a fucking idiot where my private life's concerned. I'll talk to you, soon.'
'Maybe; just don't promise what you can't deliver. I'll call you from Torphichen, when I've seen what Mr Pringle has lined up for us.' She left the room; he was relieved when she closed the door quietly behind her.
He turned and threw a punch at the wall; pulling it less than an inch short of making a fist-sized dent in the plaster. Swearing quietly to himself, he sat behind his desk, trying to restore some semblance of order to his mind. At once, he knew the first thing that he had to do. He picked up the telephone and punched in an internal number.
'Ruth,' he said, as the call was answered, 'it's Andy Martin. Listen, about Saturday night…'
'You want to call it off,' she replied, at once.
'I think I should.'
He heard her chuckle. 'Why am I not surprised? When I mentioned it to Karen, it was as if a freezer door had opened next to me. It's okay, really; I hadn't read anything into Saturday.'
'Of course not, but still… Look, this has got nothing to do with Karen…' He stopped at once, recognising his lie. 'Well yes, it has, but it isn't all about her.'
'Then God help her, Andy. She's a really nice girl and, if you'll pardon my French, she doesn't need to be fucked around. It might not look it, but I'm a lot tougher than she is. I could have a one-night stand with you and think no more of it. Karen might put on a front, but that's all it is. Be kind to her, please.'
'I will, Ruthie, I will. Honest.' He replaced the phone in its cradle, and stared at it for long, silent seconds, willing it to ring and distract him. It did.
'Andy, Dan Pringle. Sorry to bother you, but I've had Alan
Royston here with his shirt-tail on fire. Someone's been talking to the papers about the Water of Leith investigation, giving away all sorts of stuff. Get hold of today's News and you'll see what I mean; it's right on the front page.
'I've had an on-the-spot investigation here, and I'm satisfied that the leak didn't come from this office. The guy who wrote the story was Jack McGurk's brother-in-law, but Jack's promised me it wasn't him, and the guy's called me to confirm that.'
Martin frowned. 'So are you suggesting that it came from my office?'
'No, no, no,' said the Superintendent, hurriedly. 'I'm just telling you, that's all.'
'Good, because my staff know bugger all about the detail of that case — so that would leave me as the source. And if you're suggesting-'
'I'm not, for fuck's sake,' Pringle protested. 'I'm just telling you this because Royston asked me to. Look it was probably one of the divers, okay. Or a paramedic. Or a porter at the Royal, even. I'll investigate it further and report back to you.' The veteran growled. 'Christ, another burning shirt-tail.'
The Head of CID was grateful for an opportunity to laugh. 'All right, Dan, I'll run some water on it,' he promised. 'Keep me in touch.'
He hung up and dialled Alan Royston's office, asking his assistant to bring him a copy of the Evening News. When it arrived he spotted the offending story at once. He read it, once, then again, then a third time.
When he put the newspaper down, his forehead was locked in a frown and his vivid green eyes, in their tinted contact lenses, were blazing like emeralds.
22
'Do you ever think that our lifestyle might be bad for us?' Maggie Rose gazed at her husband across their small garden table. She was wearing a loose-fitting cotton shirt, bra-less, and denim shorts, an outfit as different from her business clothes as she could find, and the remnants of supper lay between them.
'What? Living off carry-out pizzas?' he said, with a disarming grin. 'We only do it once a week; that's hardly excessive.'
She raised an eyebrow. The evening sun shone on her rich, red hair as it fell across her forehead; it was dark, almost blood-like. Most people thought it was a tint, but Mario knew otherwise. Most people thought of Mags as serious and straightlaced, but he knew differently there too. She was deep, was Mrs McGuire, a bottomless sea in whom the big, tough Irish-Italian detective had swum lovingly since first they had met.
'Don't be flip,' she said. 'You know what I mean. I'm talking about our jobs; you in Special Branch, me in CID. Aren't you ever afraid that they might take us over?'
He laughed. He was in shorts also; tailored, with big pockets on each side. Strands of thick, black, curly chest hair had forced their way though his white tee-shirt. 'If you're suggesting I get a transfer to traffic, you're not on.'
She laid her glass on the table, smiling inside of herself. 'Mario!'