Thursday legends

33

Martin read the report as carefully as all the others even though it was the last of the pile. It had been submitted by Detective Superintendent John McGrigor, CID Commander in the big, sprawling division which stretched into the hilly Borders country, summarising an investigation into stock thefts from sheep farmers in his area.

McGrigor was a big, bluff, ex-lock forward, who respected the young Head of CID as much for his success on the rugby field as for his achievements as a detective… maybe more, Martin thought on occasion.

The report was solid and workmanlike too, ending with the arrest of a gang of rustlers from South Shields and their initial appearance in the Sheriff Court. 'Sheep-stealers in Selkirk,' Martin chuckled. 'Right up big John's street.'

He had just initialled the report and placed it in his out-tray when his telephone rang. It was Sammy Pye. 'Sir, I've got Spike Thomson, the disc jockey, on for you.'

He frowned, surprised. 'Put him through.'

There was music in the background as the presenter came on line. 'Hello, Andy,' he began in a bright, friendly tone. 'Listen, I'm on air so this can't take long. A thought occurred to me this morning. Remember I invited you to sit in on the show sometime, to see how we do it?'

'Sure.'

'How would you like to come in on Monday as a guest, a bit of on-air chat? I promise I won't ask you anything about current investigations, or stuff you don't want to talk about. Just about police work in general. Good PR for the force.'

Martin's first instinct was to say, 'No, thank you', but he gave the offer a second thought. 'Yes, why not,' he replied. 'I'll have to clear it with Bob, but in principle, okay.'

'I'm seeing Bob tonight,' said Thomson, 'at the football. I'll mention it to him. Cheers, got to go, CD's finishing.'

Martin grinned as he hung up, until his direct line rang, a few seconds later.

'Afternoon, sir,' said Mario McGuire. 'I've had young Alice check with Guardian Security on Lawrence Scotland, like you asked. He works out of their South Gyle depot, but he's been on the sick all week. He called in on Monday with a stomach bug. 'He's at home. He lives in a flat up in Gilmerton, near the Drum: number seven Falcon Street.'

'How do we know he's actually there?'

'His office called him this morning,' McGuire replied. 'Just to see how he was… and to check that he was there. He was in.'

'What do they think of him as an employee?'

'Quiet and reliable, was how they described him. If they only knew, eh? I wonder why Alec Smith let him stay on at Guardian after he arrived there.'

'The Hoover Principle again, I guess.'

'Eh?'

'Have them where you can see them. Right,' Martin glanced at his watch: four-forty. 'I'll pick him up now.'

'Look, sir, I could do that,' the Inspector said. 'My feet are clear of North Berwick now; I could lift Scotland.'

'Nan. I said I would do it and I will. I want a look at this guy, anyway; you don't get to meet too many retired terrorist hit-men in the course of a working day.'

He put down the phone and walked into his outer office and called to DC Pye. 'Sammy, have we still got that Mondeo in the car park?'

'Yes, sir. I've got the keys.'

'Let's have them then.'

The Detective Constable looked surprised. 'D'you not want me to come?'

'I'd rather you got those performance-appraisal forms out to Divisions. I'll see to Scotland on my own. I don't think for a minute that he killed Smith. If he was going to do that he'd have done it before now… and he'd have shot him too, I'll bet.

'I might not even bring him in, I just want to talk to him; to find out what he knew about Alec, as much as anything else.' He picked up the car keys and walked out of the office.

The white Mondeo was in the Fettes park, where Pye had parked it the night before after bringing it back from St Leonard's. He drove out into the late afternoon traffic.

The drive to Gilmerton was tedious at the best of times. He switched on the radio, and selected Forth AM. '… and this is for Margot,' said Spike Thomson. 'I know it's a few days late, but it only came up on our play-list today.' His voice faded and the sound of Stevie Wonder singing, 'Happy Birthday' filled the car. Andy grinned to himself as he thought of his Monday appearance.

Falcon Street was hard to find. It was a cul-de-sac and it only had a few houses, built in two small terraces looking across an open field on the other side. Number seven was one from the end. He parked, stepped out, and walked over to it and rang the bell.

He was about to ring again, when a thin man of medium height opened the door.

'Lawrence Scotland?' he asked. 'I'm Detective Chief Superintendent Martin, I'd like a chat.'

'Yes,' the man replied, quietly, 'I've been expecting you, or someone like you.' He took his right hand from behind his back. It was holding a large pistol, which he pointed at the detective's stomach. 'You'd better come in.'

34

Mcllhenney trapped the ball, fired a pass wide to Grant Rock and moved forward into position to take the return. He felt as fit as in the playing days of his twenties and, maybe, even fitter since he trained harder now than then, and drank less.

Grock's one-two pass was tantalisingly short; Bob Skinner had a fifty-fifty chance of getting there first. No bailing out now: quicken the stride, right foot in, sole-first, big Bob off balance for once, spinning off to the side, clear shot at goal, on weaker foot — so what — drive! Rocket, top-left-hand corner, Spike Thomson in goal, nowhere. Stick that on your turntable, sunshine.

He turned and flashed a quick thumbs-up to Rock, acknowledging the pass, perfect now that it had worked. 'Lucky bastard,' Skinner grunted as he ran past him, back into his own half. 'Used to be,' he replied.

And then the door opened, signalling the arrival of the nine o'clock crowd; another gathering of the Legends was over. As usual everyone knew which side had won, although no-one had any idea of the final score.

Upstairs they showered, dressed and paid their money for the hall, then Mcllhenney drove Skinner, David McPhail and Benny Crossley, whom he had collected in Gullane on the way through, back to the Golf Hotel in Dirleton Avenue, their post-match pub. 'I think I'll arrange to be on your side next week, young man,' said Skinner, as he drove up the slope into the small car park. 'You're coming on to something of a game; four don't usually beat five.'

'Yes,' muttered McPhail. 'Bloody Diddler not turning up.'

'Why do they call him the Diddler, anyway?' Mcllhenney asked, as they stepped into the hotel's small bar.

Skinner laughed. 'That's down to Grant Rock; the man of a thousand nicknames. When he was younger Howard fancied himself as a great ladies' man. He was always going on about diddling this one, diddling that one. One night in the middle of the game, he's got the ball, dwelling on it as usual, and Grock shouts across to him, 'For fuck's sake, Diddler, over here!'

'We all fell about laughing and the name stuck. He's never been called anything else from then on. Even Edith, his wife, calls him Diddler now, although she thinks the name refers to his alleged skills with the ball, rather than with his cock.'

Skinner picked up the pint of lager which Lesley, the barmaid, had poured for him unasked, and eased his way into a window seat, well away from the bar so that it would not be he who went up for the next round. Spike Thomson sat opposite him, then leaned across the table. 'Bob,' he said, quietly. 'I was speaking to Andy Martin today; met him at a disastrous party last weekend. I put forward the idea that he might come on the show next Monday as a guest. I've got more scope for chat on this new AM format, and I want to have more people in.

'I promised him that I'd steer clear of current stuff and just talk about the generality of his work. He said he'd do it if it was okay with you.'