The DCC took a bite from his pint, and shrugged. 'Sure, I don't mind. You never bloody invite me, though,' he added, with a grin.
'I have done and you know it,' the presenter protested. 'You've always turned me down.'
'Aye, well. More Andy's style than mine. Even if you started playing games on air you'd never wind him up; stick an awkward question at me and I'm liable to put you off air… not that you would do that, of course!'
'I promise, I promise.'
'Make way, lads, make way,' came a call from above, as Neil Mcllhenney leaned over the table looking for clear space for a tray, on which he was carrying a bottle of port and nine glasses.
'What's this?' asked Mitchell Laidlaw, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the W amp;J Graham's vintage. 'You had a birthday two months ago, Neil.'
The big policeman's only reply was a quiet smile.
'This is something else,' said Skinner, as his exec filled the glasses. 'As of this week, Detective Sergeant Mcllhenney is now Detective Inspector Mcllhenney. From now on, you lot'll be getting kicked by two line commanders, not just one.'
'Congratulations, Inspector,' Andrew John called out, triggering of a chorus of congratulation as he raised his glass in a toast. 'Can I sell you an ISA?'
'Not a chance,' the new inspector replied. 'But the Diddler's been trying to flog me one that his firm operates.'
'You won't go wrong there,' the banker conceded. 'The wee fella might be an eccentric on the football field, and a grade one chromium-plated gossip, but he's one shit-hot investment manager.'
He leaned back, allowing Lesley room to clear away some pint glasses; as he did he spotted a newspaper left on the floor by an earlier customer; he bent and picked it up. It was a copy of the Evening News, two days old. 'Have you put a name to this bloke yet?' John asked, pointing to the likeness on the front page.
'I don't think so,' Skinner replied, 'but I've been away; I don't know the whole story.'
'Let's have a look,' said Mcllhenney. 'I haven't seen that e-fit yet.' He took the newspaper from John and studied in.
After a few seconds he started to laugh… and then the laugh tailed off and was replaced by a frown, as he thought of the man who treated Thursday as if his life depended on it, who never missed a game, yet who, without warning, had failed to appear that evening.
He passed the crumpled News to the DCC. 'Here, Boss,' he said. 'Look at this picture, this unidentified floater. Could that or could that not be the Diddler?'
35
'This is very stupid, Lawrence. I'm the Head of CID, for God's sake; my staff and various other people knew I was going to talk to you. It's a matter of time before they come looking for me.'
Martin had been sitting on the wooden kitchen chair for almost five hours, his hands tied behind his back. In that time neither he nor his captor had said a word. Scotland had simply sat there, gazing at him, levelling the gun at him. He knew that he had been playing a game with him, a game of growing tension, growing terror. Okay, the guy had won.
'You better start praying that they don't then. For the first time that doorbell rings I'm just going to blow your fucking brains out.'
The detective looked at him and knew that he meant it; cold terror gripped him inside, but he made a conscious effort to keep it from showing. 'They won't ring the doorbell until there's an armed response team in position outside. How are you going to get out?'
'I'm not. Once I've shot you, I'll just give myself up. When they try me I'll tell them the whole story of what Alec Smith did to me. That Gavigan bloke; he's still around. I'll call him as a witness.'
'You've never met Bob Skinner, have you?' Martin asked. 'No, but I'd like to. I'd like to have him sitting in that chair next to you.'
'You wouldn't, believe me. There's a flaw in your plan; Bob's not going to let you walk away from here. You kill me and he's going to kill you, not just because he's my best pal, but because of the story you could tell in the witness box. He's a crack shot, incidentally, and he's a very patient man. I'd keep well away from that window if I was you.'
'I don't care about being dead, mister; I've been dead before. But thanks for that advice.' Scotland walked round behind Martin, to the window, out of any line of sight from outside. The kitchen went dark, suddenly. The detective glanced over his shoulder and made out the shape of Venetian blinds, now admitting only the narrowest strips of daylight.
'Is this your standard practice, pre-execution?' he asked. Keep him talking, Andy. He's got a lot to say.
'Was, Mr Martin, was. I'm retired now, remember. Alec Smith retired me about ten years ago: or he thought he did. But as it happens, you're right. I always used to do this in Ireland; the Provos, and the Ulster-based Loyalist guys, they would just kill quick and off. There's the target, bang, another couple in the head to be sure, job done.
'I didn't like that approach. That was much too impersonal for my taste. The way I saw it, the people I was sent to kill were human beings just like me; they had the right to know who was going to kill them, and why. Plus, they had a right to prepare themselves for the end of their lives.
'So I would pick them up, take them to a safe house and sit up all night with them, talking to them about the conflict, listening to their threats often enough, but very rarely listening to them beg for their lives. They were real soldiers, most of those boys, I'll give them that.
'Are you going to beg?' he asked suddenly.
'Fuck off.'
'We'll see, when the time comes. Anyway, we'd have our death watch, my customers and I, then at dawn I'd give them the Last Rites
…'
'You'd what?' Martin interrupted.
'I'd give them the Last Rites. They were all Catholics, the people I killed over there, and I knew the words, sort of, so I gave them the Last Rites. It meant something to them, believe me.'
'Sure, the final insult.'
'Ah, you're a Catholic then. But you don't deserve the Last Rites, you're a copper.'
He leaned over and tapped Martin in the middle of the forehead with the barrel of the big pistol. 'I used to shoot them right there, so they could see it coming. I always wondered whether they did… see the bullet, I mean. Think about it: if someone shoots you right in the middle of the scone at close range, do you see the bullet just before impact? Do you die before you see the flash? I'm pretty sure you don't hear the bang. I used to time that; when I heard the bang the guy's brains were usually on the way out the back of his head. One or two of them flinched though, looked away just as I was pulling the trigger. Fucking brains everywhere then, even on me; top of the head comes right off with a heavy-calibre gun.'
'You're going to make a hell of a mess of your kitchen,' the detective growled.
'Ahh, a hard boy,' said Scotland, knowingly. 'We'll see that too, when the time comes, just how hard you really are. Anyway, I'm not going to shoot you here… not unless somebody rings the bell, that is.' Martin began to think, frantically. Who expected him that night, or might call on him, find him missing? Rhian? No, no more. Karen? No, baby-sitting for Neil. Alex? Unlikely. Pye? No. Mario? Christ, I hope not. Change the subject, change the subject.
'Earlier on, Lawrence,' he kept his tone even; no panic, no fear, 'you said that Alec Smith only thought he'd retired you. Are you saying you've been active since then?'
'No. I'm saying that the likes of big Smith couldn't retire me. I withdrew, because it was too dangerous for the people I worked with for me to be around them. I could never be completely sure that I had evaded surveillance.'
Scotland looked at his prisoner and let out a sort of snort. 'Hhghh. You realise you haven't even asked me how Smith thought he had retired me? That means you know. Probably always bloody known. I imagine that big bastard was really proud of himself, talking it all over Special Branch. Not so fucking cocky now, though.'