It was Andy's turn to gasp as they stepped into the Radio Forth studio. He looked around for turntables and CD players, but saw none. 'Where's the gear?' he asked, as his host waved farewell to the out-going presenter, and pulled a second chair up to the beechwood console in front of the yellow-covered microphone which hung from the ceiling. There was a production booth on the other side of a thick glass panel but it was empty. The full complement of the Drive-Time show was them, and a programme assistant. 'This is Audrey,' said Spike. Martin smiled at the woman across the console as he sat down.
A jingle sounded from the big speakers, followed by a woman's voice. 'I'm Lesley Davis and this is Forth News.'
The broadcaster pointed to a video-display screen, bigger than the computer screen in his office. It seemed to be an integral part of the console. 'That's it. All of it. This studio is state-of-the-art; everything's on digital audio tape now and the whole show, other than the live voices, are on that touch-sensitive screen.
'No more cueing up vinyl. Now, I just do this.' His fingers flashed in a complex demonstration of the screen's functions. As Martin looked he saw that it was all there; the whole programme, set out in different sections, all of it timed to the second. He watched as the news-segment indicator counted down to zero.
And in that instant the man beside him changed; the quiet, chatty figure turned into the broadcast version of Spike Thomson; right out there and in the listener's face. 'Hi and welcome to Drive-Time, on Forth AM. Three hours of the music, news, conversation and traffic that means the most to east Central Scotland.
'A little later, I'll introduce today's special guest, the man in my hot-seat. But first…' He touched a corner of the screen, and the sounds of Gloria Estefan's brass section rang out.
He leaned back in his chair. 'That's us for nine minutes twenty, then ads. Relax. At least we can; I know of at least one FM station where they don't allow the presenters chairs. They like to keep them on their toes, literally. Seriously, though; you feeling comfortable?'
Martin nodded. 'I'm fine,' he said. 'I'm just gob-smacked by all this stuff.' i love it,' said Spike. 'I'm real a tech-head. This is like Toy Town for me.' On the desk a phone flashed, without ringing; he picked it up and spoke to the caller for several minutes. 'Okay, if that's your advice,' he said at last, 'sell the Royal Bank shares and buy Barclays.'
He hung up, with a quick glance at the screen. 'You saw the light as far as Rhian was concerned, I hear,' he murmured, casually.
'Yeah,' said Martin. 'She made me see a lot of things; I owe her that.'
'You're well shot of her, though. I didn't like to say at the time, but she's a man-eater. She tried for me, you know; I'm sleeping with her mother and she tried for me.'
'She and her sister will have had a bet about it. That's how it was with me. I should have seen it but I was thinking with my dick at the time.'
'Her sister?' Spike mused. 'Her big butch sister? You reckon?'
'Yup. You still keen on Juliet?'
'Oh sure. I've asked her to move in with me; she's thinking about it. Not the bloody parrot though,' he laughed. 'That stays.'
He looked at Martin. 'Rhian'11 grow out of it one day,' he said. 'She's not a bad girl; just a bit screwed up over her father.'
'What, about him running off you mean?'
'That's what she told you. It's what Juliet told me too. 'S not true, though. Lesley Davis, the queen of our newsroom, spread the real story all around the office when she heard we were seeing each other; hell of a bloody gossip, Lesley, like all journos. She told the whole damn place that Juliet's husband committed suicide; it was hushed up at the time by the media, as these things often are.'
He held up a hand as the light on top of the console shone red.
'Okay!!!' Spike Thomson's alter ego reappeared like a genie from a bottle. 'Now, I promised you a special guest, and here he is…'
59
'… so you're saying, Andy, that we should forget all the drama that we see in the movies and on the telly? You're saying that real detective work is boring?'
Martin laughed easily. 'Not at all, Spike. CID is only boring to those who are bored by life itself. At the centre of a major criminal investigation lies a lot of hard work, gathering information, from scientific analysis of potential evidence found at crime scenes or, sometimes, revealed by post-mortem, to the picture of the event painted by witness statements and by wider canvassing through door-to-door interviews, or occasionally re-enactments to trigger the memories of people who might have seen something important without realising it.
"The skilled detective will sit and look at all this and build what amounts to a virtual-reality model of the crime. From that he or she — and these days, more and more women are filling senior CID posts — will draw conclusions and follow any signs which may lead to the perpetrator.
'Once everything has fallen into place, an arrest is made and we present a report to the Procurator Fiscal — whose agents we are under the Scots system — saying, "This is whodunit and this is our case against him."
'The public think of the term "forensic science" in a very narrow sense. The skilled detective who looks analytically at all of the physical facts of an investigation, and determines what they say about truth or untruth, innocence or guilt — he or she is the true forensic scientist.'
'So what you're saying is, if you wanna be a detective, you have to have a mix of analytical skills and patience.'
'That's right. Although I mustn't miss out the magic ingredient.'
Spike Thomson seemed caught off guard. 'What's that?' he asked. 'Luck.'
'Nice one, Andy,' said Maggie Rose as she switched off the car radio. 'What he didn't say, though,' she murmured to her husband, in the passenger seat beside her, 'is that to get to the very top, you need to be a bloody good communicator as well — just like him.'
She swung their car off the Dirleton by-pass as she spoke, entering the village from the eastward side, then made another quick right turn, following the sign which read, 'Yellowcraigs 1' and showed a caravan symbol.
'Don't tell me that Alec Smith's safe house is in the middle of a bloody caravan site,' Mario exclaimed.
'I doubt it,' Maggie replied. 'There's a lot of land down there — a hell of a lot. Some of it's public but most of it's landed estate. The Kinture holding is relatively small, isolated between the sea and Eilbottle Forest.'
She drove along the narrow twisting road, until she came to a large parking area with only a few cars dotted about. As she turned into the entrance, an elderly attendant approached, only to back off at the sight of her police warrant card. She drew up as close as she could to the gate which led to Yellowcraigs beach, switched off and reached into the back seat for her briefcase.
'I've got a map of the area,' she said. 'Have you got the keys?'
'Of course. I'm a true forensic scientist; I wouldn't overlook something like that.'
She smiled. 'Don't take the piss out of the Head of CID; he might hear you.'
'I wouldn't be surprised. Tell you, Mags, I'll never underrate that man again.' He paused, as they walked down the widening path to the beach. 'Which reminds me. What did you think of this morning's sensation?'
'What are you talking about?'
'Ah, of course; you didn't go to the Divisional Heads' meeting this morning. Karen Neville's gone: resigned the force.'
'Why?'
'Because she and Andy are getting married. She's moved in with him already.'
'Bloody hell! I'd heard stories about them, but I never imagined
… I mean, we all know Andy but… Och, good luck to them both. They deserve it. Still… wow.'
'Aye, last week a sergeant; next month, our next Chief Constable's wife.'