Lethal Intent (29 page)

'Was it your impression that he didn't want to be recognised?'

'Mmm.' Betty Bee paused. 'That might have been the case.'

'Can you tell me anything about him, race, size, age, even if they're approximations? Could he have been a teenager?'

'Definitely not. His clothes were wrong for one thing: he wore a long overcoat, hardly a young person's garment. I only had the most fleeting glimpse of his face, but I don't think he was that young. He was a white man, dark-haired and solidly built. That's all I could swear to.'

'In the circumstances, that's pretty good. Thank you very much.'

'Does it help?' she asked.

'Honestly, I don't know. But it's interesting. How can I get back to you if I need to?'

She recited a mobile number; he wrote it down, then read it back to confirm that it was correct. 'Thanks again,' he said. He ended the call, staring out of the kitchen window as he pondered its potential significance.

'What was that?'

He looked across at Jen. 'Maybe nothing, but it's got my brain working again. If you don't mind, darling, I'm going to postpone that trip to the travel agent till later. First, I want to talk to my boss.'

Fifty-eight

Thanks to a sperm count that was much closer to twenty than the twenty million regarded as a marker of fertility, Mario McGuire knew that his chances of having children of his own were of the same order as those of a single tadpole trying to swim the Atlantic. Since he had made the discovery, early in his marriage to Maggie Rose, he had been philosophical about it, but he had taken particular pleasure in the company of Lauren and Spencer all through their childhood.

He was godfather to them both, and took his responsibilities seriously; their first communions had each brought a tear of pride to his eye.

The big detective's soft centre would have come as a surprise to the many villains he had terrorised over the years, but it was in evidence as he pulled his borrowed car into the park at the Midlothian Ski Centre. It had been known as Hillend when he had first brought the children there four years earlier, and he doubted that many of the citizens of the Edinburgh area were aware of the name change. When first he had looked out on to the morning, he had been concerned that it might have been closed because of the severity of the overnight snowfall, but a phone call had reassured him that it was operating normally.

Its beauty was that it had artificial runs, and was floodlit; it was in use all year round, apart from the two weeks in June when it was closed for maintenance. Both Lauren and Spencer had taken naturally to the sport, and after four years had reached expert status and had graduated to the most severe runs. They donned their ski-suits and boots eagerly; when they were all ready, Mario bought them each a strip of tickets, and they set off for the lift to the top of the slope. He let Lauren go in front, but kept Spencer beside him.

When he stepped out of his seat, he realised that they were almost alone. He felt himself frown, wondering if the sport was on the wane.

'Is this as good as Italy or Switzerland, Uncle Mario?' Spencer asked him. He had learned the basics of skiing in the Italian Alps, on holiday with his parents. He smiled as he thought of it: his dad, big Eamon, had been absolutely useless, but fortunately he had inherited his mother's eye and sense of balance.

'It's not the same thing at all,' he replied. 'What you have to remember is that this is an artificial slope. It's very good, and it's a far more reliable place to ski than any of the Scottish resorts, just because it doesn't need snow, and has the lights, but don't think for a minute that it's anywhere near as good as the Alps.'

'I want to be a downhill racer when I grow up,' the boy said.

'I thought you wanted to be a rugby star?'

'Maybe I'll be both.'

'I don't think you'll manage that, kid. If you play top-class rugby, they won't be keen on you skiing. There's too big a risk of injury.'

'Maybe I won't tell them. Will I be as good as you one day?'

'You're as good as me now. This slope is just about the best I can do these days, and you two handle it easily.'

'It's great to be on snow,' Lauren exclaimed, 'and not just the artificial.'

'So enjoy it, then.' He watched as she set off, gliding carefully but gracefully down the run. Spencer set off after her, and soon overtook her.

'Hey, no racing,' Mario yelled after him.

They made run after run, staying on the slope for over an hour, until there was hardly anybody else there, and their passes were almost used up. 'Two more runs each and that's it,' he said, as the slope's only other occupant, a bulky figure in a white suit and heavy goggles, a designer skier if ever Mario had seen one, made his way to the lift. He paused. 'Tell you what, you two go up on your own this time. I'll watch you from down here and see how your style looks. And remember, Spence, no racing!'

As he spoke, he was aware of the snow beginning to fall afresh. 'Get up there: if this gets any heavier, that'll be us for the day, for they'll close the slope.'

Handing two tickets to the attendant, the youngsters poled across to the lift, jumped on and headed for the top once more. When they were a little more than halfway up, Mario felt a pang of concern: the snow had thickened and they were out of his sight. He waited for a few minutes, his unreasonable anxiety growing, until finally he saw Lauren's red suit as she slalomed her way downhill.

She was smiling as she reached the foot, turning to look at her brother. But Spencer was nowhere to be seen. 'Where is he?' she asked. 'He was ready to come after me; he said he was going to race me anyway.' She raised her goggles and he could see the alarm in her eyes. 'Maybe he fell,' she ventured.

'Maybe,' Mario conceded. 'Let's go up and find him… although if the wee sod skis past us when we're on the lift I'll kick his arse for him.'

They made their way across to the lift, but it had stopped. 'Closed,' the attendant said, firmly. 'The snow's too bad.'

'Start it up,' the detective ordered. 'The boy's still up there.'

'He'll ski down; I watched him, he's good.'

Mario raised his goggles and looked him in the eye. 'I'm a police officer,' he told him, more calmly than he felt. 'Start it up and that's an order.'

The man caved in and switched on the continuous belt. Mario settled himself into a support, only to see Lauren jump on board beside him.

'Hey, you stay here,' he told her.

'Like hell I will,' she replied, sounding exactly like her mother.

They rode the lift peering through the ever-thickening snow, but seeing nothing. The journey seemed to take an eternity, but at last they reached the top. There was no sign of the boy.

'Spence!' the detective roared, anger overcoming him. 'Stop messing about, kid, or there'll be no rugby for six months. And that's if your dad lets you off lightly.'

As he gazed around, he felt a tug at his sleeve. 'Uncle Mario,' Lauren exclaimed, pointing. 'Look, those are his skis.' He followed her finger and saw that she was right: they were lying side by side; through the snow that was gathering on them he could see the maker's name. He traversed across towards them, and then his anger left him, to be replaced by fear. Beside them lay another pair, larger, adult size. And then he remembered the man, the would-be Franz Klammer in the designer gear, who had gone up on the lift before the children, but who had not come down.

He looked more closely at the ground and saw tracks, not clear footprints, but clear signs of someone climbing sideways over the hill, and perhaps of someone else being dragged. Trying not to let the panic show on his face, he ripped off a mitt, and searched inside his suit until he found his cell-phone. He found a stored number and set it up to be called, then handed the Nokia to Lauren. 'Take this,' he said, 'and call that number: it's the control room at police headquarters. Tell them that you're Chief Inspector McIlhenney's daughter, tell them where you are and that you're with me, and tell them that I want police here right away, equipped to climb the hill. Then you ski down and wait for them. Understood?'

Neil had told him in the past that her mother's death had made part of the girl into a woman overnight, but until he looked into her eyes, Mario had not understood fully what he meant. She looked back at him with calm, steady eyes that could have been Olive's, and nodded. 'Yes,' she said. 'Now you go and get him!'

He kicked himself free from his skis and headed off across the slope. At once he realised that he might have an advantage. He was strong and very fit, yet it was hard going for him… and he was not dragging a struggling boy. He pressed on following the tracks: the snow was heavy towards the top of the hill and it had begun to cover them already.

He glanced at his watch, and estimated that he had only another hour left of daylight, such as it was. He picked up the pace, until he achieved what for most men would have been impossible and broke into a run up the incline. His lungs burned with the effort, but he drove himself on. His legs felt that he had run a mile and more, and yet he knew that he had come only a couple of hundred yards. He paused to yell once more across the hillside. 'Spence! Spence!'

And on the wind, he thought he heard a faint reply: 'Uncle Mario!' a cry choked off.

He broke into his painful trot once more. His eyes were swimming, but he could still see the tracks, following them as they headed into the cleft at the top of the hill. He ran on, until ahead he saw a high outcrop of snow-covered rock.

Spencer was there, in a heap, trying to get to his feet. Mario started towards him… and then the snow seemed to move alongside him. He saw a white flash through the blizzard, he heard his godson cry out a warning, then lights exploded inside his head, and he knew no more.

Fifty-nine

Bob Skinner was happy. He had spent his morning watching cartoons with Seonaid, and playing video games with Mark… without winning once. After a hamburger lunch round the kitchen table he had spent two hours watching James Andrew hit orange-coloured golf balls in the snow on the children's course outside the Mallard Hotel. When they were finished, he had taken him into its warm, stone-floored conservatory, sat him down, and bought two pints, one lager, the other orange squash, and two packets of salt and vinegar crisps.

He looked at the bright face of the youngster, as he clutched his glass in both hands, and felt as if he was in another world, one without death, danger, sorrow, one full of optimism and bright dreams. It was a place he enjoyed. 'Sorry about the football, son,' he said, not for the first time that day, 'but it's not safe for the players in the snow.'

'I'd play in the snow,' Jazz replied.

'Sure you would, and I'd play with you if you wanted, but it couldn't be a real game, because nobody would see the lines, so they wouldn't know whether the ball was in play or not'

'We just played golf in the snow.'

'Not quite: we hit some shots, but we didn't putt; you can't putt through it.'

'I don't like putting. I only like hitting shots.'

Bob laughed. 'You and me both, kid, but if you want to play well, you'll have to practise chipping and putting for just as long as you practise hitting.'

'Will you practise with me, Dad?'

'Whenever I can, son, I promise.'

'It's a pity Mark doesn't like golf: he could practise with us too.'

'One day he will. Once I can persuade him that there are mathematics about golf, he will. Right now, he's only interested in playing it on a computer screen.'

'And Seonaid too.'

'No reason why not: she's in the process of mastering walking right now, but once she's done that, we'll try her out.'

'And Mum?'

Bob paused, and smiled.
'You sneaked that one up on me, you little so-and-so,'
he thought. 'If she wants,' he replied. 'Mum hasn't played golf for a while; I think she might be going off it.'

'Will she be home soon, Dad?'

'Yes, she will. She called me the other day and promised that she would. She has some business to do back in America and then she'll be home.' He glanced out of the conservatory windows, up towards the Smiddy and across the main street, where three new homes had replaced the old filling station and garage. Gullane was changing, but slowly, at its own pace.

The street-lamps were starting to shine bright: the short afternoon had become evening already. 'Come on, son,' he said. 'Time we went home.'

'Can we watch
The Lion King
DVD?'

'Again?'

'Please.'

He grinned. 'We'll put it to the vote.'

'That's all right, then: Seonaid'll do what I tell her, so I'll win.'

Bob was still smiling as he took their empty glasses and the crisp wrappers back through to the bar, and as he walked with his son up East Links Road and across the Goose Green playground. He was still smiling as he reached home, going in by the utility-room door where they discarded their snowy footwear and jackets. 'Go on, then,' he told James Andrew, 'you see what's on telly, while I check on the other two.'

The youngster ran off, and he stepped into the kitchen. Trish was there, preparing the children's supper. Seonaid was on the floor, happily making a mess with some flour and a mixing bowl. 'Teach them young,' the cheerful nanny said.

'You'll be teaching her to knit next.' He chuckled.

'No, sir. I'll be teaching her to shop!' She looked at him. 'Two messages for you; just as well you left your mobile at home. One was from Mr Pringle, and the other was from Sergeant McGurk.' In her Bajan accent, she pronounced 'McGurk' without the r. 'The numbers are there, on that notepad.' She nodded towards the telephone. 'Oh, and Alex called too: she said the buses are running so she'll be out for dinner.'

'Thanks, Trish,' he said. 'I'll call them back from my bedroom; there'll be a row if I tell the boy to turn down the telly.'

He took a Budweiser from the fridge, uncapped it, and made his way upstairs, looking in on Mark; his older son was playing chess on his computer. He frowned, and made a mental note to show him the relationship between mathematics and golf, as soon as he had worked out what it was.