Lethal Intent (3 page)

He stepped inside. There were half a dozen stalls; the second was in use, the door of the fourth bore an 'out of order' sign and was sealed with tape, and the others were vacant. A line of wash-basins faced them, and on the far wall were three slot machines, two selling condoms and the third tampons. A blonde in a dress that might have been painted on was feeding pound coins into the Durex dispenser.

The dealer waited until she had left, and until a wiry red-head had emerged from the second cubicle and returned to the hall without washing her hands. There had been no sound of flushing. Davie boy guessed that either she had been badly brought up, or had been injecting; he placed a bet with himself on the latter. As always, neither woman had paid any attention to the two alien invaders, or even looked in their direction.

'Okay,' said the dealer, as the door closed on the red-head. 'Get your fuckin' money out'

Davie boy produced a roll from his pocket. He began to peel off notes, then hesitated. 'Ah dunno, man,' he muttered. 'A hunner and fifty's serious cash tae me. Whit if ma mate disnae turn up at a'?'

The stocky man's face seemed to stiffen. 'What if?' he snarled. 'Tell ye something, son: we're here because you told me Ah was going' tae sell two baggies o' smack.' With his left hand, he took two small clear packs of white powder from the breast pocket of his jacket and waved them in the air. 'You're no leavin' till Ah dae…' The eyes became tiny once more. '… or yis urnae leavin' at a'. Here's another "what if" for yis.' His right hand slipped into his jacket pocket. Davie boy tensed, anticipating a blade, but instead the dealer produced a Nokia cellphone. 'What if I just press that green button there? Ah'll tell yis what'll happen. Ma man's phone'll ring on the other side of that door. When he sees it's me that's callin' he won't bother tae answer. He'll jist come in here and cut your fuckin' face off.'

As if from nowhere, the sardonic grin was back. 'Well, Jingle,' he murmured. 'Maybe you'd better just press it and we'll see.'

A look of fury crossed the dealer's face; a snarl escaped from his lips as he held the Nokia in the air and pressed the send button.

Davie boy took a step to the side, so that he could keep both the dealer and the door in his line of vision. The man he had called Jingle stared at it, waiting for it to burst open, and for the stockbroker to set about his business.

But it stayed firmly closed. Instead, there was a tearing sound as the door of cubicle four ripped free of its sealing tape. A woman stepped out. She wore a black satin trouser suit and her brunette hair was expensively cut; she was pretty, but her face was set and she looked all business.

'Hey, Mavis,' Davie boy exclaimed. 'Jingle here reckons you're a lesbian. Is that right?'

The woman kicked the dealer, once, twice, on each calf with the pointed toe of her shoe, sending him slumping to his knees, seizing his hands as he fell and holding them in the air for Davie boy to bind his wrists together with plastic handcuffs.

Standing straighter now, and looking altogether different, he wrenched the man back to his feet. 'I am Detective Chief Inspector David Mackenzie,' he said. 'Fettes; Drugs Squad commander. My friends and enemies alike call me Bandit. This is Detective Sergeant Mavis McDougall, who is, for your information, as straight as a die. But she didn't take offence at being called a lesbian. No, she objected to you trying to sell me a class A drug, for which offence, Charles "Jingle" Bell, we are placing you under arrest. Now, tell me if you understand the following.'

He recited the formal caution; when it was complete, Bell said nothing, but spat in his face.

'Thank you,' said Bandit Mackenzie, taking a paper towel from the dispenser and wiping himself. 'That'll come up nicely on the video. Camera's in the tampon machine, by the way: we reckoned that was the one that'd get the least use. So, in addition to possession with intent to supply, you'll also be charged with assaulting a police officer. Come on. Let's get you out of here so the ladies can use their toilets.'

He grasped Bell by the arm and marched him towards the door, which McDougall opened for him. Outside a crowd of clubbers had gathered around the stockbroker; he was face down on the floor, bleeding heavily from the nose, with his hands cuffed behind his back. A long knife lay beside him, and there was a smear of blood on the wall, where, Bandit supposed, his face had hit it, hard. As if to confirm this guess, a muscular man in a leather jacket stood over him, with a foot on his neck. His curly blond hair looked surreal as it was caught in the zooming nightclub lights, and his green eyes gleamed.

'You will not try that again,' said Deputy Chief Constable Andy Martin to the prone stockbroker, then he looked up at Jingle Bell. 'And neither will you, my friend. This may not be my patch any more, but I will not tolerate anyone setting up a dope business anywhere, least of all in a place owned by a friend of mine. But you weren't to know that, were you, any more than you were to know that Spike Thomson doesn't scare easily.'

He smiled, even more wickedly. 'You and your pal did me favour, though.' He chuckled. 'After all these months in uniform, I've really enjoyed this wee bit of action.'

Six

They sat side by side on the terrace of their suite in the Pier House, looking out across the Gulf of Mexico, listening to the varied sounds of the resort as they drifted up to them. The sun had vanished below the horizon, but there was still sufficient light for them to take in the waterfront action.

Sarah stretched out her long, tanned legs, resting her heels on the balcony rail and sitting further back in her chair. She swirled the ice round in the Cuba Libre, which she had brought up from the bar, and glanced sideways at her husband. 'It's broke, isn't it?' she whispered.

'I guess so,' he replied.

'Can we fix it?'

'I don't know; my name might be Bob, but I'm no builder. What do I have to do to make it better?'

'You could start by forgiving me.'

Bob looked into her eyes. 'I did that on day one,' he told her. 'And anyway, it's a bit rich for me to be forgiving you. I haven't had an angelic past. Forgiving is no problem, love. It's forgetting that's the hard part'

'What can I do to make you forget?'

'Nothing. I don't think I ever will.' He gave a small shrug of his shoulders, then reached down to take a can of Miller Lite from the ice bucket by his side and popped the ring-pull. 'The question is, can we live with it, with what we know about each other?'

'I can,' she answered, 'if I know that in spite of it all you still care about me.'

'I do. That's not in question. Plus, I was a lone parent for most of Alex's childhood; I don't really want our three to have that experience.'

'So you'll stay with me for the kids, is that what you're saying?'

'Not entirely, but that's a pretty solid reason.'

'Maybe it isn't for me, though. I'm lonely, Bob. Consciously or not, you've distanced yourself from me; and it's not just because of Ron. It happened before that… in fact Ron and I probably happened because of it. You don't realise it, but I've been really lost. I was going crazy back home, waiting for you to unbend and show me some real affection. Eventually I had to do something drastic: that's why I ran off here and challenged you to follow me.'

He laughed softly, then took a mouthful of beer. 'Fine,' he said. 'Let it all be my fault, then.'

Something in his tone made Sarah's eyes narrow. 'It doesn't cut both ways, does it?' she asked. The question seemed to come from out of nowhere, taking him by surprise. A simple snapped 'No!' would have dismissed it, but it hung in the air for a second; a second too long.

'Bob?' She swung her feet off the railing and turned half round in her chair. 'Have you been with someone else?'

'No,' he replied at last, but she had fastened on to his hesitation.

'No?' Her eyes were narrow.

'No, I have not been with anyone else ... certainly not in the Ron Neidholm sense.'

'In what sense, then?' The sudden coldness of her tone seemed to be intensified by the warmth of the sub-tropical evening.

You want me to be completely honest? Okay. I met someone recently,' he said carefully. 'I find myself attracted to her, and I think it's mutual, but that's as far as it's gone.'

'Someone at work?'

'Not in the force, but someone I encountered recently, in a professional situation.'

'Not a suspect, surely,' Sarah exclaimed, sarcastically. 'You didn't see a hooker and get the hots, did you?'

'Don't be silly. I meet a lot of people in my work without feeling their collars.'

'It wasn't her collar I was asking about!'

'Very funny,' he muttered, unsmiling. 'As I said, there was an attraction, mutual and inescapable, but no more than that. There might have been, but I didn't… we didn't… because it wouldn't have been right'

'But the attraction is still there.' There was no question in her tone.

'I'm here, am I not?'

'You wouldn't take that evasion from a suspect, so don't try it with me.'

'Yes, it's still there.'

Sarah stood and looked down at him; then, very slowly, she stretched out her arm and poured her Bacardi and Coke over his head.

'Thank you for that gesture,' he said, running his fingers through his wet hair. 'If I returned it in proportion to our respective sins, it'd probably mean I'd drown you in the bath.'

She stamped off the terrace and into their bedroom; it was almost dark indoors, and she noticed, for the first time, that the red message indicator on the bedside telephone was flashing on and off. 'If it'll help your self-righteousness, I'll run it for you,' she shouted at him. 'But while I do, you'd better check the phone. We've had a call, and since nobody knows I'm here, it must be for you.'

He leaped, growling, out of his chair, wiping the drink from his face, then from his hand on to the side of his shirt. He grabbed the receiver and pushed the play-back button.

'Bob,' said a female voice. 'I need to speak to you, urgently. Call me please, as soon as you get this. I'll be at the flat; the time doesn't matter.' It was Aileen de Marco, and she sounded as angry as he felt. He crossed to the dressing-table, aware that he was being watched, picked up his wallet, and retrieved from it the card that she had given him, with her home number written on the back. He knew that it would be long past midnight in Edinburgh, but he took her at her word and dialled it.

The Scottish Justice Minister answered on the third ring. 'Yes?' She sounded wide awake.

'It's me. I just got your message. Where's the fire?'

'It would be in Tommy Murtagh's jockeys if I had anything to do with it. I'm going to resign, Bob, first thing in the morning; but I wanted to tell you before I did it. I'm sorry to break in on you, but I just had to talk to you, especially since you're at the heart of it'

'Hey,' he exclaimed, taken aback, 'hold your horses, Aileen. What's this about? What's Murtagh done?'

'He's appointed himself God. Those five terrorists that you and your people arrested two weeks ago: our esteemed First Minister has decided, himself, without reference to Cabinet colleagues, that they will not be tried in Scotland. Instead they'll be handed over to the Americans, right away.'

'What? All of them?'

'All five.'

'But three of them were minor people.'

'It doesn't matter. The Americans want to interrogate every terrorist they can get their hands on, just in case they know the slightest thing that might be important or could lead them to the top guys in the network that they haven't caught yet'

'Murtagh hasn't done this off his own bat, though.'

'Of course not! He's had his orders from Downing Street.'

Skinner laughed. 'Even though they're illegal.'

'It's not funny.'

'I know. It's pathetic. I take it you've told wee Tommy how you feel.'

'Loud and clear, but it made no difference.'

'What about the Lord Advocate? They're in Crown custody: it's his shout'

'What do you think?'

'Enough said. But listen to me now. Who will gain if you quit over this? The Scottish Executive? I don't think so. The five people you're talking about? They won't even know about it. This is international arrogance, and while the fact that Murtagh's gone along with it should cost him his job, there's no reason why it should cost you yours.'

'He's half threatened to fire me for disagreeing with him and demanding a Cabinet discussion. I'm just going to beat him to it, that's all.'

'Call his bluff. He won't dare: you're too popular. He might like you to quit, but he can't sack you.'

Aileen paused for a few seconds. 'But, Bob,' she said, 'if I stay in post, it'll look like I support him.'

'No, it won't, not after I've done a bit of judicious leaking to the press. I can play these boys at their own game, don't worry. Now please listen to me: say nothing to Murtagh tomorrow. Stay in your job. There's nothing you can do that'll alter what's going to happen. None of these people are UK nationals, so they'll go. There may be a small row about it, but it'll soon blow over. Even if it does damage the First Minister in the long run, it won't cost him his head now. What you must not do is allow the wee shit to manoeuvre you out of the Executive. You're his biggest potential threat, and everyone knows that, but only if you're in office, so do us all a favour and bloody stay there.'

'Okay,' she acknowledged, grudgingly. 'I'll think about it.'

'No, just do it.'

'If that's what you really believe is best, I will.'

'I do, honest.'

'Right.' She sighed. 'You know, you don't sound surprised by any of this.'

Skinner chuckled. 'Sorry, Aileen, there's little or nothing you politicians can do to surprise me.'

'You can't be pleased by it, though.'

'No, I'm bloody livid, as the Lord Advocate is about to find out.'

'You're not going to call him, are you?'

'On the instant'

'Look, be careful. Don't do anything that'll put you in jeopardy.'

'I've been doing that for years, so don't worry about me. Now get some sleep.'