interests as much as mine that we're dead certain on this.'
'Don't worry,' said Dr McCallum. Tm well aware of that... although
I am used to the Court taking my word on the basis of one analysis.
'I've repeated the tests, and done some others, and I can promise you
that the subject did not ingest temazepam within two days of his death.
Any he may have swallowed before that would have been gone from the
bloodstream by the time of death.'
She turned, stepped over to a long trolley, and with a single movement
of her forearm, whipped away the sheet which covered it. 'You haven't met
Mr McConnell, have you, Inspector?'
The sudden sight of the naked, chalk-white corpse, with its roughly
stitched incision from neck to groin, made Mackenzie's stomach clench as
if it had been gripped by a fist. He felt himself gagging and hoped that it
did not show.
'Dr Grace was quite right in her observation. The saponification of the
body has made it virtually impossible to detect any puncture marks. I've
checked, nonetheless, if only to confirm there are none visible. However,
examination of what's left of the veins of both forearms does reveal the
livelihood that the subject was injected repeatedly in the period leading up
to his death.
This old man wasn't given a fatal shot of temazepam, but I'd say that he
took it or was fed it, intravenously, on several occasions.
'Does that help?'
The detective looked at the diminutive pathologist. 'It confirms our
suspicions about Mr McConnell's death, short of proving conclusively that
he was murdered.
'But as for finding the person who stole just about everything the poor
old man had, it takes us not one step further forward.'
92
26
Louise Bankier was in her hotel suite when Skinner arrived at the Balmoral,
at exactly six o'clock. He parked his BMW directly in front of the hotel, nodding to the familiar figure of the doorman on his way in, and announced
himself at the reception.
She appeared from the lift in less than two minutes, walking over to
him, at the desk. Her key deposited, she kissed him quickly on the cheek,
then took his arm as they headed for the door. Heads turned as they stepped
out into Princes Street and crossed the narrow pavement to the car; Bob
was quite certain that no one was looking at him.
'Did you get your business done?' he asked, as he pulled out from the
kerb and drove away, signalling a left turn on to Waverley Bridge.
'Yes I did, thanks.' He saw her nod, out of the corner of his eye, as he
swung past the green light. 'I've taken the part; we start shooting in
Edinburgh next month, while the Christmas lights are still there. I liked the
script, my co-star will be Ralph Annand, a very fine Scottish actor, and I
know Warren Judd, the producer, of old. He's an ex-, as a matter of fact.'
'Husband?'
'No. Informal.' Her voice dropped. 'We didn't part friends, and we
haven't worked together since; it took a lot of soul-searching before I even
began to consider doing his movie. My other hesitation was that I've never
worked with the director before.'
'Is that a big factor?' Bob asked.
'It is for me. I'm sufficiently stellar now to be able to turn down parts if
even one aspect of the project doesn't feel right. The relationship between
cast and director is very important. It's his movie ... at least in theory it is
. .. and he can, if he chooses, try to impose his will on the actors.
'So nowadays, before I commit myself to anything, I make sure that the
director and I are thinking along the same lines.'
'And this bloke's okay, is he?'
one of the real up and coming young men. More than that even; he's up and
he's come, if I can put it that way.'
He chuckled at her earthiness. 'You may, Lou, but possibly not in front
of the wife. Who is he anyway?'
She twisted round in her seat to face him. 'Have you ever heard of Elliott
Silver?'
His eyebrows rose slightly. 'Ah yes, him.' Then he grinned. 'Wouldn't
know him from Adam. Who he?'
'Very trendy, very good; he's a young Londoner, in his late twenties. He
made a couple of things for television, then when he was twenty-five, he
wrote and directed a gangster movie set in the East End. It won two B AFTAs
and an Oscar for best screenplay. In the four years since then he's won two
more BAFTAs, and had an Oscar nomination. Early this year he did his
first Hollywood movie; they say it's a cert, for Academy Awards for best
picture and best director.'
Bob whistled. 'Wow! And here was me thinking that a BAFTA was an
Islamic curse.'
Louise laughed. 'Philistine!'
'Don't knock them,' he protested. 'I've got a soft spot for the Philistines.
They had bad reviews, but even from them you can see that they were
pretty good at getting the job done. They were artists in their own way too;
look at what they did to King Saul. It wasn't dissimilar to some of the
things that have won the Turner Prize in recent years.'
He swung the car past the Palace of Holyroodhouse, and, on the right,
the floodlit site of the Scottish Parliament building. 'How many of those
things have you won?' he asked.
'BAFTAs? Four; three film, one television.'
'And Oscars?'
'Three, plus two Golden Globes.'
In the darkness of Holyrood Park, she could see his soft smile in the
dashboard light. 'Oh, I remember them well,' he whispered.
Her laugh was deep and raunchy. 'They're still doing all right. Moved a
little south, but still all right.'
'I know,' he said. 'I saw that film of yours a couple of years back; the
one where you got your kit off. That felt very weird, I'll tell you. It's as
well the cinema was dark.'
'Have you seen many of my movies?'
'Several of them. I have them on video.'
94
AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN
'Good boy. You're helping to make me rich.'
'You like that, do you? Being rich?'
'It's okay. Why? Is that your ambition?'
He shrugged. 'A lot of people would say I am already; you'd probably
just say that I'm comfortably off. I've had a few legacies in my life, and
I've invested them well. Give me five years and I could retire in considerable
comfort on my police pension and my investments.'
'And will you?'
'Not a chance. The day I feel burned out as a copper, then I'll go; but I'm
a hell of a lot more than five years away from that. Lou, even back then,
when we were kids, I had a vocation for police work, and in particular, for
the investigative side. My father wanted me to be a lawyer; when I told him
I was joining the police, he felt let down, as if the money he spent sending
me to school in Glasgow, then to university, had all been wasted.
'But I said to him ... I remember it, clear as daylight. . . "Dad, I am
going to be a lawyer. I'm going into the justice business; the only difference
between your ambition for me and my own is that I want to work
at the
sharp end."
'And you know what he replied? He looked at me and muttered, "I bred
a fucking idealist!" But the last thing he ever said to me, the night before he
died, was "Son, you were right." On the two occasions in my career when,
for a fleeting moment, I've thought, "Why, Bob, why?", that's been my
answer.'
He drew to a halt in the queue at the Willowbrae traffic lights, and glanced
sideways at Lou, her profile framed in the lights of the Mercedes dealership.
'How about you? Why do you do it? It hasn't brought you happiness; I can
tell that. So what is it? Fame? Money?'
She laughed, but it was a brittle sound. 'Of course it is ... especially
money.' The traffic began to move through the lights, and he eased forward
with it.
'I am happy, Bob, really. Not like you are, with your wife and young
family, but I'm happy with what I do. Even way back then, the very day I
met you, when I joined your squash club because I wanted you, that same
day I joined the drama society because I wanted that even more.
'When we split, it was because you followed your Presbyterian
conscience. But if we'd stayed together then, I'd have left you eventually
for my other lover ... either that or I'd have destroyed your life.
'I spent a long time wondering what it was about, why I was addicted to
AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN
the hot lights, the roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd, as they
say. For a while, I thought I was the most self-indulgent being alive.
'And then, one night, I was in Los Angeles, at an Academy Award
ceremony. I wasn't nominated that year, so when it was over I started to
leave, to meet some man, at some party somewhere. It had started to rain
during the show, and it was hammering down outside like a bloody monsoon.
It was chaotic, some very famous people were running for their limos under
inadequate umbrellas, and twenty-thousand-dollar dresses were being ruined
in five seconds flat.
'In the middle of it all, I saw a man; he was a singer, a minor figure in the
movie industry, but a legend in his own field. He was standing there, his
buckskin jacket soaked, his long hair plastered to his head, and he was
signing autographs, not just one or two but dozens, maybe hundreds, for all
the people who were pressed around him, wanting a piece of him.
'I don't know how long I watched him, standing there signing those
soggy books, tee-shirts, programmes, anything, as best he could, as all those
bloody movie stars ignored the crowds and ran as fast as their dignity and
their heels would allow. But eventually someone spotted me, shouted to
me above the noise "Louise", and waved a baseball cap at me.
'I walked out from under the marquee, into the rain, I took the marker
pen he gave me, and I signed, watching the ink run even as I wrote. Then
another, and another. The signatures were barely legible, and probably didn't
survive the night, but I knew as that singer knew that it didn't matter.
'Those people out there in the storm were representatives of all those
who make people like me. I hate the word "fans"; they are our patrons.
They give us something of themselves . . . love if nothing else . .. and it's
our solemn duty to give them something back. Even if it does cause us
momentary discomfort.
'So that's why I do it, Bob. So that I can sign autographs in the rain.'
They drove on in silence for a while, leaving the city lights behind. They
had just turned off the A1, when Louise reached out and touched his cheek.
'Speaking in general terms of course, do you ever wonder,' she asked quietly,
'what it would be like to be with someone again, an old lover, after a quarter
of a century? Would it be as good as it was, would it be better, would it be
a let-down?
'In your deepest thoughts, do you ever wonder that?'
'I can't speak in general terms, Lou,' he murmured. 'In terms of bygone
lovers, Myra's dead, there was someone I never want to see again, and
there are a couple of others I can barely remember; which leaves only you.
I can only speak of you.
'Of course I wonder. Do you think I could ever forget what it was like?
We were only youngsters, you and I, but we were tremendous together.
Today, given maturity, experience, and everything else, sure, most people
might be tempted to play those scenes over again.
'But not me. It's a delicious thought, but that's all it can be; for me at
least. Because where I am now is where I want to stay for the rest of my
life. I am happier than I have ever imagined; in ten minutes or so, you'll
find out why.
'Just suppose you and I did indulge ourselves, even just for one night.
We could contrive the circumstances without difficulty, and afterwards say
"Thanks" and walk away. Sarah would never know or even suspect.
'But I'd know; I'd know I'd betrayed her, the kids, the whole thing. And
because I had, even though I'd got clean away with it and things might
appear to be as perfect as before ...' He tapped his chest. '... in here, they
would never be quite the same again.
'I speak from experience here; I only have what I have now because
Sarah was tough enough to see us through our tough time. That alone means
that I feel guilty even fantasising about you.
'There's something else,' he added. 'I love her like crazy, and I'd die
before I'd betray her again.
'Don't get me wrong, Lou,' he said, glancing across at her, 'I cherish the
memory of the time we had as youngsters. We were perfection together,
even if it was too good to last. However, it can provide a great foundation
for lifelong friendship if we both see it that way. Deal?'
He took his right hand from the wheel and held it out. She smiled, and
shook it firmly. 'Deal,' she said. 'Not even for the part of the world which
I don't yet have, would I spoil what you have now.
'For the truth be told, my old love, to be as happy as you, away from all
the glitz and glam, is what I want for myself, far more than another fifty
Oscars.'
They drove on towards Gullane, Bob's eyes on the road, Louise looking
out of the window at the lights across the Forth.
As they reached the village, Bob shifted in his seat. 'Oh,' he exclaimed,
'I almost forgot. Alex can't make it tonight, so we have another dinner
companion, my pal, and colleague, Neil. He'll be your taxi back to
Edinburgh, too. He's probably there ahead of us.
96
'One word, of explanation rather than warning, about him. His wife
died less than a year ago, so if he seems a bit withdrawn, that's why.' He
chuckled. 'Don't go thinking he's star-struck or anything; big Mcllhenney's
the least impressionable guy I know.'
98
27
'What exactly is it that you do in Bob's team, Neil?' asked Louise, as
Mcllhenney's car accelerated out of Gullane, towards the amber glow which
hung in the sky over Edinburgh. 'We talked about everything but that. I
noticed one thing though; you never called him by his Christian name all
night, not once.
'Sarah yes, but not him.
All the other policemen we talked about - Dan
Pringle, Andy Martin, Mario McGuire, Maggie Rose, all first names - but
not him.'
'I can't, to his face,' the big dark-haired man answered quietly. 'I respect