term. We might split up. I might come up against the wrong bloke in
the job and get shot. Sheila might get cancer, like poor Olive.
'If you learn nothing else from the Mcllhenneys, you should learn
this. Fuck the longer term; concentrate on now, because that's all the
certainty you've got, mate.'
Martin sat on the edge of his desk, with a wry smile. 'My trouble
is that I'm not certain of anything any more where Alex is concerned.'
'But maybe you're just a selfish bastard where she's concerned.
Think on that.'
123
38
Not all of Edinburgh's Old Town fits that description. The spine of the
original city rests on a hogsback which runs from the Castle, invincible
on its great volcanic rock, down through the High Street past St Giles
and the Council Chambers, and through Canongate, to the Palace of
Holyroodhouse, the seat of generations ofMonarchs of Scotland and
of the United Kingdoms.
Rather than having been preserved as a monument, it has evolved
as a living community. Many of its buildings have stood for
centuries: those which did not survive have been replaced under the
critical eye of the powerful civic watchdogs; some elected, others
self-appointed.
Dr Surinder Gopal's address was in the lower part of the Royal
Mile, on the outer limits of a stone's throw from the Palace. It lay at
the foot of a narrow close which ran beneath a modem tenement and
connected the Canongate with Calton Road. Brian Mackie surveyed
the grey stone building, trying to make sense of the numbering of the
apartments.
'What do you think this was, sir, before it was turned into flats?'
asked Steele.
'I believe it was a brewery.' The Superintendent pointed to double
doors which opened out on to a small balcony at third floor level. 'I
reckon they used to store the barley up there ... you can still see the
spar for the hoist, look. The brewing would have been done in this
part.' He nodded towards a square two-storey block which looked as if
it might be an entire house, rather than flats.
They found the name 'Gopal' alongside the first of a row of buttons,
above a speaker grille. Mackie pressed it, leaning close to be sure that
he caught the reply. He waited for thirty seconds but none came; he
pressed again. Still there was no reply. He pushed the buzzer for a
third time.
'Bugger it!' he hissed, at last. 'The so-and-so must have gone on
holiday right enough.'
Suddenly there was a click from the grille, and a low buzz. 'Yess?'
It was a female voice, nervous and tremulous.
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'Detective Superintendent Mackie, DS Steele: St Leonard's
Police Station. We'd like to speak to Dr Gopal.'
'That is my son, but he is not here,' the woman replied. Even
through her accent, which was heavily Asian, she sounded frightened.
'What do you want with him?'
'It's something connected with his work, that's all. Routine. Can
we come in for a minute?'
'I don't know; you really are the police?'
'Yes, we are. But before you let us in, call our office.' He recited
the number of the Divisional headquarters. 'The names are Mr Mackie
and Mr Steele, remember. They'll vouch for us.'
'Wait there,' said the woman. A few seconds later, through the hum
of the intercom, they heard her voice faintly. Eventually she returned.
'It's all right, they say. You can come in. Come all the way up to the
top floor.' There was a click as the lock on the heavy green door was
released.
Inside, the building was a warren. Doors opened to no discernible
pattern off the narrow winding stair; on one floor it divided, leading
them on a brief wild goose chase. Eventually at the top of yet another
flight, they turned, to find themselves facing a small, middle-aged,
dark-skinned woman. She wore traditional Indian dress, bright cloths
wound around her, embroidered with golden stars. Her oiled, greying
hair was swept back from her forehead, upon which a caste mark was
imprinted.
Mackie took out his warrant card at once and held it up, Steele
following suit.
longer apprehensive. 'Won't you come in.' She stood to the side and
allowed them to walk past her into the flat.
Stevie Steele whistled softly as he looked around. 'Nice,' he
whispered to Mackie. 'I fancy this.'
'Not on your wages,' the superintendent murmured. The apartment
was virtually open plan, divided by sliding panels rather than doors.
Short flights of steps at either end led to galleried areas; one was a
bedroom, while the other seemed to be a study. The decoration of the
rooms was fresh, and their pictures and ornaments displayed a mix of
Western and Asian influences.
'As you can see, detectives,' said the woman, 'my son is not here.'
'We didn't doubt you, Mrs Gopal,' Mackie assured her. 'But we do
need to find him. We hoped that you could tell us where he is.'
The surgeon's mother shook her head. 'No. I cannot tell you that.
He is away.' She looked up suddenly, making eye contact for the first
time. 'The kettle is just boiled. You will have tea?'
125
Both policemen nodded. 'Thank you,' said Steele. 'Darjeeling, of
course.'
Shesmiled, 'What else, in this house?'
They watched her as she stepped into the small kitchen took a tea
caddy from a shelf then picked up a big porcelain pot. 'No tea bags
here,' she called out to them in a sing-song voice as she heaped in four
measures.
'Do you live with your son?' Mackie asked her.
She looked over her shoulder. 'No, of course not. I live with my
husband. Surinder is on holiday so I come here every morning, to get
his mail, to clean and to feed his bird.' She pointed to one of the long
room's two windows. There was a cage on the sill, and in it, a blue
budgerigar sat on a swing, eyeing a piece of cuttlefish bone which
was clipped to the bars.
'How long has he been gone?'
'About ten days, maybe; I don't know.' She put the pot on a tray,
together with three china cups and saucers, and carried it out of the
kitchen area to a carved wooden table in the centre of the room. 'Sit,
gentlemen, please,' she insisted, as she began to pour the tea.
'What did he say to you when he left?' asked Steele.
'He told me that he was going away for two or three weeks, on
holiday. He said that he had not decided on the places he would visit,
but that he would take his car and tour around. Go to Europe, maybe,
for the sunshine. He told me that he had been working too hard and
that he was in terrible need of a rest. I said fine, son; you go rest, I
take care of your house. I haven't heard from him since, but that
doesn't worry me.'
'Does Dr Gopal ever talk to you about his work?' Mackie's question
seemed to set the woman's dark eyes sparkling.
'Superintendent, that is all he ever talks about. Surinder loves his
work. His only
ambition is to be the best surgeon in the country.'
'Does he ever mention his colleagues?'
'He talks a lot about Mr Strang; he admires him very much. One
day, Surinder will be Mr Gopal, like him. He tells me that the most
important doctors are the ones who are called Mister.'
'What about the place where he worked before he went into
orthopaedics? Does he ever mention that?'
'Not often. It's been a while since he left there.'
'Does he still have friends there?'
Mrs Gopal nodded. 'Professor Weston, he is still a friend. It was he
who say to my son that he should go in for another sort of surgery,
since there would be more opportunities there. The Professor still
takes an interest in Surinder's career. He have them here for an Indian
126
dinner once. Professor and Mrs Weston. Not so long ago.' Suddenly
she looked around towards a low bookcase, which stood against the
wall between the windows. She pushed herself to her feet, walked
over to it and took a slim volume from the top shelf.
'They gave him this as a present,' she said, handing it to Mackie.
He looked at the cover. It was a copy of The Jungle Book, by Kipling.
Idly he opened it, at the title page. It had been signed; the words
jumped out at him.
'For Surinder, in memory of a delicious evening, Nolan and
Gaynor.' He handed the book to Steele, still open at the dedication.
Neither detective said a word; they simply sipped their tea.
'Do you know if your son intended to go on holiday alone?' the
young sergeant asked, eventually; to break the silence, more than
anything. Mrs Gopal stared at him as if she did not understand his
question. 'Might he have taken a girlfriend with him?'
'My son, he does not have girlfriends.' She spat the word out as if
it was something distasteful. 'Our family is traditionalist; he is
traditionalist. When he is ready to marry, he will tell his father and a
marriage will be arranged for him. Until then, he works.'
'Does Dr Gopal keep a diary?' She frowned at Mackie's question.
'An engagement book.'
'No. If he did I would have found it when I dusted.'
'Does he have a telephone answering machine, or service?'
'No.'
'I see. He really is out of touch then.'
'As I told you.'
Mackie nodded. 'Yes indeed.' He took out a card. 'If Dr Gopal
should phone you, would you please ask him to contact either Sergeant
Steele or me, on this number. Tell him it's important.'
Mrs Gopal's forehead wrinkled. 'When detectives come looking
for my doctor son, I know it is important.'
127
39
a
'I should have asked you before. How was the hot date, then?' Leaning
against the wall of the small office, Karen Neville looked at McGuire.
He wore a mischievous grin.
'Cool, actually. He was nearly half-an-hour late, then when we
started to get to know each other, he turned out to be gay.'
The inspector gasped in surprise. 'What? Him and the bloke in the
wheelchair, you mean?'
'I asked him that. No, they're just friends, apparently, from their
younger days. I don't think Dennis is up to any sort of nookie these
days, straight or bent, from what Wayne told me. He has to lift him in
and out of bed, and on and off the toilet - unless it's disabled-friendly,
that is. Plus he has to help him dress, bath and everything.'
'Where are they living? In one of the big hotels?'
'No. The University found them a serviced flat that's been specially
fitted out for handicapped people.'
'Whereabouts?'
'Down in Canonmills, Wayne said. I think I know where it is. At
least I hope I do. I'm picking him up from there tomorrow night.'
'What? But you just said he was . ..'
She smiled. 'In which case you don't have to worry about me
giving away secrets in the heat of passion, will you, Mario. Anyway,
he's a nice guy, good company and if he's only in the market for
friendship ... well, that makes a nice change from the usual.' She
paused, and blushed slightly. 'Plus, I told him I was gay first. I
thought if I did it might avoid complications.'
McGuire laughed out loud, drawing a stem look from the customs
officer across the room. 'Jesus.' He shook his head.
'Inspector,' the customs man called out. 'The people from the
Amsterdam flight should begin coming through in a minute. We'll
check the non-EU passport holders at that desk there.' He pointed
through a one-way window which looked out on to a narrow corridor.
'Apart from the four cards that were drawn to your attention by the
Dutch people, there have been six more completed during this flight,
five of them by males.'
128
McGuire and Neville crossed the room to stand beside him. 'We've
seen a lot of your unit out here in the last few days,' the officer said, casually. 'Is there a major alert?'
'Just business as usual,' McGuire murmured, as the first passenger,
a tiny Arab, wearing a headdress, made his way to the passport control
point. He was swaying slightly, as if he had spent too long in the bar
at Schiphol.
'Hmm,' the man grunted moodily. 'Meaning "mind your own
business", I suppose.'
McGuire treated him to his most dazzling smile. 'Absolutely,' he
said.
'That's nice. We are on the same team, after all.'
'No we're not,' the policeman murmured. 'You'd nick me in a
minute if I was out there with a extra bottle of duty free . ..' He
pointed through the glass at the Arab, who was almost weighed down
to the ground by the polythene bag which he was carrying. '. .. just
like that bloke there.'
'What?' exclaimed the customs officer. 'Excuse me for a moment,
please.' He hurried from the room.
Left alone, McGuire and Neville looked on in silence as one by
one, the passengers who had completed landing cards were checked
through. Three were Asians, one had an arm missing: none bore the
remotest resemblance to any of the Hawkins photofit treatments.
'You know, Karen,' said the inspector, as they made their way out
of the Edinburgh Airport terminal building and headed for the car
park, "I am beginning to get just a wee bit bored by this surveillance.
Just ever so slightly.'
'I know how you feel.'
'Huh,' he chuckled. 'At least you've got something out of it - even
if he is bent.'
129
40
'The missing heroin, Brian,' asked Skinner, 'enough to do the job was
it?'
'At least twice, sir, or so the hospital pharmacist told us.'
'And there's a definite link between Gopal and Gaynor and Nolan
Weston?'
'He entertained them to a curry night up at his place. The mother
showed Stevie and me the present they gave him. She assumed that
the Prof had brought the current Mrs Weston.'
'Must have been her night off,' the DCC chuckled. 'So what do you
propose to do now?' He looked at Mackie across the desk, then
switched his gaze to Andy Martin.
'We're going to hav
e to re-interview Weston,' said the Head ofCID.
'Brian and I were contemplating picking him up and taking him to St
Leonard's for a formal interview, under caution. If he was an ordinary
Mr Joe Criminal, we'd do that without question.'
'But he isn't. Look, gentlemen. Professor Weston isn't going
anywhere; he doesn't know that he's still under suspicion. Wouldn't it
be better to get some answers out ofDr Gopal before you do anything
to unsettle him?'
Mackie frowned. 'That could take another couple of weeks, unless
we put out a Europe-wide alert for his car.'
'You know what he drives?'
'A silver Alfa Romeo 146,' the superintendent answered. 'Registration
T197 VSG. But I wasn't serious about the alert: not at this stage
anyway.'
'I should hope not. We can wait for the boy to get back from his
holidays; I do not see him and Weston as potential fugitives.' Skinner
shot a glance at Martin. 'How are the press on this one?'
'They haven't forgotten about it, if that's what you mean. Alan
Royston's a bit worried that if we don't give them something concrete
soon, the tabloids will start writing speculative stories. Joan Ball's
had a couple of reporters at her door; Christ knows what she's told
them.'
'We'd better quieten them down then,' said the DCC. 'Andy, have a
130
word with the Fiscal's office. Ask Pettigrew to schedule a Fatal
Accident Inquiry into Mrs Weston's death for some date in the future,
and to let the media know. That'll get them off Royston's back, without
him having to tell them any porkies.'
'What if we don't turn up anything before the FAI date?' asked
Mackie. 'What if Gopal doesn't come back?'
Skinner shrugged his shoulders. 'In that case, it goes ahead. We put
the facts before a Sheriff and jury and let them decide. If they bring in
a suicide verdict - and you never know, they might: juries have done
dafter things in the past - then that's what it is. If they call it unlawful
killing, the investigation stays open.
'But Gopal will surface again, I'll bet. This pharmacist person isn't
going to tell him about your visit, is she?'
'No, not a chance.'
'Then he doesn't know that he's got anything to run away from.'
'Not even if he injected Mrs Weston?'
Skinner shook his head, and pushed himself out of his chair as if he