a tip from one, who can remain nameless. He told me that he believed
that Jason Fargo was only able to operate for as long as he did because
he was paying backhanders to Agnes Maley."
"Mmm." Plenderleith murmured, almost impatiently. "So?"
"So, Jason Fargo's in this very nick, Lenny; I would like to know from
him if that is true. If it is, I'll need it in writing, signed.
There'll be no comeback on him, I promise. I'll feed the information,
personally, to contacts I have within the Labour Party. It'll be
enough to put a stop to Maley's political career."
A rumbling sound seemed to emanate from deep in the man's great chest.
"Ahh, Fate can be a bugger, eh. I'd have done that for Bob. Jason
would not have refused me; I may be a smart sociopath with his future
mapped out, but as far as the boys in here are concerned, I am still
the man to whom you like to say "yes". But sadly, you're about a month
too late." He sighed.
"Mr. Fargo is indeed in Shorts nick; the news is not generally known
at this moment, in case some of the younger inmates get alarmed, but
he's in the hospital wing, in isolation. The man has full-blown AIDS,
inspector, and it has attacked him here." He tapped the side of his
head. "He's fucking brain dead, Neil. The most I'd get out of him
would be a drool."
"Shit!" Mcllhenney hissed; then he saw that Lenny was looking at him,
in a strangely direct way. There was more to come.
"Going back to the criminal mind ... a real criminal mind, I mean, not
Mr. Fargo's which was never up to much in the first place, even before
it went into melt-down ... the worst thing you guys can ever do is to
underrate it. What I am going to tell you now will be of absolutely no
use to you, or Bob, because I learned it at the time from Tony Manson,
who's even deader than Fargo. So it's hearsay. Sure, I could write it
down for you, but it could never be proved. If you tried to feed it to
your sources, first they wouldn't believe it, and second they'd look at
the signature: Lenny Plenderleith, mass murderer, casual observer of
the Edinburgh scene at the time, and unlikely friend of Agnes Maley's
enemy, DCC Bob Skinner. We'd all probably wind up in the civil courts,
or worse."
Mcllhenney sighed. "You're right, of course. So what is it that we
can't use?"
"Just this; and remember that it came from Tony Manson, who knew
everything and everyone on the criminal scene in Edinburgh. As the
tabloids had to say, he was the Godfather of his time. The fact is
that Jason Fargo did not pay, as you put it, backhanders, to Maley. He
ran the place, paid the kids their pittance, took his own wages, and
gave her what was left. Black Agnes was the boss, Neil. The set-up
was his idea,
and the flat was in Fargo's name, but it was bought with cash which she
supplied."
"Why didn't he shop her then?"
"Work it out; man. He knew he wouldn't have lived to stand trial.
Think back to those days, and to the way it was in Edinburgh. There
were three teams; there was ours, there was Jackie Charles and his lot,
and there was a third one, not as big as us, but a grouping
nonetheless. You knew about Jackie and us, but you could never get a
handle on that third one. You were never even sure if it was
organised, or whether it was just a load of villains picking the scraps
off our table. Well it was, and Black Agnes was at its heart. Her
boys did the stuff we wouldn't; protection, the wee boy business,
smuggling cigarettes and all that.
"After Fargo got done, she realised that she was pushing her luck, so
she packed everything up and concentrated on being a councillor. But
when she was in business, nobody, not you, not even Bob Skinner
himself, ever had a sniff of her, because her tracks were covered too
well, and because all you could see was what a fucking pain she was as
a councillor. But she was much more than that, Neil.
"Jason Fargo didn't kill those boys off his own bat, man. He did it on
Agnes's orders."
Forty-Three.
"You're quite sure I'm not going to hear from him?" Andrea asked. They
had found a corner table in the bustling Brown's, only a few yards
along from 121 George Street, and were waiting for the lunch they had
ordered to be brought to them.
"As sure as I can be," Stevie answered. "Maggie .. . Superintendent
Rose, spoke to him and his solicitor and advised him that the
investigation's still open, that you're a witness and that he's still a
suspect. He'd be spectacularly stupid to come anywhere near you after
having his card marked as clearly as that, and I don't think he is."
"Do you still think it was him who phoned me?"
"To be honest, Andrea, I'm not sure any more; his story now is that
someone else must have used his phone to make that call."
She frowned for a second. "But if it wasn't him, that means .. ."
He nodded. "I know what it means, but I really don't think you need to
worry. It's our thinking that you were lured along to that exhibition
as a fall.. ." he paused, and smiled '.. . girl. That hasn't
worked. Fine. So what possible reason could the man have to try it on
again?"
She looked at the table as she pondered what he had said. "Yes. I see
the logic in that. So you're telling me to forget it altogether, keep
taking the tablets and get on with my life?"
"Exactly. As a bit of added security, I'll give you my phone numbers.
If we're wrong and it does happen again, you should call me right
away."
"Okay' She looked at him, coyly. "Does that mean that there'll be no
more surprise invitations to lunch?"
He grinned back at her. "Not necessarily. I have got a life outside
CID, you know. I'd like to be your friend, Andrea, instead of your
investigating officer. I'd like to get to know you, in an ordinary
situation."
Her blue eyes flashed at him. "What, both of me, you mean?"
"I prefer this model, but I'm game for anything."
"I'll bet you are. You might find getting to know me a frustrating
experience. I'm not really one of your modern girls. I'm a virgin,
you know." She frowned, severely.
"What?" he shot back. "Both of you?"
A short, snorting laugh exploded from her. "I may have two
personalities, but that's as far as it goes. Sorry to sound so
priggish; what I meant was that I've never had a proper relationship
with a man before."
"You mean an improper one?"
"God, I can't say a thing to you." She put her hand to her mouth and
gasped. "Did you hear that? I just took His name in vain. Steven,
you're having a bad influence on me already."
"Sounds promising."
"I'm promising nothing."
"And I'm not asking for anything, other than to be your friend."
"Okay, take me to the cinema, then."
"What do you want to see?"
"Lord of the Rings:
"Deal. When?"
"Tomorrow. Two dates in one day might be rushing things a bit."
"I'll pick you up at seven." He took a
card from his pocket and handed
it to her. "There; Stevie Steele in your hands. That's every phone
number I've got, office and private. The home ones are ex-directory,
so don't leave it lying about."
"I'll keep it in my Bible," she said, casually, 'just to be safe." He
had to look closely at her, to be sure she was joking.
A sound at their side caught his attention; a waiter stood ready, with
their lunch.
"Steven," Andrea began as he picked up his cutlery. "About the fire.
Since it wasn't a convenient crazy like me, and since you're
discounting the man who phoned the newspapers, have you any idea who
burned the silly picture?"
"Not a clue."
"So what will you do next?"
"We'll probably look at all the people who could have taken the lad's
mobile and used it to make the call to you."
"How many?"
"To be exact, one hundred and forty-two. A hundred and nineteen if we
leave the partners out of it."
"How long will that take?"
"That depends on a few things; on how many of them gave us statements
on Saturday, on how many we have to re-interview, on how many officers
we use to do it."
"So I might be stood up tomorrow night?"
"Not a chance. Even detective inspectors get time off. Besides,
there's another factor I didn't mention; that's how lucky we get. You
never know, the first person we interview might confess."
"Did you think you were lucky when you saw me on those tapes? That is,
not me, her. Oh, you know what I mean."
"I know, and did we ever think we'd got lucky! Especially when we
found out who she was and what she'd done."
"Are you sorry you weren't?"
He laid down his fork, reached across and took her hand. "Who says I
wasn't?"
A blush came to her cheeks. "I know I was," she whispered. "The
others would just have locked me up, wouldn't they? It was you who
stood up for me, wasn't it?"
"Not alone. Maggie did too."
"Then thank her for me."
She started to explore her lentil salad, and Steele turned his
attention to his tagliatelle de la casa. "Can I ask you something
else?" she exclaimed, when she was near the end.
"Could I stop you?" he countered.
"Why are you sure that burning the picture was a religious protest?"
"It's the only possible motive, Andrea. Can you suggest another?"
"No, I can't, but.. ." She paused, as if she had thought better of
whatever it was she had been about to say.
"But what? Go on."
"Och, it just seems to me that it was awful well planned, that's all.
Someone who does something like that is a fanatic, right?"
"Right."
"Do fanatics plan things that well? When I, she, no, I, did what I
did,
there was no planning involved at all. I made the device then wandered
like a sore thumb into their service, and tried to plant it in what was
supposed to be an unobtrusive manner. It was a nonsense from the
start. I was simply driven by my voice telling me to do it. What
happened in the Academy, on the other hand, was planned like clockwork
and executed perfectly. If the person who did it is a schizophrenic
like me, it would have been a shambles. You ask Adam Broadley if you
don't believe me." "I might, but not because I don't believe you. Go
on." "This was done by a clear-thinking methodical person with
technical knowledge. That doesn't fit the fanatic theory, as I
understand it. Fanatics are the sort of people who walk into places
and blow themselves up. This person planted the device in secret,
triggered it and got away scot free. Not only that, he set me up as,
"So while you're interviewing all these people, why don't you ask
yourselves at the same time, why else this might have been done?"
Forty-Four.
"Stop here," Bob Skinner told the taxi-driver as he approached the
drive that led up to the Grace mansion. He paid him in crisp new US
currency, fresh from an ATM in John F Kennedy Airport, and stepped out
into the street. It was still short of nine a.m." but the morning was
hot nonetheless. His Scottish summer clothes felt suddenly very heavy.
He stood at the foot of the path, out of sight of the house, and took a
deep breath.
He had called his daughter from London, and had found her as shocked
and disbelieving as he had known she would be. He had promised to keep
her in touch with developments, and then he had tried his level best to
block the nightmare from his mind.
All the way across the Atlantic he had fought against the urge to think
of this moment, to anticipate it, to plan for it. He had played CDs on
his Walkman all through the flight, and on the shuttle to Buffalo;
Clapton and King, a Stones compilation, Counting Crows, a live Van
Morrison double set, all bought at Heathrow and chosen because it was
heavy stuff that would force him to listen. He had watched television
all the way through a short, sleepless night in his hotel room, finding
a channel that seemed to be devoted entirely to showing repeats of The
Sopranos, wondering to himself how long the fictional Big Tony would
have lasted in Edinburgh, as opposed to Lenny Plenderleith's late
boss.
The moment had come, though; he braced himself and thought positively,
of Mark, Jazz and Seonaid, and how pleased he would be to see them. He
picked up his bag from the sidewalk, turned the corner and walked up
the path. He thought the door might open as he approached the house,
but no one could have been looking out. The garage door was open; only
the Jaguar lay inside. He stepped up to the entrance and rang the
bell.
He had assumed that it would be Trish who would answer. When the heavy
door opened and he saw Sarah standing there, he was struck dumb ... as
was she. They stood staring at each other, neither moving, neither
seeming to know what to say.
And then from the hall, there came a yell of "Dad!" and James Andrew
charged out past his mother, throwing himself up to be caught and
hugged to his father's chest. Bob felt a sharp sensation as the child
bumped his pacemaker, but he ignored it in the sheer relief of seeing
him again.
Leaving his flight bag abandoned on the step, he carried him into the
house. "Hello, kid," he whispered into his ear. "How much mayhem have
you been causing while I've been away then?"
Eventually he set his son back on his feet. "Go and play," he told
him. "I'll see you in a minute. I need to talk to your mum."
Jazz ran off, towards the kitchen and, he guessed, to the yard. He
turned back to face Sarah. She had recovered her composure; he fought
for his. "What are you doing here?" she asked, in a quiet,
matter-of-fact voice.
"What the hell do you think I'm doing, honey?"
"So Clyde called you; I told him not to, yet he did."
"Too bloody right he did," Bob exclaimed, his voice starting to rise,
before he calmed it. "There are three kids here, and their mother was
; in jail. How could you expect him not to?" He walked into the
kitchen. The trip was catching up with him fast; he needed coffee,
badly, but fortunately there was a jug on the filter. He poured
himself a mug, went to the fridge and added barely enough milk to turn