The superintendent checked the duty roster that lay on her desk. ‘Who’ve you got?’ she asked.
‘McGurk and Haddock are on their way back here now. I’ve got one other DC but that’s it.’
‘OK. I can pull in all my patrols and send three people to each of the parlours. As for picking up the managers, I suggest that you and your DC, and Jack and Sauce, take one each.’
‘Fine, but what about the third?’
‘I’ll do that myself. I’ll take Charlie Johnston for back-up.’
‘Charlie?’
‘I wouldn’t trust him to anyone else.’
‘I understand that, but still. .’
‘It has to be him, Becky. That’s how strapped I am.’
‘So be it, then. Neil wants everybody in place by eight o’clock, ready to go on his signal, so that we lift all these guys at the same time. . that’s assuming they’re all at home.’
Chambers scowled. ‘Eight o’clock,’ she muttered. ‘That fucks up my social life. I’m supposed to be meeting my other half tonight. Never mind, there’ll be another time. At least you don’t have that problem.’
‘No,’ Stallings agreed. ‘I know exactly where my other half will be at eight; banging on a Lithuanian’s door just like me.’
‘You’ll be able to compare notes later,’ said the superintendent. ‘Give me the addresses, and let’s get our small army on the march.’
Thirty-nine
‘Poacher’s Close must be about as secluded as Edinburgh gets,’
Mario McGuire remarked, as Skinner approached the right turn that led into the cul-de-sac. ‘No through traffic, big plots, only four houses in the whole street; you won’t be right on top of your neighbours here, unlike most of the rest of the city.’
‘There can be too much seclusion, mate,’ the chief replied. He turned into the roadway, and drew to a halt, switching off both engine and lights. ‘It’s built into most people’s psyche. Look at you and Paula; you live in that nice big duplex of yours, you’ve got neighbours next door, and below you, all the way down to street level. These people live literally under the same roof as you, but how many of them do you know?’
‘We know Paul and Edith Applecross, the folk next door, well enough.’
‘Oh yes? Do you ever invite them in for supper, or for a drink even?’
‘Well, no, but. .’
‘Do you know what her maiden name was? Or how long they’ve been married?’
‘No. .’
‘How about the floors below? There’s what, seven of them, four flats on each, twenty-eight households, yes? How many of them would you say you know? Not intimately, just to say “hello” to.’
‘Hardly any,’ Mario admitted. ‘But we never see them, unless we meet them in the lift.’
‘No, you don’t, do you? Man, for all you know, half a dozen of those flats could be rented out to Vietnamese gangs, and used for growing marijuana under hydroponic lights.’
‘Christ, I hope not!’
‘Me too,’ he chuckled, ‘but that’s what seclusion is. It’s a state of mind rather than a question of location. That said, when Sarah and I lived in that house near to Fettes, I couldn’t stand the fucking place. The neighbours were jammed right up against us, and they were nosey bastards. It took us no time to move back out to Gullane. . at least it took me no time; I never really asked her.’
‘How is Sarah, by the way?’
‘Single again; she had a boyfriend, but she chucked him. Too bad; Mark and James Andrew liked him. He used to take them to baseball games. My boys have been in the New Yankee Stadium, and it’s only been open for a year.’
‘Another guy taking your boys out on trips? That didn’t give you any problems?’
‘Why should it? If anyone had a problem, it was Sarah, although God knows why.’
‘She’s still happy in New York, though?’
‘Yes, she’s fine. She’s being a proper doctor again, and that’s what she wanted. But enough of that; she’s enjoying her job now, just as I’m going to enjoy this.’ He reached for the handle and was on the point of opening the door, when a fire appliance swung round the corner, missing his car by a matter of inches. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he roared. ‘A few second later. . I’ll ram that driver’s helmet up his arse!’
‘I may assist,’ said McGuire ‘but where are they headed?’ As he spoke, the tender turned into a driveway at the road’s end, to the right. The street lighting was poor, but good enough to let him read the names on signs at the entrances to the two nearest properties, and neither was ‘Vilnius’.
Simultaneously they leapt out of the car, and began to run. They had gone only a few yards when a second tender roared past them.
‘They’re going to Gerulaitis’s place right enough,’ Skinner shouted. He led the way into the driveway, past the sign that bore the name of the Lithuanian capital city. The crew of the second vehicle was deploying as they reached them. ‘Where’s the fire?’ the chief asked, as two firemen ran past him carrying hose ends, looking, he guessed, for the nearest hydrants. If either heard him, he was ignored.
The Gerulaitis home was a large bungalow, with bay windows on either side of the entrance door and dormers above. None showed any sign of fire. ‘What’s happening?’ the slower-moving McGuire exclaimed, as he caught up.
‘Plenty, given the speed of those guys with the hoses. Whatever it is, it’s round the back.’ As he spoke, there was an explosion, mixed with the sound of breaking glass. In the same moment, a red halo seemed to surround the house, framing the lines of its roof.
‘What do we do?’
‘You stay here. Act as if you’re back in uniform; don’t let any neighbours in and, just as important, don’t let anybody leave the scene.’
He headed round the side of the house, following the last firefighter, just as a third tender arrived, drawing up in the entrance to the driveway. The back garden was fenced off, but there was a gate, which lay open. He stepped through it, feeling a blast of heat as he did, and saw organisation emerging out of chaos. There was a rectangular conservatory built on to the rear of the bungalow, covering most of its width. It was ablaze and its windows had blown out. As he watched, the fire crew split into teams. Two more hydrants must have been found on the other side of the garden wall, for four hoses were concentrated on the blaze, while other fighters, with axes, hacked the remaining glass from the shattered window frames, making a safe passage for their colleagues to advance into the fire.
‘Hey, you!’ It took a few seconds for Skinner to realise that the cry was directed at him. ‘Will you please get to hell out of here,’ a whitehelmeted man yelled as he walked towards him.
He shook his head, and reached into his jacket for his warrant card. ‘Sorry,’ he shouted back, above the roar of the flames and the rushing sound of the high-pressure jets, ‘I have an interest here; I’m a police officer.’
‘I don’t care if you’re the fucking chief constable,’ the man retorted.
‘As it happens I am the fucking chief constable.’ He brandished the card. ‘See? Now back off, for I’m going nowhere. I’ll keep out of your way, don’t worry,’ he glanced at a name on the man’s protective clothing, ‘Assistant Divisional Officer Hartil.’
‘This is a volatile area, sir,’ the ADO persisted. ‘I can’t put you at risk.’
‘You’re not putting me at risk: I am. Look, I’ll stand as far away as I can, but I want to see what’s happening.’ He walked across to the furthest corner of the garden, beside an ornamental pond. Its surface was frozen; at first the firelight seemed to dance crazily on the ice, but as he watched, it began to fade, as the fire and rescue teams edged their way into the seat of the blaze, bringing it under control. In less than ten minutes the fire that he could see was quenched, although he could still hear the hoses playing indoors, the scene illuminated by lamps that the crew of the third tender had set up on stands on the grass.
After a further five minutes, ADO Hartil emerged from the partly ruined building and came towards him. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Under control; my boys and girls are just damping down now, and making sure there’s no risk of outbreak anywhere else in the place.’