He nodded to the hovering Ronald, who made a smooth landing at their table. They ordered starters of haggis parcels, then baked sea bass.
"You realise," said Bob as he left, 'that we've talked about nothing but me… and my poor, dead, disowned brother… since you got off that plane this morning. What about you? What about this actor?"
"Another time, "Alex answered, abruptly. "We'll keep on talking about you for now."
"Why? Have you got something to hide? Is this guy someone I'd know?
Or is he someone I'd disapprove of?"
She picked up her napkin and bunched it as if she was going to throw it at him. "Pops, there is no actor; there is no one. That was just a story I made up to stop being endlessly quizzed about my sex life."
"Who's been quizzing you? Not me."
"Sarah for a start, and various friends; I got fed up with it after a while, so I came up with an imaginary lover, just to keep them at bay. I'm trying celibacy for a while, as a way of life; it's fun too. There's something nice about being unattainable. You can really get involved in the conversation at dinner parties for a start without smouldering across the table at some bloke. Been there, done that, thrown away the tee-shirt." She spread her napkin on her lap and leaned back as Ronald served the starter.
"So," she went on, as she picked up her first knife and fork, 'to get back to this afternoon, are you still planning to go through to Mother well tomorrow?"
"Yup."
"Should you be doing that?"
"What harm am I doing? I called Rod Greatorix before we came out and told him everything we learned from Brother Aidan this afternoon, and
I'll do the same if I get anything tomorrow. I'm not keeping anyone out of the loop. If any formal statements need to be taken, the Tayside boys can follow up and take care of it. I haven't heard any howls of protest so far. This is shaping up to be a complex investigation, and they don't have the biggest CID in Scotland."
"Lucky Tayside, eh. Having Bob Skinner helping them out? How does it feel to be reporting to Andy?"
"I'm not, exactly. But listen, kid, just about everybody'll be reporting to Andy one day."
He was into the second of his haggis parcels when his cellphone rang.
An elderly diner frowned at him across the restaurant; he shrugged a half-apology and took the call. "Bob." Sarah's voice was so clear that she could have been calling from the phone in the Roseberry's cloakroom.
"Hi," he said, cautiously, even a little curtly, remembering their last conversation. "How are you?"
"Fine," she replied. He focused on her tone; there was no trace of anger there, but there was something, nonetheless, a distance between them that had nothing to do with geography. "We're going to the lake for a while, but Jazz wanted to say hello first. Here he is."
There was a pause, a couple of seconds no more, before a young, bright and heartbreakingly familiar voice came on line. "Dad!" James Andrew shouted. "Hello, Dad."
"Hello, son," Bob said, grinning inanely as Alex looked at him across the table. "Are you still enjoying America?"
"I'm going to the lake."
"So your mum told me. Have you been behaving yourself?"
"No," said Jazz, cheerfully.
"What?"
"Punched Matthew Walker; made his nose bleed. He kicked me first, though."
Bob stifled a laugh. "Still, son, that's no excuse. Christ, he's the minister's son. Did you say sorry?"
"Yes. Mom made me." The Americanism registered with Skinner, disturbing him.
"Well, don't do it again or you'll have me to deal with. You be a good boy from now on. Now put your mother back on."
"He's just made it to the lake by the skin of his teeth," said Sarah as she reclaimed the phone. "Mark says hello too; he'll send you an e-mail." He heard her take a breath. "Bob, we need to talk."
"Yes," he agreed, 'we do. There's something I have to tell you."
"Yeah, I have something to say to you too. Without shouting at each other, yes?"
"That would be nice, for a change."
"Where are you?" He told her. "That won't do," she said.
"No, hardly. I'll call you from home, when I can."
"Soon?"
"It can't be before tomorrow night. I have things to do tomorrow, through till seven."
"Okay. Call me when you're ready; I'll make sure I'm here all afternoon."
"Fine."
He was about to end the call when he heard her speak again. "Sorry?" he said, putting the phone back to his ear.
"I asked how your pacemaker's doing, that was all."
"Fine. The wound itches every so often, but otherwise I don't know it's there."
"That's good. That's the way it should be. When do you see the doctors?"
"Tomorrow."
"You'll sail through, I know you will."
"So do I."
"Bob," she asked, 'do you miss me even a little?"
Her tone was even, matter-of-fact. Suddenly, he felt as if the glass wall between them had become steel. "Honey," he replied, 'that's a question I force myself not to dwell on. If I did, there's no telling where it would end. Let's speak tomorrow."
As he put the phone back in his pocket, he became aware of his daughter frowning at him across the table. "What was wrong with that conversation?" she asked.
"I don't know. What do you mean?"
"I mean three words I didn't hear. I. Love. You."
Twenty-six
If pressed, Neil Mcllhenney would admit that he had preferred his former job as Bob Skinner's executive assistant to his new role in Special Branch. But he knew that nothing was forever and so when the move had come about, following Mario McGuire's promotion to head the Borders CID division, he had taken it in his stride.
The death of Olive, his first wife, still hung over him like a black cloud. It was his constant companion, and he knew he would never shake it off, but to offset it he had his totally unexpected romance, and his second marriage, still new, fresh, and, to him, astonishing.
He knew from personal experience, bitter and sweet, that nothing in life was to be taken for granted, and when he thought about it he realised that he was better at his job as a result.
Alice Cowan was behind her desk as usual when he swept into his office suite. She was a keen one, that girl; however early Neil came to work, he never seemed to beat her to the punch. "Morning, constable," he said, brightly.
"Morning, inspector," she replied, returning his friendly smile.
"How did your wee bit of overtime go yesterday, then?"
"Money for old rope, boss. We found a face, we got a name, and she's got nothing to do with us."
"No? But is she someone we should have known about?"
"I wouldn't say so. She seems to be a sad lass, with a screw loose when it comes to religion, but not someone who represents any threat to the fabric of the state."
"Is that right?" he exclaimed, with raised eyebrows. "Does the name al-Qaeda mean anything to you?"
Cowan smiled. "This girl's strictly a lone operator, sir."
"If she has the skill to make and plant a device like the one that torched the Vargas painting, she could manage to stuff her trainers with explosives and get on a jet."
"Not at Edinburgh she couldn't. Not since we started them examining the soles of their shoes at the barrier check."
"Maybe not, Alice, but just as all knowledge is power, every small gap in knowledge is a potential weakness. Just you keep an eye on the progress of Ms Rose's investigation, and if this woman turns out to be the one, let's have a file on her. In fact… does she have form for this sort of thing?"