He shrugged. 'This for a start. Having a relaxing stress-free pint with my fiancee, going for a tandoori afterwards and hoping that she'll come back to my place for B and B, or who knows, maybe even invite me to hers.'
'You can forget the latter,' she said quickly; too quickly, she feared for just a moment. 'I'm not having Gina ogling you over the cornflakes. When I get my own place — and I looked at a really nice wee flat this lunchtime, down in Leith — it'll be different. As for the other possibility, if we can keep up our recent run of not falling out across the dinner table, you might just be on.
'Now, back to the point. When are you going to take some time off work?'
He capitulated. 'As soon as this summit conference thing is over, and once we get a result on a major investigation that Brian and Clan are working on, I promise you I will book a holiday. Some January sunshine, in the Canaries, or Florida maybe… for two, though.'
She shook her head. 'Sorry, we've got a major proof scheduled for January. Anyway, I'm taking some time before then; next week in fact.'
'You're what? You never said.'
'Well I'm saying now. I'm going to Marbella on Saturday, with Gina. I'm not sure how hot it'll be, but we'll get some sun.'
'I see.' The two words seem hang in the air.
'Just as well you do,' said Alex firmly, batting them away. 'Then you won't go moody on me. Listen, I want to marry you, Andy. But as I've tried to explain, I've got to get a life first, or it could be a disaster.
Once we are married, I won't be able to bugger off with a pal for some fun — nor will I want to — so if I choose to now, don't give me a hard time about it. Instead of that, go ahead and book your January holiday.'
'Maybe I'll just do that.' he murmured, taking a mouthful of draught Beck's. 'For two,' he added, into the glass, out of earshot.
'Good. Now let's talk about our respective working days, like we used to. What's with this conference?'
He looked around the busy bar. 'Sorry, love,' he said. 'I can't discuss that here.'
'What about your big investigation then?'
'That neither. That sort of chat was all right at home, when we were living together, but I can't talk to you about operational secrets in some damn pub. Your dad would tell you that. Look, you're the one who wanted change, girl; this has to be part of it.'
'Fair enough,' she said. 'Let's just go and eat then.'
'Nah,' he murmured wearily, finishing his beer and stepping off the high stool. 'You just go and catch your plane. It's no use, Alex, I can't share you… not even with you.'
65
Bob Skinner swivelled in his own familiar chair and gazed out of his office window. He smiled as he looked down the driveway which led to the main entrance of the headquarters building, watching the rush of the arriving staff, uniformed, CID and civilians, the third category having grown in numbers during the later years of Sir James Proud's reign.
As he watched the scene, the Chief Constable's Vauxhall Omega, driven by Lady Proud, rolled slowly up towards the doorway. Sir James emerged from the passenger side, with a brief nod to his wife.
It would have been out of character for him to kiss her goodbye in front of his office, and completely unprecedented for him to do so while in uniform.
'Excuse me, sir.' He swung round in his chair at the sound of Ruth McConnell's voice. Even although she had been only a few feet away across the corridor, he had missed his long-haired, long-legged secretary while he had been filling the Chief's shoes.
'Sorry, Ruthie. Didn't hear you come in. I was admiring the view.'
She smiled back at him. 'Your morning meeting,' she said. 'The men are here, and Sarah's just arrived as well.'
'Christ,' Skinner muttered, rising to his feet. 'Don't keep my wife waiting. Is she looking okay?'
Ruth stared back at him, puzzled. He had told no one in the office, other than Andy Martin and the Chief, of Sarah's pregnancy. 'Morning sickness,' he explained briefly, watching her eyes widen, just as he stepped past her.
'Come away in, everyone,' he called into the corridor. One by one, they filed in and took seats around the low coffee table: Sarah, Brian Mackie, Clan Pringle and Stevie Steele, the young sergeant looking very slightly nervous to be in the vaulted heights of headquarters.
'It's nine o'clock,' he said. 'These days Sarah and I don't drink coffee this early, so you gentlemen can do without as well.
'I've called this meeting, and I'm running it, rather than Mr Martin, because he's asked me to give an overview of the investigation, and because he's snowed under with the security work for next month's conference. I've asked Sarah to come along since she's done the path. work in both cases, and since she was at the first murder scene.' He suppressed a smile; Skinner could never admit it to his men, but his wife's presence on an investigation team always gave him added confidence, such was his respect for her abilities.
'I've been reading the file on the Weston death. It seems to me that there are only two leads left: the mysterious Mr Deacey, and the DNA trace which Arthur Dorward turned up and which may or may not have been left by the person who helped Mrs Weston take her life.
After the disappointment of the bogus Deacey, and the serious injury to Maggie Rose, both of those are stalled for the moment.' He looked at Pringle. 'Clan, give us an update on Murray.'
Bob Skinner never encouraged formality, but often there was something about him which simply inspired it. 'Very good, sir.' The thick-set superintendent nodded, and straightened in his seat as if coming to a form of attention. 'We've finished talking to the neighbours; none of them saw or heard anyone come and go. That's hardly surprising. Murray's house is in a cul-de-sac, and there's nobody directly across the road.
'I have a report from Inspector Dorward.' He glanced at Mackie, relaxing slightly. 'He hasna' been as helpful this time, Brian. There were no prints at all on the black tape. It was a brand new roll, of the sort you can buy in any DIY place. He even went over the tape that was taken from round Mr Murray's neck, after it was removed and sent to him. Not a trace. It was the same wi' the kitchen scissors.
Arthur says that must mean they had been wiped, for there were bound to have been old traces on them.'
'And the syringe?' asked Skinner.
'Clean too, sir.'
'What about its packaging?' Sarah put the question quietly, but the two superintendents looked round as if it had been fired at them.
Pringle frowned. 'What packaging?'
'The sterile packaging from the syringe; the container for whatever drug was used.'
The superintendent shook his head. 'We never found any, Sarah.'
'No,' she said. 'Nor did I expect it. The assistant… let's call him that… was a bit more devious than at the first death, leaving the tape, scissors and syringe, but he couldn't have left the packaging.
Those items would have had batch numbers on them that would have led you straight to him.'
'Do you have any other thoughts at this stage?' Skinner asked.
'Just this,' his wife responded. 'This person is a doctor, or some sort of paramedic. In each case the needle went straight into a vein in the thigh: upwards because that's the least awkward way, when you're injecting someone. A lay person might have been lucky once, but not twice, not nohow.
'Finding a vein for a needle is quite a skill. Some people are good at it, and some ain't. And it doesn't matter whether you're a doctor or a nurse. I've known middle-aged GPs spend five minutes prodding about with a needle trying to take a blood sample, and I've seen junior nurses who could slip a transfusion line into a vein inside five seconds, every time.
'Whoever administered these injections had that sort of skill.
Gaynor Weston was a young, well-fleshed woman; her veins would not have been easy to bring up. Anthony Murray had been bombarded by drugs — so much so that the lab couldn't pinpoint what was used to help his death — and his were very fragile. Yet the injection in each case was done clean as a whistle. I'd have been proud of them.'