Head Shot

He showed her his warrant card; she surprised him by reading it

… unusual y in his experience, a quick flash of the plastic was enough.

The youngster nodded and loosened the chain. 'Yes, okay,' she said, sweeping the child up in her arms.

His eyes widened as he stepped inside; the hall was bright and fresh, its carpet plush and relatively new. The living area had been modernised completely. Essential y the apartment had the same layout as the one across the hal, but the two were worlds apart. This was a home, adequately furnished and equipped, comfortable, and well looked after; by comparison, the other was no more than a doss-house.

'What's your other name?' asked McGuire.

'Ivy,' said the girl.

He reached across and tickled the toddler under the chin, as he had done, once upon a time, with Lauren and Spencer, Mcl henney's two children. 'Who's the kid? Your wee brother?'

'My son, actually. His name's Rufus.'

He stared at her. 'How old are you?' he blurted out.

Without a word, she turned, and walked over to a tal unit set against the wal. She opened a drawer, took out a photographic drivBtocence, and handed it to him. 'It's al right,' she told him, in a patienttone. Yes.

Definitely English, he thought, as she spoke. 'I'm used to it. I'm twenty two, and every time I go out for a drink I have to carry that to prove it.

I'm walking justification for a national identity card.'

He looked at the plastic-coated licence. The photograph was unusual y good; it was her, and she was indeed twenty-two.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Rude of me.'

'No, really.' She smiled for the first time. 'I am used to it. It can come in handy at times.'

'What about Rufus's father? Is he…'

'He's gone. I'm a lone parent.' . 'Does he visit you often?'

'When he feels like it. But that's okay; we get along fine, although he's not real y interested in his son. He just goes through the motions of being a dad, that's al.'

'Does he support you?

'No. My parents do. I have a degree in film studies, and once Rufus starts school I'l begin my career, but until then, I'm okay.'

There was something about the girl-woman that fascinated him. 'What about this?' He glanced around him. 'It's very comfy and al that, but this building ain't the finest piece of architecture in Edinburgh.'

She laughed. 'Blame my father for that, or his stupid solicitor. The seller told them that there was an improvement grant in place, and that it was al going to be done up. Wrong.'

She sat Rufus on the floor, beside a large stuffed panda. 'So what were you saying about George? That isn't his real name?'

'No.' He took the school photograph from his pocket. 'That's him, yes?'

She looked at it, frowning. 'Yes, that's George… apart from the beard. He's got a beard now.'

'How well do you know him?'

'Just as a neighbour, that's al. He's the only one in here I do know. So what is his real name?'

'Go back twenty-three years and he was called Jorge Xavier Rose; he's a mix of Scots and Portuguese.'

'And what happened twenty-three years ago to make him change his name?'

'You don't want to know. Just you take my advice, Ms Brennan, if he shows up here again, don't ever let him into your house.'

'I won't, don't you worry. Do you think he's gone, then?'

McGuire shrugged. 'He hasn't been home since Sunday night, of that I'm sure; plus he hasn't been to work since then. Maybe he's had an accident. I'l need to check that out. Or maybe he's got second sight; maybe he felt my hot breath on his neck, and decided to leave town.'

'I don't think I'd like your hot breath on my neck,' Ivy said. She paused and looked up at him, narrowing her eyes. '… Or maybe I would.'

He felt heat on his own neck, and found himself hoping that it did not show on his face.

'Did you really mean that George is over sixty?' she asked him, stubbing out a fledgling fantasy.

'He's sixty-three.'

'Well that's something else he lied about. He told me he was fifty five.'

McGuire shook his head. 'I don't think there's any truth in his life.' He looked at her, then around the room. 'Are you on the phone?'

'I use a mobile. Let me guess. You want me to cal you if he shows up here again?'

'Got it in one. These are my numbers.' He gave her a card from the supply in his breast pocket.

She showed him to the door and out of her oasis, back into the smelly grey place outside. 'Nice to meet you,' she said. 'I will call you, I promise. Maybe I'll call you even if George doesn't show up.'

He heard the door close behind her as he stepped back across the landing and into Rosewell's flat. The living room had cooled a little while he had been gone, but it was stil uncomfortably warm. He wanted to get out, to leave the place behind him, but there was something he had to do first.

He took a pair of surgical gloves from his jacket pocket and slipped them on. Other than the newspaper, he had touched nothing since he had been in the flat, and he wanted to leave the scene untainted. The sideboard had three drawers. The first contained cutlery, and the second was empty, except for a few tea towels. He opened the bottom drawer, the third, and saw what he was after; piles of bank statements and credit-card slips, laid side by side. He took them out and laid them on the table, then leafed through them, careful y. There was nothing exceptional about either group. The bank account showed Rosewel 's salary paid in on the last day of each month, plus regular debits for council tax and other withdrawals by cheque or cash card. It was always in credit with a minimum balance of one thousand pounds.

The other stack of bills showed that the credit card was used infrequently, but that when it was, the balance was always settled in ful, before interest charges could accrue.

McGuire noted down the numbers of the bank account and the credit card, plus the address of his Clydesdale Bank branch, then picked up the piles, in the same order as before, to return them to the drawer.

He was about to put them in, when he saw what had been lying underneath, and froze in his tracks. It was a cutting from a newspaper

… the Scotsman, he guessed, by the typeface… beginning to yellow with age. It was a report on a high court trial, and it carried a photograph of one of the crown witnesses.

He had no need to read the caption, but he did: Seen leaving court after her evidence. Detective Chief Inspector Margaret Rose.

25

'I guess this means you won't be at the footbal tonight,' Neil Mcllhenney grunted. He stood in his living room with his sport bag in one hand, and the phone in the other. He had been on the point of leaving for North Berwick, only to be halted by its summons.

'You guess correctly,' Bob Skinner agreed. 'Give my apologies to the rest of the Thursday Legends and tell them I'll be back as soon as I can.'

'And when wil that be, d'you reckon?'

'Jeez, Neil, I wish I could tell you for sure. The bodies will be released tomorrow by the coroner in Loudonville, and I've instructed an undertaker in Buffalo to collect them and make all the arrangements.

Sarah's booked a flight arriving next Monday, but there's no certainty that we'll be able to have the funerals next week. Leo was an important guy so the service will be public; from what Brad Dekker tells me, half the city wil want to be there.

'Not just that, the new senator and her husband want to put in an appearance. That wil get the Secret fucking Service involved. I didn't break that news to Sarah when I spoke to her; I'm saving it until I see her, so keep it to yourself for now.'

'Of course.' Mcl henney hesitated. 'Boss, what do you think you've got yourself into over there?'

'I wish I knew, mate. Al I do know is that these three murders are linked. As soon as I read the reports I was certain of that; so's Joe, now he's looked at them. Every one of them was a professional job; in every one of them the items taken were the same; mere bloody trifles. You do not put three bullets in the middle of somebody's forehead just to steal his Rolex.