She gasped with alarm. ‘None of our people was hurt, were they?’
‘No. They were too far away to be involved.’
‘What about the two men who were kidnapped?’
‘I don’t think they were going to a dinner party in the Caley Hotel. My guess is that sometime soon we’ll find two stiffs in Birmingham, gift-wrapped as a warning.’
‘That’s horrible! How did someone manage to beat you to them?’
He smiled, grimly. ‘That’s a good question. The God of the criminal works in devious and mysterious ways.
‘But there’s good news too. While we’re no nearer tracing the fire-raiser from last Wednesday, we have learned a few interesting things about the victim. And the net’s closing in on Jackie Charles too. Maggie and young Pye are going up to Peterhead today to put the frighteners on a witness who might help us nail his gopher, Dougie Terry.
‘If we get something on him that could earn him fifteen years, I’m hoping that Terry will give up Charles.’
She walked towards him, carrying their wriggling son. ‘That’s your real world, Bob, isn’t it. That’s where your heart lies.’
He reached out and ruffled James Andrew’s hair. ‘No Sarah,’ he said, sincerely, ‘but right now it’s all I feel that I have.’
‘What about him?’
‘He used to be ours. Now he’s yours and mine . . . big difference. Soon, like Alex, he’ll be his. That’s the way it is.’
50
‘Do you know what my Boss said, Evan?’
Maggie Rose smiled calmly across the table at the Vulture. They were in another room, on their second visit. This time there were no windows. This time Mulgrew had no chair. Instead he stood shackled, a menacing officer on either side of him and another in the doorway.
‘He said, “If that bastard doesn’t make a formal statement about the Jimmy Lee assault, and if he doesn’t give us the names of the other three men in McCartney’s team, I’ll make sure he does the rest of his time on Devil’s Island, or as near to it as I can get.”
‘He also said that if you do help us, he’ll try to find you a bedroom in Saughton with a sea view.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Your choice, hard man. What’s it to be?’
Mulgrew stood stock still for a second. Finally, he nodded very briefly.
‘Very sensible. Now, you admit that you were the decoy who stopped Jimmy Lee, although you took no part in the assault.’
‘Aye.’
‘But you saw it and you can say who was there?’
‘Aye.’
‘Okay. Name all five men in the team.’
The Vulture took a deep breath as if he was about to dive into a very deep pool. ‘There wis Ricky McCartney, Barney Cogan - though he’s deid now - Willie Easson, Willie Macintosh and Willie Kirkbride.’
‘An attack of the Willies, you might say,’ muttered Sammy Pye. Rose shot him a look.
‘When McCartney asked you to act as a decoy, what did he tell you? I mean Jimmy Lee was a local hero.’
‘He told me that Dougie Terry wanted him sorted. That he owed him money, and that he’d double-crossed him in that game he was supposed to fix. He said that Terry had had to shell out a lot of money to the Malaysian folk that wanted the game sorted, and that Lee was to get the message. Hero or not.’
‘He didn’t mention anyone else?’
‘No, miss.’
‘That’s Chief Inspector, Mulgrew. Were you paid for acting as decoy?’
‘Sorry, miss. Aye, Ricky gave me three hundred in cash.’
‘And you watched the attack take place?’ Rose asked.
The Vulture nodded. ‘The three Willies had baseball bats. They broke his legs. Ricky and Barney smashed his knees and ankles wi’ big steel hammers. Ricky had a foot on his chest tae hold him down, and he had shoved something in his gob, tae keep him quiet. The boy passed oot eventually. They kept on for a while after that, then we all legged it tae Ricky’s motor. It was parked round the corner.’
‘Did anyone say anything after the attack?’
Mulgrew nodded. ‘Aye, in the motor Ricky laughed and said that the boy should get his players’ insurance money after that.’
Rose stared up at him, coldly. ‘You’re not going to renege on what you’ve just told the tape, Evan, are you? Because if you did, we wouldn’t be able to keep you segregated.’
‘No, miss . . . sorry, Inspector. Ah’ll swear to that in court, if Ah have to.’
‘Good.’
‘Dae Ah get to Saughton now?’ asked the Vulture.
‘Not yet,’ said Rose. ‘We’ll keep you here under close guard until we have McCartney and the three Willies in custody, and until they’ve been interviewed. After the trial we’ll move you down, once they’re on their way here.’
She nodded to the guards. ‘Take him away.’
As the thick door closed, and they picked up their notes and unplugged the tape recorder, she looked up at Sammy Pye, her laughter bursting out. ‘An attack of the Willies, indeed!’
51
Pamela Masters was waiting in the street when Skinner arrived to collect her, in the spot at which he had dropped her off after dinner the night before. She lived in Leith, in one of the many warehouse conversions which had sprung up along the river-front which ran through Edinburgh’s port.
Over dinner in Vito’s they had talked mostly of work, Skinner telling his new assistant most of the stories behind his more recent high-profile investigations, and she telling him something of her career in marketing, before her life had taken its change of direction.
He had enjoyed the meal, with its fellowship, more than any since his return from the States; in fact, he mused, as he cruised to a halt beside her on the pavement, as much as any he could recall in a long time.
She was dressed informally once again, in well-cut fawn trousers and a close-fitting cream sweater top, with a black blazer, and a cavernous bag slung over her shoulder. She smiled as she slid into the BMW’s front passenger seat. ‘Afternoon, sir,’ she said. He glanced at the clock. It read 12.13 and he had told her to be ready for midday.
‘Sorry once again, Pam,’ he said. ‘I’m not used to this visiting parent routine yet. You haven’t been stood outside since twelve, have you?’
She shook her head. ‘No,’ she lied, ‘only for a couple of minutes or so.’
He swung the car around in the cul-de-sac and headed out on to the road which led to Granton and Newhaven, turning left towards Ferry Road, the most direct route to the Forth Road Bridge.
‘I called Sergeant Whatnot before I left,’ said Skinner as he swept through a green light and on to the A90. ‘He’s got a christening to photograph at three o’clock, but he’ll be expecting us in the pub from around one.’
The Bridge traffic was light for a Spring Sunday, and there was no tailback at the tollbooth. With time to spare, Skinner might have taken the route through Aberdour, Burntisland and Kirkcaldy, but instead he headed up to Halbeath and down the new dual carriageway which had cut the time of the journey from Edinburgh to north-east Fife by around a third.
Without breaking a single speed limit, they rolled down the hill from Lundin Links and into the beachside village of Lower Largo just after 12.55 p.m. The narrow street was full of cars, lined down one side, most with the Glasgow or Edinburgh registration plates of weekend home-owners, and so Skinner had to drive for almost half a mile into the ribbon-like village before he found a parking space.
As he and Masters strolled back towards the Travellers’ Inn, they passed a house with a statue of a ragged figure over the front door. ‘Who’s he?’ asked Pamela.
‘Alexander Selkirk,’ said Skinner. ‘The real-life model for Robinson Crusoe. Born here, but spent years as a castaway on a desert island, with only illiterate tribesmen for company. Bit like being a policeman, really.’