With that in mind, Brian Mackie and Mario McGuire, sat at the conference table in the DCS’s office, each read his remark as a savage reproof.
‘Your tip about the Birmingham team was reliable, all right,’ he said, quietly. ‘Too bad it wasn’t exclusive.’ He looked at McGuire. ‘I take it that you’ve been raising hell with your oppo in Birmingham, Mario.’
The swarthy Inspector nodded. ‘All kinds of hell and damnation, sir.’
‘Have they given you any excuses, or theories?’
McGuire shrugged his wide shoulders. ‘They think that there must be a second informant in the team, working either for Charles or for one of his criminal pals in London.’
‘That’s pretty bloody obvious.’ Martin shook his head and laughed softly. ‘Christ, can you imagine if we’d all turned up in the same place at the same time, all of us armed! It would have been like Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show.’
‘Little chance of that,’ said Brian Mackie. ‘Jackie wouldn’t have wanted them taken out right in his driveway.’
‘I don’t know, we were within sight of the buggers. Still, I suppose that was as far away as they could risk.’ Martin sighed. ‘I wish I’d thought to charge straight up to Jackie’s door last night. I’ll bet he had a back-up team in the house, just in case the roadblock didn’t work.’
He glanced at Mackie. ‘No word, I take it, on the missing men?’
The DCI shook his shiny head.
‘Maybe they’ll just give them a good talking to and send them home on the bus,’ said Martin, his voice even, but heavy with irony.
Dave Donaldson’s chuckle was silenced by a glance from the Chief Superintendent. ‘Don’t think that I’m amused by you two either.’ Neil McIlhenny shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘It’s been four days since Carole Charles went up in flames, our only lead’s been butchered under our noses, our prime suspect for that murder is alibi-ed by two of our own patrolmen - and incidentally, Dave, if you do press assault charges against Heenan, you’re going to look a right fucking Charlie if he pleads Not Guilty and the case goes to trial - and it takes the Boss’s new PA to find out that Carole might have had a bit on the side.’
He paused. ‘Could do better, gentlemen, or am I being . . .’ the telephone on his desk rang, ‘. . . unkind?’ He stepped across the room and picked up the receiver.
‘Martin. Yes? Excellent.’ The four detectives saw a smile spread across his face. ‘Yes, hold them there, please. I’ll be down to pick them up myself.’ He put the phone down.
‘Game on, lads, at last. Ricky McCartney’s been arrested in Northumberland. He’s being held at Alnwick police station. His car was spotted by a patrol coming out of Haggerston Castle Caravan Park. He did a runner when he saw the blue light, but the chasers radioed in and there was a roadblock waiting a few miles down the road. They ran right into it. We got a bonus prize too. McCartney had a pal with him, one Willie Kirkbride, one of the three that Maggie told me about when she called from Peterhead.
‘At least one line of investigation is going well. With any luck, we’ll be able to arrest Dougie Terry within the next couple of days.’ He waved his four colleagues to their feet.
‘Let’s get moving. Neil, you come with me down to Alnwick, to pick up McCartney. Dave, you work on picking up the other two Willies. Brian, Mario, you concentrate on plugging the hole in your network.’
Donaldson, Mackie and McGuire each nodded and left the room, without a word.
‘Give me a second, Neil,’ said the Chief Superintendent, as they went. ‘I’d better give Alex a call. D’you want to phone Olive, and tell her you’ll be late again?’
McIlhenney smiled, grimly. ‘I think not, sir. You can, if you like.’
‘Hah!’ Martin picked up the phone again and dialled Alex’s number. He waited for a dozen rings, before hanging up.
‘Not in,’ he said, as he slipped on his jacket. ‘Let’s get going. I’m looking forward to a chat with Mr McCartney.’
53
Alex laid the ninth diary face down on the floor beside her chair, and leaned back wide-eyed. She took a deep breath, blinked hard, then nodded, a decision made.
She jumped from her chair and ran through to her bedroom. Ten minutes later, the reincarnation of Myra Graham emerged once more, smoothing the dress against her thighs, flexing and thrusting out her breasts in the brassière, which was fastened at its tightest notch, and giving the suspender belt a final adjustment.
She stepped out into Woodlands Road and looked around. The pubs in the area were peaceful and friendly, fine for Alex, but not for Myra, and not for the dress. She walked towards the City Centre for a few minutes, until a taxi came towards her, its orange sign lit up, and she hailed it. ‘Maitland Hotel, please.’
Barely three minutes later, the black cab pulled up outside the high-rise, five-star hotel. She paid the driver and strode confidently through the automatic doors. Inside, the foyer was plush and inviting. She looked around, selected an available table and sat down. As she lowered herself into the leather chair, the black dress rode up, revealing thigh almost up to the top of her nylons.
She glanced across at a waiter, summoning him with a faint smile and a flick of an eyelash. As he strode briskly across the room, almost at a trot, she felt a surge of exultation. ‘Yes, miss?’ he asked, a little too eagerly.
‘Gin and tonic, please.’
He returned, within a minute, with her drink and a bowl of potato crisps, setting them before her with a flourish, which turned into a bow as she told him to keep the change from the five pound note.
She sat there, sipping her drink and looking coolly around. The foyer bar was far from being at its busiest, but even late on a Sunday afternoon, it was alive with guests. A few of them were women, all accompanied, but mostly they were single men.
She spotted her target at once. Even seated she could tell how big he was from the size of his shoes and the length of his legs crossed in front of him. His reddish-blond hair was cropped tight and the yellow-tanned pallor of his skin marked him out as an American. She had sensed him watching her as she had swung, long-legged, into the hotel.
Slowly and deliberately, she turned her eyes around to look at him. She held his gaze for a few seconds, smiled briefly, then looked away. She picked up her drink, took a sip and looked over her shoulder, around the rest of the big area. When she turned back to replace her gin and tonic on its mat on the table, he was standing over her.
‘Good evening, ma’am,’ he said, in a light Texan drawl. ‘Mind if I join you?’
She glanced towards the door. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I was late arriving. So I’ve either been stood up, or my date’s given up on me. Sure, go ahead, sit down.’
She watched as he lowered himself into the seat opposite her. He was around thirty, at least six feet six and running slightly, but not unacceptably, to fat. ‘What a well filled lunchbox,’ she thought to herself, as he sat down.
‘Been in Glasgow long?’ she asked, almost casually.
‘Two days,’ said the American. ‘My name’s Randall. Randall Garland, a lonely man from Austin, Texas.’ He held out a hand.
She shook it, looking him full in the eyes, and holding it for just a second longer than necessary. ‘Myra,’ she said. She grinned, with a lift of that right eyebrow. ‘Myra Graham, a friendly lady from Glasgow, Scotland.’
54
Tom Whatling’s warning had been well placed. Many of his salvaged negatives bore an FA heading, and even in negative form, many of them were harrowing to see.