‘You know,’ she whispered, ‘there is absolutely no medical justification for the notion that men are sexually over the hill once they leave forty behind. And you are living proof of the opposite.’
‘This isn’t something that hard-bitten detectives are supposed to say.’ She bit his shoulder, gently. ‘ - Ouch! - but I love you, Doctor!’
‘That’s as well, my man, because I couldn’t live any more without your taste in music.’
On Sarah’s CD player, Joe Cocker, set on repeat programme, sang ‘We are the One’, for the eighth, or it could have been the eleventh, time. The choice had been Bob’s from a disc he had bought for her. One of the things that Sarah had discovered about her policeman lover was his remarkable talent for creating a mood.
Later, just after 9.00 p.m., as they drove down to Gullane, Bob slipped a cassette of Mendelssohn’s Scottish Symphony into the tapedeck. ‘Just to remind you where you are,’ he said.
They drove mostly in silence; Sarah was almost asleep by the time they reached their destination, lulled by the richness of the music.
They were smiling and completely relaxed when they arrived at the cottage.
‘And where the hell have you been?’ said Alex, rising to her feet as the living room door opened. Then she looked at the pair, Bob’s arm round Sarah’s shoulder. ‘On second thoughts, don’t answer that. There are certain things a father should not discuss with his daughter.’
Andy Martin sat stiffly on, rather than in, a big recliner armchair, managing somehow to make it look uncomfortable.
‘Sorry we’re late, Andy,’ Bob volunteered, still smiling. ‘Traffic was murder tonight!
‘Let’s go. The chef will be getting anxious.’
Alex drove Bob’s car on the ten-mile journey from Gullane to Haddington. They had reserved a table in a riverside restaurant. The proprietor wore a relieved smile as they entered.
‘Sorry, Jim,’ said Bob. ‘This lot kept me back!’
The meal was superb. King scallop chowder was followed by three fillet steaks, with Alex opting for baked sea-trout. As Bob finished off the second bottle of Cousino Macul, Sarah was happy to note that the unwinding process was almost complete.
They talked of music and movies, or rugby and royalty, the light, amusing conversation of a close group on an evening out.
Just before midnight, Alex, who had restricted herself to mineral water, pulled the Granada to a halt outside the friendly, family-owned hotel in Gullane which Bob had adopted years before as his local pub. It was one of his special places, and one in which Sarah felt completely at ease.
They settled into a table in the broad bay window.
At the restaurant, Andy had insisted on paying for the meal. ‘This is my celebration,’ he had declared. In the bar, Bob countered, astonishing Mac, the laid-back barman, by ordering champagne.
‘Christ, Bob, is it your birthday or something?’
‘No, you bugger, at the prices you charge, it’s yours!’
An hour later, with the car secured in the hotel park, the foursome walked home under a clear crisp winter sky. In the cottage, as Alex made up the bed in the guest room, Bob poured three glasses of Cockburn’s Special Reserve port. As Andy accepted his nightcap, he looked hard at his host.
‘Are you going to tell me, or not?’
Skinner smiled expansively. ‘Tell you what?’
‘You think you might have cracked it, don’t you? You think you’ve nailed our man.’
The smile grew even wider.
‘Well, since you’ve been vetted, I will tell you.
‘Even as we sit here sipping this fine port, two of our colleagues are out in the cold watching a certain house on the outskirts of Edinburgh, the occupant of which has been under constant observation for the last few days.
‘And once the Sheriff gives me the necessary warrant, as he will tomorrow - sorry, this morning - you and I, you for old times’ sake, will pay a call on the gentleman. There we will interview him in connection with the four Royal Mile murders, the murder of Rachel Jameson... ’
‘But that was a suicide, wasn’t it?’
‘Don’t you bloody believe it... and the murder in Glasgow of a certain Shun Lee.’
‘Who the hell is Shun Lee?’
‘Before he was axed, stabbed and castrated, he was a Chinese waiter, and a client of Miss Rachel Jameson.’
The revelation hung in the air for almost a minute. But even through the Cousino Macul, the champagne and the port, Martin’s mind was working. His face lit up in comprehension. ‘Not a client with a grudge. A victim.’
He looked sidelong at Skinner, with a quizzical smile.
‘The guy we’re going to visit. He wouldn’t be Japanese, would he?’
26
Skinner had decided to take Yobatu by surprise. There would be no preliminary visit, but a full scale raid and interrogation.
Sarah awoke at 10.00 a.m. to find herself alone in Bob’s king-size pine bed. There was a note on the bedside table. Robert, she thought, your handwriting is bad enough for you to have made it big in medicine.
The message was brief but multi-purpose: ‘Morning, love. Tell Andy for me I’ve gone to see the man about a warrant for our visit tomorrow. I’ll be back for one o’clock. I’ve booked a starting time on No. 2. We tee off at 1:36. Tell Alex she’s partnering Andy. Luv, B.’
‘That’s great,’ Sarah muttered, but with a smile on her lips. ‘I’ve got either a migraine or a hangover, and he wants to play golf.’
Alex’s head appeared round the bedroom door. Her big eyes were clear, and her hair was as tousled as ever. ‘Hi, Sarah. You awake? I’m doing a fry-up.’
Sarah’s head was clear and painless by the time Bob returned. The healing process had been helped by a brisk walk along Gullane beach, a great mile-long stretch of golden sand. The weather continued cold, crisp and bright, with a light breeze blowing from the north-west.
They drove off from the first tee of Gullane Golf club’s number two course at 1.36 p.m. precisely, Bob and Andy hitting drives across a wind which was refreshing and just beginning to swing round from the north.
By the time that they holed out on the exposed twelfth green, the most distant part of any of the three fine links courses laid out on Gullane Hill, the blue sky had gone. The wind had risen and the clouds looked to be heavy with snow. As Alex sank the winning putt on the sloping eighteenth green, the first flakes were beginning to fall.
Later, Bob and Andy, each of whom had been forced by circumstances to become expert in the kitchen, prepared dinner. Alex offered to help but was banished by a wave of her father’s hand.
‘Just don’t get too close to him, Andy,’ she said as she left. ‘Pops isn’t exactly the handiest man around the house.’ She pointed to a crockery shelf which hung at an odd angle on the wall. ‘He’s been promising to fix that for years. Don’t stand underneath it. The lot could come down on you!’
The meal, when it came, was dominated by seafood. Langoustine bisque, cooked and frozen two months earlier, was followed by four thick salmon steaks baked with prawns and served with courgettes, baby corn and a tossed salad of iceberg lettuce, peppers, tomatoes and olives.
Instead of dessert, Bob produced a wheel of Stilton, and a bowl of black grapes on ice. He programmed the Amadeus recording of Haydn’s ‘Emperor’ quartet on his CD player, and as the glorious strings swelled from the Cyrus speakers, he smiled around the table.
‘You know,’ he said, squeezing Sarah’s hand, ‘this is turning out to be the best weekend I’ve had for a long, long, time. And if tomorrow goes the way I think it might, well it could, just about, top the lot.’