Autographs In The Rain Part 25

'Sure.'

'Good. In that case I want you to stay up here, under my protection. I don't want you in a hotel, though; you can move into our spare room for a while.'

'No.' She snapped the word out, with no little discomfort. 'If someone's after me, Bob, I don't want to be anywhere near Sarah or your children.'

'Okay,' he conceded. 'We'll find another solution long-term, but for a couple of days you'll be okay in Gullane. No one will know where you are, other than you and us. That'll give us time to find you a safe house.'

'Bob,' she protested. 'I'm not living like a prisoner. I can't.'

'No, but we can take precautions.'She smiled and gave in. 'Back to the old days, again.'

'Better than dealing with it after it's happened. You get some sleep,

now. Phone your secretary first thing in the morning; I'll be back to pick

you up around ten.'31.110.Dan Pringle opened one eye, experimentally. Exposure to light did not send a shaft of pain shooting through his head, and so he opened the other. 'What time did we get in last night?' he asked, huskily.

'About two thirty.' He turned round, to see his wife standing beside their bed with a mug of tea in her hand. 'Dan,' she said, severely. 'You had better be aware that 1 am not driving you back from Edinburgh to Galashiels every Friday night in life. We have moved and that's that; get used to it.'

Like many police officers, Dan Pringle enjoyed a drink. He enjoyed also to get away from the job at least once a week, among a group of friends with whom he could discuss sport, s.e.x, current affairs, and even politics, on occasion, but never work. The biggest sacrifice which he had made in revitalising his CID career was in wrenching himself away from his social circle, to move on to his new Borders territory.

'I know, love,' he sighed. 'Last night was a one-off, I promise. It was only our second Friday away; I had to have a fix.'

'Well if you want another,' countered Elma Pringle, 'you can get a patrol car to run you home afterwards.'

Dan pulled himself up in bed. 'Oh no; I can't do that. Jim Elder was bad enough about CID using Pandas as taxis, but this new ACC Ops, Chase, he'd have my guts. There's a story about that Willie Michaels got a car to take him back to Broxburn after a Masonic dinner in Edinburgh, and when Chase found out about it, he sent him a bill for the equivalent taxi fare.

'The Ops Room Superintendent was telling me that he has his lackey, Jack Good, spot-check the logged patrol movements every day, looking for that very thing.'

'Why should you call Inspector Good a lackey? I've never heard you speak like that about DI Mcllhenney, and he does the same job for Mr Skinner. Or about Jack McGurk, for that matter.'

'Does he h.e.l.l as like. Jack Good's a tea boy in uniform. Big Neil's a first-cla.s.s detective doing a valuable CID liaison job, and he's a hard man,to boot. Good's next job will be to draw his pension; Neil's will be on up the ladder, either to Special Branch or deputy divisional commander. I'd have him down here, I'll tell you.

'As for Jack McGurk, he's a good lad too. I trust Jack; I like him close to me.'

'That's good,' Elma remarked. 'Because he's downstairs.'

'He's what?! For Christ's sake, why didn't you tell me?'

'I just did. Anyway, didn't you hear the doorbell?'

'I heard f.u.c.k all,' Dan moaned, climbing out of bed and stumbling into th en-suite shower room. 'Give him a coffee and tell him I'll be down in ten minutes. What time is it?'

'Ten to ten.'

'Jesus! I'll bet I'm the only copper has his Sat.u.r.day morning disrupted.'

'Better than you disrupting mine with your b.l.o.o.d.y snoring. I'll tell him, but you hurry up.'

Jack McGurk had just finished the Scotsman Sat.u.r.day sports section when his boss appeared in his living room, unshaven, but showered and dressed in jeans and a crew-necked sweater.

'What the h.e.l.l brings you here?' The superintendent growled his greeting.

'Fish,' the sergeant growled back.

Pringle seemed to stop in mid-stride. 'Never! You mean we've found it.'

'No, sir,' McGurk replied. 'I mean we've lost another few tons.'

There were times when the young detective regretted being six feet four; it meant that there was more of him to be glared at. 'Jesus Christ,' Pringle barked, 'how the f.u.c.k did we manage that?'

'I don't know yet, sir.'

'Where was it?'

'Howdengate Trout Farm; that's the one just outside Jedburgh. I've called DI Dorward's forensic team down; the owner and the manager should be waiting for us when we get there.'

'Aye, okay,' the superintendent muttered, resigned to the loss of his Sat.u.r.day, but thankful that he had declined the last whisky on offer the night before. 'Let me run my shaver over my chin and we'll be on our way.

You're driving, son.'1.32.112.

'Are you sure he'll be here?' asked Andy Martin.

Skinner nodded. 'It's a clear morning, there was no reply when I called the house and his mobile's switched off. There's nowhere else he'll be.' He pointed across the playing fields. 'Look. There he is.'

Across three practice rugby fields in the training area behind Murrayfield Stadium, half a dozen mini-pitches had been laid out. Neil Mcllhenney, bulky in a North Face fleece, stood on the touchline of the third. Walking towards him, Skinner and Martin saw him tense as a small figure in white shorts and a red bib took a pa.s.s from the player inside, and accelerated effortlessly towards the line leaving his immediate opponent floundering in his wake.

As he touched the ball down, Mcllhenney punched the air with his right hand. By his side, a rangy, dark-haired girl jumped up and down, clapping.

Then she caught sight of the two newcomers and tugged at her father's shoulder.

'Lovely turn of speed, Neil,' said Martin. 'He's got the gift as he runs, of making his marker think he's got a chance and getting him to commit himself far too early. You just can't teach that; if his basic speed grows with him, and he keeps that knack, I'd say he could be a bit special.'

Mcllhenney nodded, not trying to disguise his pride. 'That's what the coaches here say, too.'

Martin glanced at the two adults on the field, who were rounding up their sides, now that the final whistle had gone. 'I know these guys; I played with them, and against them. They're top cla.s.s.'

'So were you, pal,' Skinner murmured. 'You gave up the game far too soon.'

'I know,' his friend conceded. 'But there's no point in dwelling on it. On the other hand, I played ten years too soon; if I had carried on, and suppose I had done all the things they said I was capable of- caps, British Lions, all that stuff- where would I be now? Retired and sitting in the stands watchingguys who couldn't have laced my boots making silly money for playing the game while I did it for love and travel expenses.'

'Now you, pal,' he said as Spencer Mcllhenney ran towards them, 'with a fair wind, a run of luck, and given that you get to be the size of your old man, you've got a future.'

'h.e.l.lo Mr Skinner,' the boy called out. 'Did you come to watch me?'

'Spence!' Lauren chided her brother. 'Don't be silly.'

'Ah but I did ... and to talk to your dad.'

Mcllhenney ruffled his son's hair. 'Go and get changed, and have your Iovril. I'll see you back at the car.' As the youngster ran off he handed the keys to Lauren. 'Go on ahead of us, honey, while I talk to Mr Skinner and Mr Martin.'