EIGHTEEN

Dangerfield drove Harry into the city centre in his Mercedes that afternoon, parked as close to Police Headquarters as he could and walked him the rest of the way. They had agreed to meet back at the car in an hour, before driving out to the hospital to visit Wiseman. An hour, Harry assumed, would be ample. But Dangerfield seemed less confident.

'You don't need to tell them anything, you know. You don't even have to give them your fingerprints if you don't want to. Here's my solicitor's card. Divorce and probate's his speciality, but one of his partners must handle criminal stuff. Give them a call if things turn hairy.'

'They won't.'

'For your sake, I hope not.'

'You're overreacting.'

'Am I really? Well, it's better than underreacting.'

—«»—«»—«»—

At first, Harry sensed he had judged it right. Sergeant McBride, as cheerfully efficient in the flesh as he had sounded over the telephone, whisked him through the fingerprinting and DNA sampling procedures, dodged his questions about the examination of Wiseman's car that Geddes had mentioned was going to be carried out and implied there really was nothing else they required of him.

Only when Harry emerged from the loo after washing the fingerprinting ink off his fingers did he find that McBride had been joined by the Chief Inspector quoted in the Press and Journal. Ferguson was a youthful, snappily dressed, dark-haired man with film-starry looks and the featheriest of Scottish accents. He seemed altogether too young for such a senior rank and somehow the drive and ambition that hinted at worried Harry more than the challenging directness of his gaze.

'Thanks for coming in, Mr Barnett,' he said, with a geniality that lacked conviction.

'No problem.'

'I wonder if I could ask you to come in again tomorrow to answer a few questions.'

'You can ask me them now if you like.' The delay, Harry suspected, was designed to prey on his mind — as he was certain it would.

'No can do, I'm afraid. This would be a formal interview. It needs setting up. Inspector Geddes will want to be included, you see, so that we can… cover both inquiries.'

"What time?'

'Shall we say… eleven o'clock?'

'Suits me.'

Ferguson smiled. 'Splendid.'

'Formal means you'll be under caution, sir,' said McBride. 'You may wish to be accompanied by a solicitor.'

'Another reason for giving you notice,' said Ferguson.

'Thanks. I'll, er… think about it.'

—«»—«»—«»—

Harry exited the station, turning over in his mind the ever-multiplying complexities of the situation in which he found himself. Ferguson and McBride must already have received some kind of report on Wiseman's car, but they did not propose to tell Harry what it contained. That, he supposed, would be sprung on him at tomorrow's interview. They were presumably hoping to match his fingerprints with some they had already found, though where he could not imagine. As for the DNA sample he had supplied, what did they hope to match that with? Blood discovered under Askew's fingernails perhaps? They would not find any match, of course. But somehow that failed to reassure him.

'Bloody hell,' he murmured to himself. 'This is getting serious.'

—«»—«»—«»—

The afternoon had turned grey and what Aberdonians would call cool but felt plain cold to Harry. The city's stonework absorbed the greyness of the weather and amplified it. There was nothing in his surroundings to lessen his sense of isolation — and an ever sharper sense of homesickness. He wondered if there was time for a stiff drink — or two — before meeting Dangerfield. Glancing up at the Town House clock ahead of him, he saw there was, but doubted if presenting himself at Wiseman's bedside reeking of beer was a smart move.

He was tempted, nonetheless. The Town House was preserved in his fifty-year-old memories of the city and gave him his bearings. Old Blackfriars, the pub where he and the other Clean Sheeters had done most of their drinking during their fortnightly forays into Aberdeen, lay to his left, near the Mercat Cross. He headed towards it.

Within minutes he would have been at the bar, pint in hand, but he was diverted from his course at the last moment by the red and yellow post-office sign hanging from the frontage of the newsagent's shop a few doors further along. He had promised to send Donna and Daisy a postcard and so far had done nothing about it beyond buying the card. An airmail stamp for Canada was what he needed. He hurried in, joined the queue at the post-office counter at the back of the shop and began composing a suitably anodyne message in his head.

He had made as little progress with the message as he had in the queue when he heard a familiar voice. Glancing round, he saw Shona at the front of the shop, buying a newspaper and a packet of cigarettes. But the newspaper and cigarettes were not all she was buying. The phrase that caught his ear was 'and a pack of Villiger's cigars, please'.

The choice of brand was such a shock that he instantly lowered the hand he had half-raised to greet her. He stepped out of the queue — and out of her line of sight. She paid, dropped her purchases into her bag and left. And Harry went after her.

He did not know what he was going to do. He did not really know whether the coincidence was meaningful or not. But he had to find out. Emerging from the shop, he spotted her hurrying ahead. Hanging back a little, he followed.

Then, almost before it had begun, the game was up. A figure crossed the road from the Clydesdale Bank on the opposite corner and stepped smilingly into Shona's path. It was Dangerfield. And, a second later, glancing over Shona's shoulder, he saw Harry. He waved, obliging Harry to wave back. Then Shona turned and smiled at him.

'There you are, Harry,' said Dangerfield. 'I was just telling Shona I was worried they might have clapped you in irons.'

'I talked them out of it.'

'Have you just come from the polis now?' Shona asked.

'Yes. But I… took a wrong turning. Came the long way round.'

'We're off to the hospital next,' said Dangerfield. 'See how Magister's doing.'

'I'll leave you to it, then,' said Shona. 'I've some more shopping to do. I'll see you on Wednesday, Mr Dangerfield. You too, Harry?'

'Probably.'

"Bye, then.'

"Bye.'

—«»—«»—«»—

'Is Shona married, Danger?' Harry oh-so-casually enquired as they made their way to the car park.

'Widowed. Her husband was killed in an accident on one of our rigs. Bernie McMullen. Nice guy. It was a real tragedy.'

'A good-looking woman like her doesn't need to stay a widow, though, surely.'

'Her druggie son could be the reason. I don't know.'

'Does she have to travel far to clean for you?'

'No. She lives in Torry, just over the river. Why are you so interested?'

'Oh, just curious.'

'You should concentrate on getting the police off your case. How did it go?'

'Fine. But I'm not exactly out of the woods. They want to see me again tomorrow. For a formal interview.'

'You need a solicitor, Harry. You really do.'

'I know.'

'I've had a call from Jabber's daughter, by the way. She's on the train with her mother. They'll be staying at the Caledonian. I've agreed to meet them there this evening for dinner. I didn't mention you. It didn't seem… a good idea.'

'It's OK, Danger. I get the message.'

'I'm trying to be fair to everyone, Harry. You know that, don't you?'

'Of course.'

'Now, are you going to phone my solicitor?' Dangerfield flourished his mobile. 'Or am I going to do it for you?'

—«»—«»—«»—

It was in fact Dangerfield who did the phoning. Harry sat in the Merc, gazing vacantly at the blank wall of the car park and listening to him as he sought help from his friend and senior partner in Legg, Stevenson, MacLean. In the event, Harry did not have to say a word.

'All fixed,' Dangerfield announced as he rang off. 'One of his juniors, Kylie Sinclair, will—'

'Kylie?'

'She's good, Harry, OK? Try not to hold it against her that she's young enough to be your granddaughter. She'll be expecting to see you at ten o'clock, so you can cover the ground with her before you report to the police station. Their practice is in Bon Accord Square. You've got the address on the card. There's a street map in the pocket next to you. Borrow it if you like. We don't want you keeping her or the police waiting tomorrow, do we?'

'We do not. Thanks, Danger.'

'Don't mention it. One thing, though.'

'What?'

Dangerfield turned to look at him. 'You are playing a straight bat on this, aren't you, Harry? I mean…'

'I haven't a clue what's going on, Danger. All I know for sure is that I know nothing about it. Fair enough?'

'Fair enough.' Dangerfield started the car. 'I won't ask again.'