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.He’s a menace to society.”Parlabane nodded.He sure was.Tim Vale was a former “intelligence operative” (i.e.spy), one of many left somewhat purposeless by the end of the Cold War.He had been getting too old anyway by the time the Wall fell, but rather than retire to a cottage to pen his memoirs, he had started an endearingly shady freelance surveillance firm, putting old tricks and old contacts to good use.He and Parlabane shared an enthusiasm for unorthodox information-gathering.Their meeting had been almost inevitable.They didn’t trust each other a great deal – doing so would have been “a frightfully disrespectful breach of etiquette”, as Vale put it – but they did get on.Vale had given him “a present in gratitude for his hospitality” after coming up to stay a few days, not long after Parlabane moved to Edinburgh.He was still living in that cursed place in Maybury Square, back when he and Sarah had only just started seeing each other.Vale told him not to open the gift until after he was gone.Parlabane knew it would be a gun, but that it was a Beretta nine mill was typical of the bastard, keeping him guessing as to whether it was a coincidence or how Vale could know he had used such a gun in LA – and what for.Death’s Dark Vale, Parlabane called him.He patted the Beretta in his jacket and resolved to write and thank him again.Sarah took her left hand off the wheel and put it on Parlabane’s thigh, giving it a conciliatory squeeze.He placed his right hand on top of it and she smiled, then changed up and floored it as the approaching Quality Street lights turned amber.“I found out who.who was in that interview room with your friend, Jack,” said Jenny.Parlabane turned his head around expectantly.“It was the big cheese, chief spook, who’s apparently in charge of everything in the whole world.Knight’s his name.”Parlabane stared beyond her for a moment, then nodded, mouthing the word to himself, storing something away.“I don’t know his first name; it was hard enough finding out his second.Everyone at the station just refers to him as Bomber.”“Why?”“After that guy in Auf Wiedersehen, Pet, remember him?”“So he’s a big fella then? A real bear?”“Aye, but it’s more the accent that got him the name.‘Zounds loik ’e’s fram the Wess Con’ree, moi dear’,” she mimicked.“Specially when he loses the place.”“Like a country bumpkin?” Parlabane asked anxiously.“A yokel?”“Well I’m sure they all find our accents hilarious too, Scoop.”“No, I mean.I talked to a chef at Craigurquhart who said the bloke in charge of security for Voss’s visit was a huge guy who spoke ‘like a country bumpkin’ when he got upset.That would put this Knight character at the scene.”“Why not.He’s in charge of fucking everything else.Nobody in the HQ right now is allowed to fart without authorisation from him.It would certainly add up that he would be ultimately overseeing the murder investigation if he was overseeing the visit.”“Then he did it,” Parlabane stated determinedly.“If he killed Donald, he killed Voss.Even if he didn’t draw a blade, he was there, and he knows a man who did.He’s a man Voss’s bodyguards wouldn’t have reacted to if he walked down the hall towards them that night.Him and someone else on his fucking spook staff.”“But why would he want to kill Voss?” Jenny asked.“He’s not the man with the motive,” Sarah chimed in.“He’s just the errand boy.The hitman.”“You pair are telling me you know who’s behind the hit?”“Oh yes, not inconsiderably,” said Parlabane, doing a reedy-voiced John Major impression, at which Jenny’s eyes bulged.“You’re not saying.”“No, no,” he added quickly, realising with a wry smile how she had wrongly interpreted his figure of speech.“But coincidentally, he could be a fringe beneficiary.You’re in the right neighbourhood.”“One of his cohorts?”“Well, I think the word Mr Major used was actually ‘bastards’,” Parlabane offered.“Personally, I prefer ‘cunts’.It’s the caring and likable Michael Swan.”“What?” She knew better than to ask if he was serious.“But why.what motive has he got?”“Have to tell you later,” Sarah said, pulling the car in and switching off the engine.“We’re up.”Pain erupted inside Nicole, deafening, shaking, flooding her, enough even to shut out the fear for a moment, before it seeped back in where the agonies were subsiding.She was bent over, head on her knees as she sat on the plastic chair, which had seemed to appear under her as her body was buckled by the blow.She had been standing before him in just a white T-shirt, in this room with its peeling-paint walls and Blu-tack smudges; its thin grey carpet under her bare feet; its bed where the second man sat, with the off-white candlewick, looking like it had lain undisturbed since the last time anyone actually used a candlewick; its wobbly MFI flatpack bureau; and the plastic chair.Like the lamenting bedroom of a daughter who didn’t live there any more, haunted by the ghosts of her presence, where posters once looked down on the bed she slept in and the desk she studied at.Like a mockery of the place she had felt safest.She wasn’t safe here [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.He’s a menace to society.”Parlabane nodded.He sure was.Tim Vale was a former “intelligence operative” (i.e.spy), one of many left somewhat purposeless by the end of the Cold War.He had been getting too old anyway by the time the Wall fell, but rather than retire to a cottage to pen his memoirs, he had started an endearingly shady freelance surveillance firm, putting old tricks and old contacts to good use.He and Parlabane shared an enthusiasm for unorthodox information-gathering.Their meeting had been almost inevitable.They didn’t trust each other a great deal – doing so would have been “a frightfully disrespectful breach of etiquette”, as Vale put it – but they did get on.Vale had given him “a present in gratitude for his hospitality” after coming up to stay a few days, not long after Parlabane moved to Edinburgh.He was still living in that cursed place in Maybury Square, back when he and Sarah had only just started seeing each other.Vale told him not to open the gift until after he was gone.Parlabane knew it would be a gun, but that it was a Beretta nine mill was typical of the bastard, keeping him guessing as to whether it was a coincidence or how Vale could know he had used such a gun in LA – and what for.Death’s Dark Vale, Parlabane called him.He patted the Beretta in his jacket and resolved to write and thank him again.Sarah took her left hand off the wheel and put it on Parlabane’s thigh, giving it a conciliatory squeeze.He placed his right hand on top of it and she smiled, then changed up and floored it as the approaching Quality Street lights turned amber.“I found out who.who was in that interview room with your friend, Jack,” said Jenny.Parlabane turned his head around expectantly.“It was the big cheese, chief spook, who’s apparently in charge of everything in the whole world.Knight’s his name.”Parlabane stared beyond her for a moment, then nodded, mouthing the word to himself, storing something away.“I don’t know his first name; it was hard enough finding out his second.Everyone at the station just refers to him as Bomber.”“Why?”“After that guy in Auf Wiedersehen, Pet, remember him?”“So he’s a big fella then? A real bear?”“Aye, but it’s more the accent that got him the name.‘Zounds loik ’e’s fram the Wess Con’ree, moi dear’,” she mimicked.“Specially when he loses the place.”“Like a country bumpkin?” Parlabane asked anxiously.“A yokel?”“Well I’m sure they all find our accents hilarious too, Scoop.”“No, I mean.I talked to a chef at Craigurquhart who said the bloke in charge of security for Voss’s visit was a huge guy who spoke ‘like a country bumpkin’ when he got upset.That would put this Knight character at the scene.”“Why not.He’s in charge of fucking everything else.Nobody in the HQ right now is allowed to fart without authorisation from him.It would certainly add up that he would be ultimately overseeing the murder investigation if he was overseeing the visit.”“Then he did it,” Parlabane stated determinedly.“If he killed Donald, he killed Voss.Even if he didn’t draw a blade, he was there, and he knows a man who did.He’s a man Voss’s bodyguards wouldn’t have reacted to if he walked down the hall towards them that night.Him and someone else on his fucking spook staff.”“But why would he want to kill Voss?” Jenny asked.“He’s not the man with the motive,” Sarah chimed in.“He’s just the errand boy.The hitman.”“You pair are telling me you know who’s behind the hit?”“Oh yes, not inconsiderably,” said Parlabane, doing a reedy-voiced John Major impression, at which Jenny’s eyes bulged.“You’re not saying.”“No, no,” he added quickly, realising with a wry smile how she had wrongly interpreted his figure of speech.“But coincidentally, he could be a fringe beneficiary.You’re in the right neighbourhood.”“One of his cohorts?”“Well, I think the word Mr Major used was actually ‘bastards’,” Parlabane offered.“Personally, I prefer ‘cunts’.It’s the caring and likable Michael Swan.”“What?” She knew better than to ask if he was serious.“But why.what motive has he got?”“Have to tell you later,” Sarah said, pulling the car in and switching off the engine.“We’re up.”Pain erupted inside Nicole, deafening, shaking, flooding her, enough even to shut out the fear for a moment, before it seeped back in where the agonies were subsiding.She was bent over, head on her knees as she sat on the plastic chair, which had seemed to appear under her as her body was buckled by the blow.She had been standing before him in just a white T-shirt, in this room with its peeling-paint walls and Blu-tack smudges; its thin grey carpet under her bare feet; its bed where the second man sat, with the off-white candlewick, looking like it had lain undisturbed since the last time anyone actually used a candlewick; its wobbly MFI flatpack bureau; and the plastic chair.Like the lamenting bedroom of a daughter who didn’t live there any more, haunted by the ghosts of her presence, where posters once looked down on the bed she slept in and the desk she studied at.Like a mockery of the place she had felt safest.She wasn’t safe here [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]