‘D'you ever notice how slow the pace of change is in London?'
Mackie looked at the acting Inspector, puzzled. 'What d'you mean?' he said. I'd have thought the opposite.'
McGuire paused on the pavement and shook his head. `When I was a lad, I came down to Wembley once, with my dad and my uncle.' He raised an arm and pointed along Wardour Street. 'We had a pint in that pub there, and that one, and that one. They're all just as I remember them. You pick out three pubs in a row in the middle of Edinburgh, and if just one of them has the same name and paint-job that it had fifteen years ago, you'll be lucky.'
The DCI laughed. 'There's more to life than boozers, big fella.'
`So there is, and over the last ten years Edinburgh's had a new Conference Centre, a new Opera House, new cinemas, four big new retail parks, a new civil-service building, and umpteen big new office developments, in the city centre and out by the bypass. Not bad for a city of under half a million folk.'
`Maybe so, Mario, but it could be that London is so big that change just isn't as obvious.'
Cyril Kercheval's nice little Italian place was opposite two of McGuire's fondly remembered ale-houses. Mackie gazed through the window and was pleased to note that it was much quieter than their Chinese meeting place. Kercheval was waiting for them inside, with a raffia-bound bottle of Chianti uncorked on the table.
`Hello again,' he began, rising to greet them. What have you been up to since yesterday.. or can't you say?'
It's all right. Special Branch isn't nearly as cloak and dagger these days. We leave most of that to your outfit. Mario's new to the section, so I've taken the opportunity to introduce him to some of our opposite numbers down here.'
Kercheval nodded in what seemed to be approval. `Good, good. Not a wasted moment, eh?'
He looked at the menu, with a knowledgeable eye. Inspector,' he said, putting it down and filling their glasses with the dark red Chianti, 'you're a touch Italian, I think. How about choosing for us. On the MI5 tab, of course.' He sipped at his wine. 'Good stuff, this.'
If you insist,' said McGuire, a good enough detective to know when he was being patronised. He spoke rapidly to the waiter in Italian. The man scribbled on his pad, reddening in the face at one point, and disappeared down a narrow staircase set in a corner of the dining room.
`Well? What did you order?'
`Scotch broth — that's soup of the day — and three Aberdeen Angus sirloins, medium rare, in a whisky sauce, with chips and peas. Sherry trifle to follow. My nose tells me that's all they're capable of cooking here. Oh yes, and I said to him that even without tasting it I could tell that the Chianti was shite, and could he please bring us a real bottle and uncork it at the table, otherwise there'd be hell to pay on account of us being coppers.'
He smiled showing all of his gleaming front teeth. 'That's only a rough translation, of course.'
Kercheval was as red as the waiter. 'Oh, I see. Glad to have you along in that case.' He turned quickly to Mackie. `What a, new s from the North? About Skinner, I mean.'
`None, either way. Mario phoned his wife an hour ago. They say that today will be crucial.'
`Mmm. Must be a worrying time for you both. Of course, you may not know him that well, what with him being Deputy Chief and all that.'
Mackie looked at him coolly, wondering at the sea change in, his manner from the day before. 'Doesn't matter what rank he is. He's a copper and he's one of us. As it happens, Mario and I have both seen action with the boss. I was his PA before Maggie took over the post.'
Oh,' said Kercheval, 'when you used the term PA yesterday, I assumed that Mario had married the boss's secretary.'
McGuire grinned meaningfully at the bachelor Mackie. 'A man could do worse,' he said,
'but my wife's a Detective Inspector. She outranked me until a couple of days ago.'
The waiter reappeared with a fresh bottle of Chianti, and opened it ostentatiously, handing the cork to McGuire as he poured a tasting sample into a clean glass. McGuire sniffed the cork, sipped the wine and nodded. The waiter filled three new glasses. As he withdrew, McGuire handed him the original bottle and spoke again in Italian. The waiter took the bottle with a thin, ungracious smile.
`What did you say then?' asked Mackie.
I told him to take the first stuff home, put it in his car radiator and wait for a really cold winter.'
The DCI shook his balding head in mock despair. `So Cyril,' he said to the MI5 man.
'What have you got for us?'
Kercheval sipped the replacement Chianti, eyes widening at the difference. Slowly he replaced his glass, then looked solemnly up at Mackie. 'Nothing, dear boy, I'm afraid.
The two Scots stared at him, astonished. 'What?' said McGuire, his black eyebrows coming together in a heavy frown.
'As I told you, I went to see the DG, and asked if I could release the file on Davey to your investigation. He told me to give him a couple of hours. He called me back in last night, and said that we couldn't do that.'
'Why the hell not?' demanded Mackie.
I don't question my DG, dear boy. Especially not when he's been to the PM about it.'
`You sure he did that?'
Oh yes. I shouldn't tell you this, but it was the PM who stopped it. I'd have let the file go, especially since Davey's dead, and the DG always trusts my judgement.'
`So it seems that our fearless leader, the bastard, must have a short memory when it comes to people saving his life,' Mackie snarled.
Either that,' said McGuire, who had stood behind the man as a human shield on that same rain-soaked evening, 'or he has a bloody good reason for keeping that file closed!'