The shooting schedule worked out, and with the blessing of Paul Girone, I left Shepperton in the limo at midday, heading for Heathrow and the first Glasgow shuttle of the afternoon. I called Susie from the car; the letters to the three gangsters' lawyers had gone out from Greg McPhillips' office the night before through the legal mail network, but she told me that none of them had responded.
"Okay," I told her. "Maybe you'll get a reaction this afternoon. If you do you can tell me when you get home tonight. I'll be there before you, assuming that British Airways doesn't mess me about."
For once, the world's favourite airline didn't; the shuttles were running to time, and I was able to check in, grab a sandwich and a Coke, then walk straight on to the plane. The complimentary newspapers were running low at the foot of the air-bridge. All the Herald?" had been snaffled by the earlier flights, but since we were heading for Glasgow there were still a few copies of the Scotsman to be had. I picked one up as I boarded.
I had had an early start on set. I belted myself into my window seat, leaned my head back, and fell asleep almost at once. When I awoke, we were on the climb, passing through the first layers of wispy cloud, looking down on Windsor Castle. As far as I could see there were no standards flying; Her Majesty must have been at one of her other palaces that day. I thought to myself that maybe it was time for Susie and I to buy a second home. For all that we lived on a pretty large property by British standards, we had a simple lifestyle for a movie star and a millionairess.
I was contemplating the alternative charms of France and Florida when the guy in the aisle seat leaned across the empty middle berth, on which he had dumped a jacket, a palm-top computer and a thick briefcase. "Excuse me," he began. "But you are Oz Blackstone, aren't you?"
I glanced at him; he was in his thirties, podgy around the face, though not grossly overweight, and from the look of the sweat marks under the arms of his blue and white striped shirt, he had run to catch the plane. He was clean-shaven, and his dark hair was controlled by some sort of gel, from which a single bead of sweat had escaped and was running down his left cheek. I'd have taken him for a salesman… of palm-top computers perhaps, for I've never met anyone who actually uses one of the fiddly wee things… only he was wearing braces. In my experience only lawyers hold up their trousers with braces these days;
I guess it's born of the extreme caution for which their profession is famous.
"A bleary-eyed and half-asleep Oz Blackstone," I told him, 'but yes, that's me."
He chortled. "A hard night on the town was it?" he asked, jovially. (An incredibly rude question to be asking a complete stranger when you think of it, but it comes with the territory I inhabit these days, and I've learned to roll with it.) "You know what it's like for us actors," I told him. "We have to do the round of the nightclubs to keep the children of the paparazzi in their private schools." I caught the look of uncertainty as it came into his eye. "Actually it was a hard morning in a film studio," I went on, 'from which I'm escaping for the weekend to see my wife and daughter. It is actually possible to be in my business yet not be a piss artist." I made myself smile at the guy as I finished. There's no point in snubbing people, even though it's what you'd really like to do.
"I wish it was possible in mine," he exclaimed, full joviality restored. "My name's Wylie Smith, by the way, middle name Henry, which causes the odd laugh among my colleagues these days." I thought about this for a second, then remembered the news agent book shop and CD chain. I remembered also a Hearts goalie who raised a few laughs in his time as well, but they all do if they play long enough. Just ask the big guy with the ponytail.
"Which firm are you with?" I asked him.
He stared at me as if I had just told him the date of his birth, his mother's maiden name and his inside leg measurement. "You know me?"
"I don't think so."
"Then how do you know I'm a solicitor?"
"It's a fifty-fifty chance on these flights, and you don't look like a foot baller His crest seemed to fall very slightly. "I am, though. I play for my firm's team. We'd a match last Sunday in fact: played the Faculty of Advocates. Lost two nil."
"You let them win?"
"There were two judges in their side: we thought it wise. Oh yes, and to answer your question, I'm a partner in Kendall McGuire."
"Now there's a coincidence." I almost said it aloud. Instead; "I thought you were based in Edinburgh."
"We are: Edinburgh and London, that is. I've been in the London office since Wednesday morning, and now I'm going to Glasgow for a meeting with a client. After that, I'm off home."
I decided that I wanted to browse in W H Smith for a little longer.
"You're a pretty specialist firm, aren't you?" I asked him.
"Very. Nearly all of our practice is corporate, although we do handle some very specialised private client work, people we call Hinwies."
I knew the term but I played dumb. "Come again?"
"H. N. W. I.," he spelled out. "High Net Worth Individuals."
"Ahh," I said, reclining my seat as the captain switched off the seat belt sign. "It's nice to know that Susie and I have an acronym. We're a bit beyond Yuppieness." I waited for his chortling to subside.
"You've never acted for Gantry, have you?" I asked.
He blinked, then gave me a slightly confused look; you might even have called it apprehensive. "Ah, the Gantry Group," he exclaimed, when he caught on. "No we haven't. Not yet at any rate, but strange things happen in the business world, so you never know. Who are your legal advisers at the moment?"
"McPhillips and Company… and Greg's a mate, as well as being company secretary, so I wouldn't hold my breath if I was you. But you've got a pretty chunky client list anyway, don't you?"
"Oh yes. As I said, we're absolutely blue chip. We've acted for some of the biggest names in Scotland, and beyond." He reeled off three insurance companies, a bank and two major manufacturers.
"Don't you act for Torrent as well?" I dropped it in gently to see how far the ripples would spread.
"Not as far as I know," WHS replied.
"Then your senior partner's keeping secrets from you," I thought, 'or you 're lying in your teeth."
"Ah. I was told you did; I must have been misinformed."
"We'd like to, of course," he volunteered, 'just as we'd like to act for the Gantry Group."
"I think those two might be mutually exclusive."
"Oh? Why should that be?" He looked surprised.
On the other hand, I did my best to look mysterious. "Can't say, I'm afraid."
"Let him take that back to Duncan Kendall and see what they make of it:
"I have met Natalie Morgan, actually," Smith volunteered. "She's quite a spectacular lady, isn't she?"
"I've met her too. I don't like her… actually. She's not as bad as her uncle, though. Now he was a real cunt." I don't like the 'c' word, but when I thought of the late James Torrent, it just slipped out. "Where did you encounter Nat?" I asked the question in the hope that the solicitor's professional discretion gene might be a wee bit faulty, but he had said as much about her as he was going to, especially knowing that I wasn't a fan.
"Socially," was all he volunteered, then he changed the subject. "That was a rather unfortunate business for the Gantry Group at the weekend."
"Unfortunate," I agreed, 'but not crippling. Greg's dealing with it."
"I'm sure he is. Still, if there's anything Kendall McGuire can do for you…"
I smiled at him as cheerfully as I could. "Well…" I began, starting a look of anticipation in his eyes, '… if any of the Three Bears happens to figure on your Hinwie client list, you could ask them to fuck off and buy somewhere else."
The flight attendant chose exactly the right moment to interrupt our discussion. WHS accepted his lunch tray; I passed on mine but took a small bottle of red wine, then settled down with my Scotsman.
The lead story was a banner heading about the latest cost estimate for the Holyrood Parliament building. The subject ceased long ago to excite me… and the rest of the Scottish nation, I suspect… but for the broad sheets it's an ever-ready club with which to batter the fledgling legislature about the ears, and to demonstrate to the world that our celebrated national parsimony is alive and well. I read it nonetheless, whistling in spite of myself at the numbers they were claiming.
The back page seemed to be in the same spirit, a ritual castigation of our unfortunate rugby players in the light of their latest mauling in the southern hemisphere. It cut no ice that it was only the constant press carping that had driven the Scottish authorities to fill the team with grand-maternal Aussies and Kiwis who couldn't quite make their own national sides. It cut no ice that rugby union isn't even our third choice as a national sport; genuine, round-ball football, golf and bowls all come before it. They had been gubbed by a side with ten times the resources, but they were still a national disgrace.
I was annoyed, and a bit scunnered… there's a real Sunday Post word for you… when I fought my way to pages two and three, folding the pages awkwardly, it being a real bugger to read a broadsheet on a plane while trying to balance a glass of wine on a tray table.
My crabbitness… another from the D C Thomson lexicon… lasted for as long as it took me to cast my eye on the lead story on page three. The headline read "life police struggle to identify pig farm couple'.
My gasp must have been audible, but fortunately W H Smith had just spilled a piece of chicken cacciatore down his trousers and was otherwise occupied. I got a grip of myself quickly, and focused on the story.
"Senior detectives in life' I read silently, 'admitted last night that they had so far failed to identify human remains found yesterday on an intensive pig farm near Arncroach in East life.
' The bodies, believed to be those of a man and a woman, were badly decomposed, making it difficult for police to estimate how long they had been there. Asked for a comment, Detective Inspector Tom Reekie, of North East life CID, said that, initially, the deaths were being treated as suspicious, until cause of death could be established.
"A post mortem examination will be carried out today in Edinburgh by a team including a pathologist and a forensic anthropologist.
"Inspector Reekie confirmed that identification was impossible at this stage, but that a number of possible lines of inquiry were being pursued. He said that other forces, not only in Scotland but throughout Britain, had been advised, so that they might check their missing persons files.
"However it is understood that life police themselves are pursuing the possibility that the bodies might be those of American-born Walter Neiporte (37), and his wife Andrea (29), who have been missing from their home in the fishing village of Pittenweem for several weeks.
Police sources said that relatives of the couple were being contacted in the USA and England, so that DNA samples might be obtained for comparison testing.
"Neighbours of the missing couple described them last night as "strange", and "distant", although work colleagues described Mrs.
Neiporte as a "popular, friendly woman ".
"The farm where the bodies were discovered, Lesser Saltgate, is operated by Mr. Sandy McPhimister, ofKincraig. It is one of several that he owns in the area and has been the subject of repeated complaints from neighbours concerned about lack of supervision, the standard of husbandry, and about smells coming from the premises.
"It is understood that the bodies were discovered by SSPCA inspectors called in after complaints were received of a particularly foul smell.
They were said to have been concealed in the troughs and covered in pig feed."
The last part made my stomach turn over: I imagined that Walter and Andrea had become part of the food chain.
The stories were accompanied by head and shoulder photographs of the missing couple; instantly a cold fist gripped my stomach. It didn't go away until I had convinced myself that hers was so dated and so grainy that there was no chance of Ronnie Morrow, assuming he read the story, picking her out as the woman who had chucked the paint at Susie and me.
Mind you, I had to work hard to convince myself.