43

A silver grey four-door Mercedes had been sitting for a couple of days in Kelvinbridge outside the house of a man called Teddy Gregorsky, an antiques dealer. Parking spaces were rare in Belmont Crescent where Gregorsky lived, and he knew that this Merc – which practically blocked his drive and thus made it difficult for him to get his Porsche in and out – belonged to none of his neighbours. So he telephoned the police in Pitt Street, and a Constable called James Brady was despatched to look at the car.

Teddy Gregorsky said, ‘It’s just been sitting here.’

PC James Brady, known as ‘Diamond Jim’ because of his enormous appetite, flicked on a torch and looked at the vehicle. The streetlamps were dim.

‘I expected you to come out in daylight,’ Gregorsky said. He wore a velvet smoking jacket robe with a monogrammed lapel.

‘These are busy times at HQ, sir,’ Jim Brady said. He strolled round the car.

‘It’s freezing cold. I’ll leave you to do what you have to do and I’ll go back indoors.’

‘No problemo,’ Diamond Jim said. Fag, he thought. Warms his arse in front of his fire, while I freeze my buns out in the street. It was zero degrees. A night for Guinness stew with totties done so they were crumbly enough to soak up the gravy, the beef tender as a virgin’s clitoris, and some encyclopaedia-sized chunks of crusted brown bread to dook into the leftover gravy. Oh, and three pints of McEwan’s heavy to wash the whole thing down. Then half a Vienneta with a big dollop of vanilla ice-cream for afters. Followed by a Godalmighteeeee rip-yer-belly-out-yer-throat belch.

He leaned down and turned his torch on the number plate. Oh aye, what’s this? He called HQ and asked for the number of the Mercedes that belonged to the dead solicitor.

The young WPC who’d answered said, ‘Hold while I check.’

Brady pictured her. He’d categorized her when she’d first joined the Force: nice wee thing, shame about the face. She looked like a frog. But you just knew no Prince Charming was coming her way with a kiss. Ever.

She read him the number.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘That’s it. Can you arrange for a tow-truck, hen?’