44

Christopher Caskie answered his telephone on the third ring. He gazed through french doors into the back garden of his house in Broomhill and remembered how Meg, when her health had begun to decline, used to sit in the conservatory with a book in her lap. Catherine Cookson sometimes. A P.D. James mystery now and then. Invariably she fell asleep and Caskie had to go out and fetch her and carry her inside. This bloody house was like a prison, too big for one person, he’d sell it, anyone with any sense would put it on the market.

‘Mr Caskie?’

‘Speaking.’ Caskie was conscious of his hand shaking slightly. He fought to still it.

‘Christopher Caskie?’

‘Yes –’

‘I have had you checked.’

Caskie said, ‘Of course. I expected that.’

‘A phone call from somebody in your position was unusual. But you pass muster – is that the phrase?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘I am wary. I check. Always. Check this. Check that. Check check. No mistakes.’

‘Naturally.’ Caskie shut his eyes. The room was too bright. It was like standing inside a tube of neon. Was it too late to take things back, to say no, I’ve changed my mind, this isn’t the way I want my personal affairs conducted? I was a good cop once, an exemplary cop. I have awards, medals, citations. Now this. This rot I can’t stop.

But I have to stop it.

He heard a sound at the other end of the line, a liquid falling, perhaps tea or coffee being poured. Say no to your conscience. Just say no to that interior sniper who shoots down all your bad thoughts. You never asked for him in the first place. It came with the way you were brought up. Here, swallow your daily spoonful of John Knox Juice. You’ll feel bad if you don’t take it. You’ll feel a whole lot worse if you do.

‘Now we will take the next step,’ the caller said. ‘My man will be prepared.’

‘And the two women will not be involved.’

‘My word. My hand is on my heart.’

The line was cut. Caskie put the handset down. He looked at his watch. Four p.m. exactly. He called McWhinnie’s cellphone.

‘Christopher, I’m sick,’ McWhinnie said.

‘How sick, Charles?’

‘Flu type of feeling. Draggy.’ McWhinnie’s voice was thick, like a man speaking from inside a ski mask. ‘Headache, upset stomach, the runs.’

‘I know the symptoms. You’ve been in bed all day?’

‘I went out for a time,’ McWhinnie said. ‘Our man visited Senga in Onslow Drive … then I felt sick in the car, so I came home and lay down. I don’t know where he is.’

‘You’ll be right as rain tomorrow,’ Caskie said. He thought of his conversation with Eddie Mallon, that stuff about a safe house. Out of the blue. It could only have come from McWhinnie. Ergo: they’d met, and McWhinnie, whipped by that conscience of his – so akin to Caskie’s own – had talked. And Eddie Mallon had dropped the subject into the conversation as if to say: I’m ready to play any game you like, Chris.

Caskie said, ‘Stay warm, Charlie. Drink fluids, take aspirin. We’ll talk in the morning.’

‘Fine.’

Caskie hung up. Poor McWhinnie, saying he was sick. He lied badly. But it didn’t matter. There was no hard evidence to link Christopher Caskie to any crime. McWhinnie might have broken the code of confidentiality in the presence of Eddie Mallon, and talked of safe houses – but it stopped there. How could McWhinnie verify his tale of carrying groceries to a safe house in Govan? Who at Force HQ would listen and believe? Poor Charlie, nervous breakdown, terrible thing. As for Mallon, well, he had no evidence either, and little credibility in Tay’s eyes.

Caskie walked out to the patio and stood in shade. As if affected by heat, bees were cumbersome as they moved from flower to flower. This confounded weather. It couldn’t last. Not in Glasgow. Global warming. This was more like global meltdown.

He walked back inside the house and poured himself a gin, which he packed with ice. He held the glass in the air and said ‘Cheers’ to himself, then he drank. He thought of the man saying, My word. My hand is on my heart, and he wondered if the same dry heat that held Glasgow in its grip also prevailed in Zurich.

His doorbell rang. He went down the hallway to answer it. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt this liberated, nor this awful. He had a war going on in his head and the heavy machine-guns were bombarding those trenches where the soldiers on the side of the angels flew white flags of surrender.

He opened the door. The sunlit street was harsh, the light like a lake of petrol burning.