connect professionally, but I’d like to know if and how Hodgson relates to either of them.’
‘That shouldn’t take long,’ Clyde remarked. ‘Do you want the MoD to know that you’re asking?’
‘I don’t care,’ I said, ‘not about that part. But the next bit’s a little more sensitive. Gates is an engineering officer on a Trident sub; that means he’s totally isolated.’ I told him about the attack on his wife and the abduction and death of his child. ‘Even then, the investigating officers are being denied access.’
‘That’s very tough,’ my young friend agreed, ‘but you can understand why, sir, can’t you?’
‘Sure I can,’ I replied. ‘And that’s why I need you to get involved.’
‘I don’t know if I can.’
‘On your own authority, no, you can’t. But this is the part where you will need to involve Amanda Dennis. She does have the clout to ask certain questions, and insist on an answer.’
‘Okay,’ Clyde said. ‘What do you want to know?’
Fifty-Five
There wasn’t much conversation on the journey. Even Sauce Haddock stayed silent until we were well clear of Edinburgh, heading west, until his tongue just wouldn’t stay at rest any longer. Finally, from the back seat of my slightly damaged car, his voice raised above the Miles Davis playlist that I had on that morning, he asked the question that I’d been expecting for over an hour.
‘This man Hodgson, sir: you said he’s dead.’
‘That’s right,’ I agreed.
‘How did he get that way?’
‘Suddenly,’ I said. ‘Hopefully I’ll be able to expand on that over lunch.’
‘Where are we going?’ I sensed that his curiosity was giving way to impatience.
‘Mystery tour,’ I chuckled. ‘It won’t be long now.’
We passed the newish Heartland interchange, then the old, isolated Kirk O’Shotts on the left, heading on until I ended the game by leaving the motorway at junction six. I negotiated two more roundabouts, and we had reached our destination.
Pye looked up at the sign over the entrance. ‘The Newhouse,’ he murmured as he stepped out of the front passenger seat, reading the sign above the entrance.
‘Used to be the Newhouse Hotel,’ I told him, ‘a place of legend. Back in my father’s time,’ I explained, ‘the only way you could get a drink on a Sunday was in a hotel, and even then only if you were what the law called a bona fide traveller. That meant you had to be on a journey of at least three miles. You even had to sign a declaration in a book. In those days, this place was pretty much three miles from everywhere. They used to have bus parties coming here, every Sunday afternoon.’
‘That’s weird,’ Haddock exclaimed. ‘My grandad used to talk about that but I always thought he was taking the piss.’
‘No,’ I assured him, as I led the way inside and through to the dining room. ‘It’s a genuine relic of our colourful Presbyterian past. Where I live, in Gullane, it’s about a three-mile walk to and from Dirleton, the next village. The old-timers say that on Sundays the drinking populations of the villages used to pass each other on the road, there and back. The licensees changed the date on the book every week, to save time.’
‘Is this a nostalgia trip for you, boss?’ he asked.
‘Hell no,’ I replied. ‘The law changed not long after I was born. I chose this because it’s a midpoint. We’re being joined here.’
The head waiter recognised me . . . sometimes I hate my media profile . . . and showed us to a table for five, by the window. The quorum was completed a couple of minutes later, when Lottie Mann and Dan Provan came through the door. I stood, and waved them across to join us.
I allowed my former colleagues to size each other up for a few seconds; each of them looked as puzzled as the others but none of them was ready to break the silence.
Finally I did. ‘Each of you guys has been under my command at different times and in different places,’ I began. ‘Now I’m gone, and you’re all colleagues; it’s time you met.’ I made the introductions, and stayed on my feet as east and west shook hands.
Provan looked across at me as he took his seat, his eyes narrowed. ‘It’s nice of you tae invite us to lunch, big fella . . . I’ll be havin’ fillet steak, by the way . . . but . . .’
‘Dan!’ his DI hissed.
‘It’s all right, Lottie,’ I said. ‘His irreverence is part