night before, read the online papers, and then headed west. For company I chose an album by John Legend, because it matched my mood; contemplative.
I had switched off my phone the night before, and I left it that way. I didn’t want to be disturbed by feedback from the search of Hurrell’s flat . . . not least because I knew what they’d have found there. I didn’t want to be interrupted by a call from Sir Andrew Martin, who had left a testy message with Trish while Sarah and I were at the restaurant, asking, nay, demanding, that I phone him. I had a serious day ahead of me and I didn’t want to be diverted by anything, friend or foe.
As I drove, I found myself thinking about fatherhood. I’d left home feeling guilty about missing any part of a termtime weekend with my children, but what I was going to do could not be put off. I was going to see a father, and I was going to give him the worst news he’d ever had. I couldn’t imagine myself in his shoes.
Being a parent is maybe the only thing in my life that I believe I’ve done well. When I turned fifty, Alex gave me a ‘World’s best Dad’ mug, among my presents. Inside it was a handwritten note that said simply, ‘I really mean that, Love A.’
I’ve never raised my voice to any of my children, far less raised a hand, because I’ve never had to. Since I’ve never had to, logic suggests someone must have been doing something right. With Alex, there was only me for most of the time.
Looking back on my life, the years I spent bringing her up, as a single parent, were huge. Sometimes it wasn’t easy . . . the first task I ever gave Mario McGuire as a young PC was looking after her, when I’d had no choice but to take her to a crime scene . . . but I believe that giving her a solid platform on which to build her success has been my greatest achievement, so far. I’m determined to match it with all the others, even Ignacio, although I’m coming very late to the game with him. As for Sarah’s bombshell . . . a name she will carry until she puts in an appearance . . . I will be over seventy by the time she’s ready for her maiden solo flight.
David Gates and Grete Regal weren’t going to have the pleasure of those years, with their little Zena. They were going to have to live with her death, if they could.
John Legend had become Mary Coughlan by the time I cleared the village named Rhu and started heading up the Gareloch. I was close to Her Majesty’s Naval Base Clyde, a lumpy title universally changed to ‘Faslane’ in popular usage, but there was one call I wanted to make on the way.
I’d only seen photographs of Eden’s boathouse, but it was on my way, surprisingly close to the base, in fact, and so I had to take the opportunity to see it up close. Thanks to Google Earth, I knew exactly where it was, only a few yards off the main road that ran along the loch side.
It was big, no doubt about that. A private black-topped road ran from the gated entrance down to a sliding double door, the only landward entry point. It was set in the west side, secured by a shiny new padlock, a replacement, no doubt, for the one they’d sheared off with a bolt cutter. Dead leaves were piled up against it, a sign that it hadn’t been opened for a while.
Having seen all I wanted, I drove on; a couple of miles down the road, I reached the roundabout at the north gate, the main entrance, where I was expected. The fences were topped with rolls of razor wire, sure, but I’d seen the same at many other secure establishments that I’ve visited during my career. There was no sign that read, ‘Home of your very own nuclear deterrent’, nothing to indicate that the place was different, and yet it was, even to me.
It may have been its incongruity in its beautiful location, or it may simply have had an aura of evil about it. Whatever, it gave me the creeps. With a sudden flash of insight, I knew that if my life had taken another course and given me the power of a