need advice from the Crown Office on the charge. I’ve just left the autopsy. The child died from an asthmatic attack. Joe Hutchinson says we’ll be struggling to sustain even a culpable homicide prosecution, let alone murder.’
‘But if the mother doesn’t make it,’ McGuire countered. ‘Even if she does, we’ve got him for attempted murder surely.’
‘Not necessarily: we can prove he had the child when he crashed the car in Edinburgh, but there’s work to be done to link him to the attack on Ms Regal.’
‘What about the father?’
‘That’s another complication,’ the DCI said. ‘He’s . . .’
‘Bugger!’ Mario McGuire barked, cutting him off in mid-sentence. ‘You’re not going to believe this, Sammy, but I’m just coming into Selkirk and I’m about to be pulled over by one of our patrol cars parked up ahead. It looks as if somebody’s decided to do some random breath testing. I’ll need to come back to you.’
The DCC pushed a button on his steering wheel to end the call, fading the music as it cut back in, then slowed, pulling into the lay-by where the traffic car was parked, its blue light flashing, and coming to a halt behind a white Range Rover. Its driver was being questioned by a uniformed constable; as he watched, he saw him hand a breath test machine back to the officer who studied it, smiled and nodded.
A second constable approached his own car, a youngster, one of the new breed, the DCC could tell, so full of zeal and enthusiasm that he barely reacted as McGuire lowered his window to reveal his uniform and the silver badges of rank on his shoulder.
‘Routine document check, sir,’ he announced.
‘Bollocks,’ the DCC replied, amiably. ‘The number recognition system will tell you that this vehicle is taxed and insured. There’s no such thing as a routine check of a private vehicle any more. It’s a cover for something else.’
The young cop stiffened. ‘Can I see your driving licence, sir?’
‘No.’
‘I require you to show it, to prove that you’re licensed to drive this vehicle.’
McGuire maintained a steady smile, but his eyes were flashing danger signs that a wiser man would have read.
‘And I choose not to,’ he said, ‘because my private address is on it. That’s not something I’m prepared to share. However,’ he paused, ‘I will show you this. Read it carefully.’ He handed over his warrant card.
The second constable, a woman, joined her younger partner. ‘Is there a problem here?’ she began, then saw the DCC and realised that there was. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she began.
‘Too late for that,’ McGuire snapped. ‘Were you instructed to do this by a senior officer or are you just filling in time? Don’t even think about bullshitting me,’ he warned, as he took his ID back from the other cop, ‘for I will check.’
‘It’s our own initiative,’ the female PC admitted.
‘How many arrests have you made?’
She reddened. ‘None.’
‘Then it’s about time for you to resume more productive duties, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She nudged her colleague. ‘Come on, Chris.’
‘No,’ the DCC said, ‘we’re not quite done here. Gimme your breathalyser.’
He took the machine from the constable named Chris, blew into it, looked at the reading and handed it back. ‘Another innocent motorist hassled,’ he growled, his eyes never leaving the young officer. ‘You’ve got a decision to make, son. Either you make a radical attitude adjustment in dealing with members of the public, or you look for another line of work. My memory’s long and so’s my reach; I’ll be watching you.’
McGuire turned on his engine and pulled out into the traffic, cruising slowly through Selkirk, heading north towards Edinburgh, and wondering whether he would have been less hard on that young cop if their paths had crossed on another day.
He had travelled for a few miles and was back in open country before he remembered his unfinished conversation with Sammy Pye. He opened his mouth to issue a voice command, but in that same instant his phone announced an incoming call.
He frowned, but pressed the receive button, answering with a curt, ‘Yes?’
‘Is that Deputy Chief Constable McGuire?’ The voice was smooth, English and ever so slightly annoying.
‘It is,’ he confirmed. ‘And who are you, sir?’
‘My name is Rafe Blackett, Captain, Royal Navy, currently on assignment to the Ministry of Defence in Whitehall.’
‘Then please tell me, Captain Blackett,’ the DCC asked, ‘how did you get this number?’
‘It was given me by your chief constable’s office.’
Cheers, Andy, he thought. ‘I see. So tell me, Captain,