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then only because Sheila was upset about Jack.
Upset?
Well, he d just left, and there was still a gulf between them,
wasn t there? She was just trying to understand.
And she needed you for that? Miles remembered the warm
bed and thought no, I can t believe any of this.
Miles, blame me. I was attracted to Sheila, not her to me.
I pushed our relationship. She thought our second meeting was
chance, too, but it wasn t. I d set it up.
All that time we lunched together, drank, gossiped, parted
with a handshake and a smile, and all the time, all those months,
you were . . . you . . .
And then it happened, not at all the way he had wanted
things to happen. He wanted venom or icy, muted snubs; any-
thing except this stupid blockage in his throat, full of weakness
and sentiment. He began to cry, his body jerking in little spasms.
And, daring to look up, he saw that Billy, old Billy Monmouth,
with a skin like that of a swamp alligator, was crying too, his
body as still as marble.
Jesus Christ, Miles, Billy said softly. I m sorry, sorrier
than I can say.
Miles was blowing his nose when the door flew open.
Good God, rasped Colonel Denniston. What s been
going on here?
* * *
124
Watchman
Stevens was doing it by the book. It was just that no one had
bothered to write this particular book. Janine found him the
man he needed at the embassy, a fairly expensive go-between
who was able to substantiate on tape, though he did not know
it that the assassinated man had been a private trader; in other
words, was his own operator for most of the time, but did odd
jobs for the security service. There was Hickey s word for it that
MI5 had bungled their surveillance operation and so had al-
lowed the assassin onto the streets. But the Israelis seemed not
to know this. So, lowly Jim Stevens had his lever with which to
crack open the spies. He knew something they wouldn t want
the Israelis to know.
What else did he have? He had something only Janine s
charm and looks could have inveigled from a parliamentary of-
ficial: the Honorable Harold Sizewell MP was sitting on a hush-
hush committee investigating the funding of the secret services
and international cooperation between the various intelligence
communities.
The dirt was there, he was sure of it. And the spade he
needed with which to do his digging was Sinclair aka Hickey.
Jim Stevens had his story.
He told Janine he d buy her lunch, but hadn t let on that
they would be eating at her favorite restaurant. He had arranged
to meet Macfarlane there, too, and over a long afternoon he
would tell his editor the story, with Janine s help. Macfarlane
couldn t turn this one away. The blinders were off.
Jim! I m not dressed for this place. Janine had stopped at
the door and was refusing to cross the threshold.
OK, said Stevens chirpily, take off what you re wearing
and we ll go in.
She slapped his chest.
Pig, she said, smiling, as they entered the restaurant.
Stevens had found a tie in his wardrobe unused for years
that was absolutely stainless. Hardly able to believe his luck, he
had put it on, only realizing later, upon meeting Janine and her
horrified gaze, that the pink tie was hardly a match for his light
brown shirt.
125
Ian Rankin
It wasn t one of the better tables, but what the hell. And it
was a bit more pricy than Stevens s credit card had bargained for,
but it was a special occasion. They ordered aperitifs, and Stevens
wondered where Macfarlane had got to. A waiter brought a tele-
phone to the table.
For you, Mr. Stevens.
Hello?
Jim, it s Terry. Listen, sorry I can t make it. Can you come
in this afternoon? I ve got some bad news.
Oh yes? For Janine s sake radiant, youthful Janine
Stevens tried to sound calm.
You re fired, said Macfarlane. None of my doing. The
official line is that it s to do with the hell-raiser photograph.
And unofficially?
No comment, said Macfarlane. Sorry, Jim. Hope I didn t
spoil your lunch. Bye.
Lobster bisque, I think, Janine was saying, and an en-
trecôte for afters. Must watch my figure, mustn t I? Jim? Is ev-
erything OK?
Fine, Janine. Everything s just dandy.
He was determined, hardened more than ever now. Sod
them all. He d break this story if it was the last thing he did.
Somebody would publish it, somebody must. He d show them
all. There came a time when the truth had to push its way up
through the mire. Didn t there?
126
SIXTEEN
When they finally did make love it was in glorious Tech-
nicolor to the music of the Beatles, Miles Davis guesting on
trumpet. He felt the luxury of the mattress and the alcoholic
glow in which they were both swimming. Everything was all
right now, and though he couldn t be sure who his partner was,
whether Sheila or Billy or the Irishwoman, he knew that he was
home at last and that he would never stray again.
The voice close to his ear told him that it was fine and al-
ways would be. Did it matter that some uninvited guest watched
from behind the shutter of a peep-show booth, smirking? No,
not really.
Miles? The voice seemed to come from the booth, where
the eyes had grown feverish. Miles?
Miles!
He opened his eyes. Those of Richard Mowbray were on
him, and a hand rested on his shoulder.
Wakey, wakey, old chap.
Richard, I must have dozed off.
I admire that in a man, Miles, the ability to stay calm when
all around are clinging to the wreckage.
I had no sleep last night. He glanced around his office, hav-
ing for a moment expected to find himself in the hotel room.
127
Ian Rankin
I came to sympathize, said Mowbray. Is it true?
Is what true?
That you saw something suspicious and went over there to
investigate?
Well, that was the story which Denniston, listening like an
attentive tiger beetle, had soaked up. Miles had added some nice
touches, like the living-room light being turned off and then on
again. Denniston had snatched at that one with his mandibles.
A signal!
That s what I suspected, sir.
And Denniston had sat back, pleased with himself.
Yes, I saw something, Richard, Miles said now, scratching
at his face.
Uh-huh. Mowbray seemed unconvinced, and Miles re-
membered that it was Mowbray who had come closest to wit-
nessing his dark ebb and flow of the previous night, and of all
other nights. Tact was needed.
It seems strange, he said, that the very day we move out,
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