The Strife of Riley

     

      

      

      

     As fate enjoys many cruel twists, his father died around the time Riley decided to leave the Special Forces and assume the supposed anonymity of a civilian. Riley became the new Record Keeper, more through a sense of responsibility rather than choice, but he was fine with that. Being the Record Keeper was his background career, while he concentrated on his own business as a modern private investigator. Riley was a cyber sleuth, an expert in computer related crime, a man at the top of his game, trained by the best — unravelling mysteries and tracing the electronic fingerprints we all leave behind every time we use a computer.

     Riley had been one of the military’s most reliable, ruthless and renowned cyber experts. In civvy street, his skills were soon in demand from the police, the government and oh yes, the military. Riley had left their building, but they still wanted him to keep his foot in the door.

      

      

      

      

     Rain and hail battered against the windows of Riley’s study, drumming into him a reminder of how harsh the weather in Scotland could be. October had arrived with a vengeance. Thunderstorms, icy rain that would rip the skin off your face, foggy nights when, if the cold didn’t get you, the fog would. Glasgow weather. It was one of the things he’d missed during his missions abroad. Others moaned about the grim, grey, damp days, but when you’d nearly fried in the forests of Columbia, trudged across scorching deserts in rough boots, and floated for a week off the coast of the tropics, a wee bit of drizzle was very welcome.

     It was around eight o’clock at night, and he was working from home in a castellated mansion in a secluded area on the outskirts of the city. It was the family house he’d grown up in and which was now empty of life, apart from him and the hundreds of books and data lining the walls of the study like a voluminous library. Charts of star constellations were framed alongside prints of ancient maps of the world. Riley’s favourite map was one dating back to the days of the early mariners and explorers, before anyone knew what lay beyond the far side of the great oceans, and which bore the warning message — Beyond This Place There Be Dragons! Riley could relate to that sentiment. Life for him had never been easy. Haunted by the mess he’d made of his past, he could appreciate that even in today’s world, beyond some limits, physical or personal, there were indeed dragons. Maybe not the sort the map warned of, but treacherous, monstrous characters and places where human nature festered at its worst.

     He secured all the windows which were getting a fair rattling from the hailstones. The wind howled like a wounded animal as it whipped through the trees that shrouded his vast garden from prying eyes. The property was protected by the latest high tech security that he’d installed himself, and good luck to anyone who actually managed to break in while Riley was there. And he was there a lot. There was something calming about battening the hatches from the past and keeping off the main radar. The work flowed in via his computer or by phone. The police detectives and government officials rarely chapped his door. It was better for everyone that way. That’s how his latest job had arrived, in the form of an e–mail; an e–mail containing a corrupted file that the police hadn’t been able to fully open. Riley had been asked by the police in Glasgow to help them investigate the killing of a man whose computer insisted never existed. The man, a forger known as Mackenzie, had been found stabbed while apparently working at his computer. Mackenzie had an unsavoury criminal background, and from the initial data it appeared that he’d compiled a killer’s hit list. Unfortunately, Riley discovered his own name was on the hit list, once again providing him with his usual measure of strife.

     After almost an hour of reassessing the data, searching remotely through the electronic history of the victim’s computer, and seething that his name was on the list, he phoned Detective Chief Inspector Stanley Valentine, the detective responsible for giving him the case. He’d put work Riley’s way several times, and although the jobs were always done to everyone’s satisfaction, Valentine’s glib manner grated on him incessantly.

     Main desk at the Glasgow police station picked up the call.

     ‘This is Riley. I’d like to speak to Stanley Valentine.’

     ‘Which one?’ the police officer said.

     Riley sighed. Only in the Glasgow police force could there be two aggravating bastards called Stanley Valentine. Father and son. ‘The lesser of two evils,’ he said.

     ‘Hold on, Riley, I’ll put you through.’

     Stanley Valentine, the son, had risen through the ranks to become a detective on merit, not because his police chief father pulled any strings. Aged thirty, Valentine was ambitious, assertive and annoying. Not necessarily in that order.

     Valentine’s tone was falsely bright. ‘Riley.’

     Riley’s deep voice poured down the line, a calm warning. ‘I’m not happy.’

     ‘You’ve seen the hit list?’

     ‘My name is on it. You knew I was a target and you didn’t flag me.’

     Valentine paused, then offered, ‘I can off load the case elsewhere and leave you free to watch your back.’

     ‘If anyone should be watching their back right now, it’s not me.’ Riley’s tone contained a threat with a promise.

     Valentine backed down. ‘I should have mentioned it, but I tell you what, if I were you I’d want the chance to work on a case where I was on someone’s hit list rather than leave it to others. You know I’m right.’

     ‘If you’re ever right, Stanley, I swear I’ll jump in the River Clyde.’

     Valentine smiled. ‘You’re the only man I know who could actually jump in the Clyde, survive the murky depths and climb out still breathing a week later.’

     Riley sat back in his chair and studied the list of names that were highlighted on his twin screen computer. His name stared out at him.

     ‘Who do you think wants me dead? No, rephrase that. Why did Mackenzie have the list on his computer data? He was a forger not a killer.’

     ‘You’re the computer expert, Riley. You’ll figure it out before we do.’

      

     Byrn Shaw, fit, tall, good looking, but cold featured, aged around thirty, worked for the government, bordering on politics. He was watching Richard Reece, a self confessed scoundrel and politician, approach a young woman, Catherine Warr. Reece was middle aged, but wearing well, similar in build to Shaw, and had reached a recognisable level of political success. Catherine worked for the government as an in house investigator. She was in her late twenties, very attractive, rich chestnut hair framing a rose and cream complexion.

     Reece smiled as he approached her. ‘Have I been behaving myself, Catherine?’

     ‘You tell me, Reece.’

     ‘I know you’re keeping an eye on me, so I must be up to no good.’

     ‘Everyone has to be accountable, even politicians who think they are a law unto themselves.’

     ‘You should have been a lawyer instead of wasting your talents in the secret halls of government,’ Reece said.

     ‘What, and miss out on all the intrigue and throat cutting? Speaking of which, I hear you’re challenging Kier Brodie for his seat.’

     Reece lifted his glass of wine in a toast. ‘May the best man win.’

     ‘He never does, but that’s what keeps me in a job.’

     ‘Politics, government, secrets and lies — it’s all just a game, Catherine.’

     ‘If only…’

     Reece studied her face. ‘If only you’d have dinner with me.’

     ‘Tempting but no.’

     Reece smiled his acceptance. ‘Wish me luck against Brodie.’

     ‘You already have the luck of the devil, Reece. It doesn’t get any darker than that.’

     He leaned close and whispered, ‘You always did intrigue me, Catherine.’

     Several others at the party were in a boisterous mood as they approached Reece and swept him into their crowd. Catherine stepped back from them.

     ‘Don’t let the bad guys get you,’ Catherine said to Reece before walking away.

     Reece smiled. ‘Don’t let them get you first.’

     For a second they looked at each other. There was uncertainty in Catherine’s eyes. She hurried away.

     Byrn Shaw watched her go.

     Catherine walked briskly in the cold night to reach her car which was parked in the street. The night was foggy and dimly lit. Few people were about even though it was within Edinburgh’s city centre. The fog had kept most of them indoors.

     In the icy stillness she pulled her warm coat around her. Only the sound of her high heeled shoes disturbed the lull. She kept glancing around her, more from a sense of being followed than seeing anyone. She saw nothing but the fog, at first. But her instincts were right. A man was shadowing her. Tall and wearing a long, dark coat, his identity was obscured by the gloom.

     She hurried on, searching in her handbag for the car keys. Fumbling in her bag, she dropped the keys and as she picked them up, she saw the man stalking her. Sensing danger, she made a run for her car, but didn’t make it. Within seconds the man had caught up and made a violent grab for her. Instinct kicked in and she pulled free and started running.

     Moments later, she ran straight into Byrn Shaw. He was wearing a long, dark coat, and at first she thought she’d run into her attacker.

     ‘Shaw!’

     ‘Get in the car,’ Shaw told her brusquely.

     Catherine got into her car quickly and locked the door.

     Shaw stood guard, searching the shadows for any sign of the man. He caught a glimpse of him disappearing further along the street, an outline in the mist.

     Catherine opened the car window. ‘Did you see who he was?’

     ‘Too dark.’ Shaw moved closer. ‘It’s not safe for you to be out at night alone, especially when you have enemies.’

     ‘Enemies?’

     ‘Powerful people resent you prying into their financial affairs and private lives,’ he said.

     ‘That’s my job.’

     ‘Well try not to be so good at it.’

     ‘Thanks for your help,’ she said, and started up the car.

     ‘I’m parked over there. Want me to shadow you home? Make sure you’re safe.’

     ‘No thanks, I’ve had enough shadows for one night,’ she said, and drove off.

     Shaw stood alone in the street and watched the tail lights of her car disappear into the fog.

      

      

      

     The men ran on again, ending up in an alleyway where a brutal fight took place. The blade glinted as a fierce struggle between the two men ended when one man fell to the ground.

      

     ‘Leading politician, Richard Reece, was stabbed to death late last night in the centre of Edinburgh. There were no eyewitnesses to the brutal murder, and police are asking for anyone with information to come forward. In an unusual twist of events, an ancient parchment scroll was found hanging around Reece’s neck, and the dagger which is believed to be the murder weapon, was found lying beside the body.’

     Riley’s computer alerted him that two men were approaching his house. He turned the television off and checked their identity on his security monitor. Two police detectives were standing on his doorstep. They rang the bell. The senior of the two was Stanley Valentine. The other was Detective Anthony Ferguson, a few years older than Valentine and never likely to catch him up on the career scale.

     Riley’s heart sank when he saw who it was. He opened the door, left it open, and went back to his study. It was the nearest they were going to get to an invitation to come in. Valentine and Ferguson followed him into the study.

     ‘Are you aware that Richard Reece was murdered last night?’ Valentine asked.

     ‘I saw the news,’ Riley said, sitting down at his desk.

     ‘I need your help,’ said Valentine.

     Riley stared at him and did not respond.

     Valentine elaborated. ‘We’re investigating Reece’s murder, and I thought you could tell us what’s written on this.’ He brought out a small, parchment scroll sealed in a clear plastic bag from the pocket of his jacket. He held it up for Riley to see.

     ‘I thought this would be a case for Edinburgh,’ said Riley, taking little interest in the evidence.

     ‘We’re working in tandem on this one,’ said Valentine. ‘A long story, but we need this mess cleared up.’

     Anthony Ferguson was eyeing Riley’s tea and buttered toast. Ferguson wasn’t fat, just heavily built, strong arms, big hands, the type who’d be handy in a tug of war. Riley had no gripe with him.

     ‘Help yourself,’ Riley said, shoving the plate of toast nearer.

     ‘Cheers,’ said Ferguson. He’d only had a pit stop visit to Riley’s house over a year ago. He looked around, impressed by the hundreds of books and artefacts in the study. ‘You really update all this stuff?’

     Riley nodded.

     Ferguson munched a piece of toast. ‘How far back do the records go? That’s what they call you, isn’t it — the Record Keeper?’

     ‘Further back than you could imagine. The records are ancient and modern. There’s data on most significant events in history,’ Riley said, referring to the vast amount of information from past and present sources.

     ‘Sort of runs in the family, eh? Right back to your grandfather or further than that,’ Ferguson said, genuinely interested. ‘I studied history in school. Pretty gory stuff. Didn’t have forensics then. It was easier to get away with murder.’

     Riley disagreed. ‘Murder tends to come back and haunt the guilty, whatever the era.’

     ‘You mean like ghosts of the past?’ Ferguson said.

     ‘No, it’s just that the past often goes full circle. There’s truth in the saying that your past comes back to haunt you, not necessarily a ghost, but events in life repeat themselves.’ Riley gave Valentine a cold, unwelcoming stare.

     Valentine sighed long and hard. ‘I know you’re pissed with me, Riley, but can we put that aside?’ He offered the scroll to Riley. ‘The scroll was hanging around Reece’s neck. Can you decipher what it says? It’s written in Latin or something.’

     ‘While I’m working on why I’m on some freak’s computer hit list?’ Riley said accusingly.

     Valentine didn’t wince. ‘Here’s the hard drive from Mackenzie’s computer.’ He put it down on the desk.

     Riley left the hard drive where it was and reluctantly took the scroll. ‘Fingerprints?’

     ‘One set, no match yet,’ Valentine said.

     Riley studied the scroll under the light of the desk lamp. ‘The scroll looks ancient but the paper’s not that old. It’s stained to give a faded effect, and the writing is a modern version of traditional lettering and symbols.’ He took a huge portfolio from a desk drawer and compared the symbols.

     ‘Any idea what the message is?’ Valentine asked.

     Riley’s gut wrenched as he read the message. ‘It’ll take time to decipher this,’ he lied. ‘I’ll take a copy and get back to you.’

     ‘Not even a rough idea?’ Valentine prompted him.

     ‘Nope.’ He snapped a couple of photographs of the scroll and then handed it back to Valentine.

     Ferguson helped himself to a third slice of toast.

     Valentine showed Riley a photograph. ‘This is a picture of the dagger he was stabbed with.’

     ‘Have a stab at how old the dagger is,’ Ferguson said.

     Riley looked at the photograph. ‘It dates back to 1410.’

     ‘Are you sure?’ Valentine said.

     Riley pointed to the ancient markings on the handle. ‘These markings show the date. Latin numerals — 1410.’

     Valentine checked a message on his mobile phone. ‘Right, we need to go. Contact us as soon as possible about the scroll. And bill the department as usual for your time.’

     The detectives went to leave. Valentine lifted the last piece of toast.

     ‘Who’s the woman?’ Riley asked.

     The detectives paused. Valentine challenged him. ‘What woman?’

     ‘There’s usually a woman somewhere,’ Riley said.

     ‘Richard Reece was single, but the last woman he spoke to claims she was attacked shortly after speaking to him.’

     Riley frowned. ‘Attacked?’

     ‘There was a party at the Scottish Parliament building last night. She says a man followed her to her car, made a grab for her but she ran off. Then another man, Byrn Shaw, scared the attacker away.’

     Riley hid his reaction to Shaw’s name. ‘Does she work for the government?’

     ‘Yes, she’s an in house investigator.’

     Riley looked thoughtful. ‘Send me some information on her.’

     ‘Just find out what the scroll says,’ Valentine told him. ‘The woman’s involvement is likely to be circumstantial, coincidence.’

     ‘Coincidence is a modern trait, Stanley. There’s no coincidence in history, and as that’s what we’re dealing with, the attack on the woman could be useful.’

     Valentine hesitated then agreed. ‘I’ll e–mail you with an update on her.’

     After they left, Riley studied the message on the scroll. If Valentine knew what it said, there would be hell to pay. Not that he cared about rattling Valentine’s cage. He just preferred to take a route less obvious. The reason he was on the hit list was clearer now. No coincidences in history. And no rest for the wicked.

      

      

      

      

      

      

      

     He continued to scale the wall, working out, keeping his hand in with his climbing skills. Climbing was good for thinking. And he’d plenty to think about. Byrn Shaw . . . Valentine hadn’t clocked his surprise when he’d heard that name, or perhaps he’d hidden his reaction better than he imagined. Shaw now worked for the government, but Riley remembered him when he was in the SAS, an expert in imagery intelligence. How fast the past was unravelling . . .

     A green flashing light jolted Riley out of his reminiscing. An intruder alert. No bells, no noise, just a subtle warning that someone uninvited was within the perimeter of his property. Jumping down from the wall, he ran through to the security monitor in his study. Someone was approaching the front door.

     Whoever it was rang the doorbell.

     Riley scanned the screen. It was a woman. What was she? A journalist? No. Special Branch? Government? A ruse? Options two and three were his best bet.

     Wearing his training gear — vest, training trousers, those of a climber rather than someone who trains in a gym, and dark hair swept back from an unsmiling face, he opened the door. She was warmly dressed in a winter coat with the collar hugging her neck, a classically attractive young woman, well groomed and without a hint of hesitation in her wide hazel eyes. Perhaps he did see her glance at him as if acknowledging he was fit, much taller than her and capable of overpowering her, and if she had, she’d immediately dismissed any fear she could have harboured.

     ‘It’s freezing out here,’ she said in a soft, well spoken voice.

     He stepped aside and she walked in, striding elegantly past him into the hall, then seeing a glow from the study, she headed straight there, leaving Riley to close the door and follow her. He found her looking with undisguised fascination at the books and paraphernalia in his study.

     ‘You’re wasting your time,’ he said, ice grey eyes appraising her. ‘I’m in no mood for visitors, strangers or intruders. And I’m particularly unimpressed by pushy women.’

     She almost smiled. ‘Does that line of derogatory charm usually work?’

     ‘Not so far.’

     She stepped closer. ‘I know all about you, Riley. I’ve read your file. I work for the government.’

     ‘Then you’ll have seen what they wanted you to read. Nobody gets the full story — not even me.’

     ‘What do I call you — Riley or John?’

     ‘No one calls me John.’

     ‘Not even your family?’

     ‘I’ve no family left, but you’d know that if you’d read my file.’

     She stepped back from him and looked around the study. ‘The SBS are said to be very intelligent, highly skilled, and apparently they can do everything other special forces can do on land — but they can also do it on water which is tougher.’

     No response.

     ‘You’re not going to tell me about your exploits in the SBS, are you, Riley? You’re a very secretive lot. To be honest, I’d never heard of the SBS until recently.’

     No reply.

     Her attention was drawn to several photographs on his desk. The arctic, Amazon jungle and other exotic locations were featured in the frames. ‘Where is everyone?’

     ‘I live alone.’

     ‘No, what I mean is, this place is packed with information, books, relics, even photographs of places — but no people. Not a single face to be seen.’

     ‘What is it you want?’

     ‘Nothing. Stanley Valentine was raking through my files — and you wanted to know about the woman. I thought it would save hours of trawling and skulking around in the bushes if I came to your house.’

     Riley was impressed, not that he was going to tell her. Not a hint of admiration for her guile and guts. And he wouldn’t need to ask about her work. An e–mail would be winging its way soon with every juicy detail. Anything Valentine dug up about her would be far more enlightening and colourful than what she’d tell him, even if she had nothing to hide.

     ‘I’m Catherine. Catherine Warr. And I don’t know anything about Reece’s murder.’

     ‘What do you know about Byrn Shaw?’

     She blinked, surprised at his name being thrown at her. ‘He works in the Parliament offices in Edinburgh.’

     ‘A friend of yours?’

     ‘No, but I was glad he was around last night when I got attacked.’

     ‘A handy man to have as a guard.’

     ‘Is he?’ She seemed surprised.

     ‘Shaw is ex–forces, but you’d know that if you’d read his file,’ Riley said.

     ‘I’d no idea.’ He saw no flicker of a lie in the depths of her eyes. ‘Was he SBS?’ she asked.

     ‘No, SAS.’

     Her attractive features lit up with realisation. ‘Shaw was a balaclava man?’

     ‘Did you see the man who attacked you? Could you describe him?’

     ‘It was foggy and dark and I . . . I was caught off guard . . .’ She seemed angry. ‘I dropped my keys, I didn’t have them ready. I was fumbling in my bag, doing all the things they warn you not to do.’

     ‘Who are they?’

     ‘You know — safety advisors. Women in my line of work, we get advice, but it applies to most women. The usual stuff, don’t go to dark creepy places on your own —’

     ‘Why did you?’ Riley’s voice was tinged with accusation.

     She seemed flustered and ran her hands through her silky, shoulder length hair. ‘It had been one of those nights. Reece had been . . . he had a way of unnerving me. He’d been up to no good, as always, nothing vile, just diddling extra funds for personal use, abusing the system. But it’s what he said before I left the party. No, not what he said, more the way he said it, as if he knew something.’

     ‘Knew what?’

     ‘I’d said jokingly, don’t let the bad guys get you, and he’d said in that roguish tone of his, don’t let them get you first. And they nearly did, didn’t they?’

     ‘So you were edgy when you left the parliament building?’ Riley said.

     ‘Yes.’

     ‘Had you anything to fear from Reece, anything apart from the flack for rapping him over the knuckles for skimming the cream?’

     ‘No, I thought I had Reece’s measure. We were almost friends. I didn’t feel threatened, not until last night. Before that it was just a case of better the devil you know.’

     ‘Better the devil who doesn’t know you. Someone who knows your strengths and weaknesses can exploit them. It’s a harder fight to get clear of.’

     She steered the conversation back to Riley. ‘You’re known as the Record Keeper.’

     Riley nodded.

     She looked at a few of the artefacts in the study including a large, weather beaten book. She flicked through the pages. ‘You can’t rewrite history even though you’d like to.’

     Riley closed the book carefully. ‘No, but you can update and correct it when new information comes to light. Few things are ever what they appear to be.’

     ‘I’d better go,’ she said suddenly aware of his closeness, and walked out of the study to the front door.

     He opened the door for her.

     She breathed in the cold night air. ‘Maybe I’m getting paranoid, but I thought I heard someone in my house last night. Was it you?’

     ‘No. If it had been, you wouldn’t have heard me.’

     Catherine smiled and stepped outside. ‘I suppose you’ve got me on three different security cameras,’ she remarked flippantly, looking around her for any sign of a lens.

     He let her walk away towards her car before replying. ‘Four.’

     ‘Hmm. Life for you must be a bundle of laughs,’ she said.

     Riley didn’t say anything. He watched her get into her car and drive off, leaving behind her an impression in his thoughts that was hard not to like.

      

     ‘Where’s the e–mail information on Catherine Warr?’

     Valentine hesitated. ‘Who told you her name?’

     ‘She did. She turned up at my house to save you and me raking through her files.’

     ‘What did she tell you?’

     ‘She doesn’t know who killed Reece. If she was lying, we should bottle her technique.’

     Valentine sounded frustrated. ‘Have you managed to decipher the message on the scroll?’

     Riley considered his options, and then thought — what the hell. ‘It says — this one is for the Record Keeper.’ It was almost worth it to rattle Valentine.

     ‘Someone’s playing games with you. We found a copy of the list in Richard Reece’s office. This links the cases.’

     ‘I never met Reece.’

     ‘As I say, someone’s playing games with you.’ Valentine accessed the data on Catherine Warr. ‘I’m forwarding the e–mail.’ It arrived moments later in Riley’s inbox. Subject heading: The woman. The mail had an attachment. Riley opened it and skimmed the information. Photographs were included.

     ‘She’s got an interesting history,’ Riley summarised.

     ‘So have you.’

     ‘Is that an accusation?’

     ‘Can you explain why you’re mentioned on the scroll and why you’re on the hit list?’ Valentine said.

     ‘Maybe someone wants to settle an old score.’

     ‘What score would that be?’

     ‘Take your pick. As you say, I’ve got an interesting history.’

     ‘You’ve got kudos in all the right places, Riley, so no one is going to be breathing down your neck accusing you of being involved in Reece’s murder.’

     ‘I can sleep easy then.’

     ‘But you know as well as I do that this is going to get messy. I’d prefer we worked on the same side, so I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll try not to be an aggravating bastard on this one, if you’ll be less secretive and share information.’

     ‘Deal.’

     Valentine seemed happy with this. ‘Let me know if you think of anything else.’

     ‘Run a check on Byrn Shaw. He’s ex–SAS, specialised in imagery intelligence — images gathered and interpreted from satellite and aerial photography and radar sensors. He’ll be clean, but we’ll need to make sure he doesn’t get used as a pawn.’

     ‘Consider it done.’

     After the phone call, Riley studied the information about Catherine. She’d spent several years as an in house investigator with Scottish Government. Hobbies — astronomy and space. Riley frowned, and then phoned her home in Edinburgh.

     ‘It’s Riley. Question for you.’

     ‘How did you get my private number?’ she said.

     ‘You saw the maps on the wall of my study?’ he continued.

     ‘Yes.’

     ‘What else did you see?’

     ‘Ah, you’ve read my file,’ she said.

     ‘Hobbies — astronomy and space’.

     ‘Your constellation charts. You’re wondering why I didn’t gasp in awe or at the very least show my knowledge of them.’

     ‘Why didn’t you?’

     ‘Is that the question?’

     ‘Yes,’ he said.

     ‘Because your charts are incomplete and outdated.’

     ‘Fair enough. Could you recommend improving them?’ he said.

     ‘I’d recommend you update them. Other planets have been discovered recently, planets have been relegated, and some of the constellation information is out of date. If you’re the Record Keeper, you need to keep up with what’s happening in space, the future, not just the past.’

     He took the criticism on the chin. ‘Will do. Point taken.’ He hesitated and then said, ‘Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?’

     ‘Are you asking me for a date?’ There was a hint of a smile in her tone.

     ‘No, I’m offering you a meal and maybe we can talk about the charts. Have you ever seen the night sky through one of the best private telescopes in the country?’

     ‘Can’t say I have.’

     ‘Then you’re in for a treat. Meet me tomorrow night at my house. Seven o’clock. We’ll walk from there.’

     ‘Walk to where?’ she asked.

     ‘The best view in the city.’

     Lit by spotlights, the water reminded him of the sea in the tropics — this was his little bit of paradise in Glasgow. More importantly, it kept his underwater swimming techniques strong and sharp. He never wanted to loose those abilities. Harry had proved you didn’t have to. Age had failed to wither his late grandfather. Harry had been one of those men who’d kept whipcord lean well into his twilight years, never giving age a chance to diminish his physique. Riley aimed to be like that. In contrast, Harry used to joke that Riley’s father, Alexander, was the suave and sophisticated palaeographer, travelling to far off lands like a classic adventurer. Even in the remotest of areas, Alexander managed to have a cup of tea with two sugars — and a digestive biscuit. Harry was more inclined to eat what he could kill, cook or get his hands on. Riley was nearer the latter, though living in civvy street he’d not had to nut roast a squirrel in a long time. He got his groceries delivered via the Internet, and like many ex–forces men, he kept his house clean and tidy.

     Looking at the water in the pool helped him think. Why was his name on the list he found on Mackenzie’s computer data? And what about Mackenzie? Stabbed to death beside his computer. A computer that wasn’t registered to anyone, and that insisted no one of that name existed. Mackenzie had a dubious background as a forger but it didn’t mean that even his computer could disown him. Then there was Richard Reece. The media were still reeling from his demise. Who would use an antique dagger as a murder weapon these days? And who would be stupid enough to leave it at the scene of the crime?

     Riley’s mobile phone rang. It was Mul McAra.

     ‘Are you busy?’

     ‘Just hoovering,’ Riley said.

     ‘Right, I’ll be over in a jiffy.’

     Mul McAra lived a ten minute drive away from Riley. McAra could run it in seven, six if it was snowing. Friends since they were wee boys, McAra was the grandson of Harry’s best friend who had served with Harry during the SBS training on the Scottish Isle of Arran in the 1940s. Mul McAra hadn’t ventured into the forces. Science was his game, rocket science to be precise. As a rocket scientist in Scotland, McAra did very well for himself and was known as one of the leading space scientists in his line of expertise — astrobiology and space robotics. When he wasn’t peering bleary eyed through a telescope at the solar system, McAra liked to run. At thirty–five, he had a lot of running years left in him. Riley imagined he’d still be pounding the highlands when he was in his seventies. Riley had given him a copy of the names on the computer list to see what McAra made of them. One of the names was familiar to Riley, something to do with science, and he hoped McAra would know.

     By the time the kettle had boiled and Riley had made a mug of tea for both of them, McAra was at the door.

     ‘The list’s a corker!’ he said, hardly out of breath from the sprint. His gingery hair stuck up in wild peaks, not from the speed of running, just a natural quirk of fate. He slugged a mouthful of sweet tea. ‘The names belong to scientists. Two of them are already toes up in the bone yard. Copped it years ago. I haven’t checked the other four. Maybe you or Valentine can do that, but I’ve a sneaky feeling it’s a dead man’s list.’

     McAra was grinning as if this was good news. Riley wasn’t convinced. ‘If I’m the last man breathing on the list, you know what that means.’

     ‘Not an inkling.’

     ‘It means it’s a hunter’s game the bastard’s playing,’ said Riley, ‘and I’m going to have to go after him before he comes after me.’

     ‘Ah, not so good, eh? Still, I wouldn’t like to be them.’

     Riley sat down at his computer and checked the remaining four names on the list. The computer began the search. McAra read the outcome. ‘All dead.’ He sucked the air through the gap in his front teeth. ‘What’s your plan?’

     ‘What are you doing tomorrow night?’

     ‘Apparently I’m up for a science award in Glasgow,’ said McAra, sounding vaguely disinterested.

     Riley took a swig of his tea. ‘Is it a trophy, a medal?’

     ‘Ach, I wasn’t listening properly,’ McAra said. ‘I’m not into all that. I wish they’d just let me get on with my work. I’ll phone them up and ask them to post the award to me.’

     ‘No, you go to your party. I need to borrow your house for the evening. I’ve invited a woman, Catherine Warr, to have dinner with me.’ Riley rarely referred to McAra having a house. It was more like an observatory with a bed and kitchen, telescopes and a glass domed roof. McAra had converted the substantial size house over the years into a high tech observatory that he just happened to live in.

     ‘There’s nothing to eat in the house. I haven’t done my grocery shopping,’ McAra said.

     ‘No problem. I’ll sort out the food.’

     ‘She must be gorgeous,’ McAra remarked.

     ‘That’s got nothing to do with it. She’s part of the investigation.’

     ‘Well, for the sake of the investigation, I wouldn’t cook if I were you. When it comes to rustling up a survival dinner in the wilds of nowhere you’re an absolute gourmet, but take my advice and order something in.’