Dagger Magic

"Here you are," she said, looping its strap over the back of the wheelchair. "I'll be along to visit you tomorrow, once you've had time to get settled in. If you think of anything else you need or want in the meantime, just ring me and I'll bring it with me when I come."

"Thank you," Claire murmured. Her tone was very subdued. "Please be sure to phone the polytechnic and let my instructors know I've been recalled to hospital."

"I will," Ishbel promised. "And don't worry about Bogart and Bacall. I'll do whatever it takes to get them in at night, even if it means bribing them with salmon. Maybe I'll even smuggle them in for a visit, if Dr. Sinclair will turn a blind eye."

As Ishbel glanced sidelong at Adam, only half-serious, a crooked smile touched Claire's pale lips.

"I don't know what I'd do without you, Ishbel," she said - and held out her arms.

Ishbel's gaze widened. Stepping forward, she bent down to exchange a heartfelt hug with her sister-in-law, who then turned her chair about without saying anything more and wheeled herself down the garden ramp to the curbside, where the ambulance attendants were opening the rear doors. Left alone on the doorstep with Adam, Ishbel gave him a strange, rather awed look.

"You must be some kind of magician," she murmured.

"That's the first time since the accident that she's shown affection to anyone but the cats. What on earth did you say to her out there in the garden?''

"Sometimes it isn't a matter of words, but of timing," Adam said evasively, biting back a smile. "Let's hope that this means your sister-in-law is beginning to wake up to her true self."

"You think she'll be all right, then?"

"I think the chances are excellent," Adam replied.

With these words, he bade her goodbye and went to join Claire in the ambulance for the cross-town ride back to Jordanburn. McLeod likewise offered her his courteous best wishes before closing the rear doors and making his way back to his waiting police car.

Donald Cochrane was slouched behind the wheel reading over a copy of Motorsport. At the sound of McLeod's approaching footbeats, he tossed the car magazine into the back and straightened up. The cellular phone was resting in the passenger seat beside him, together with McLeod's scribbled note of his colleague's office phone number in Dumbarton.

"Any luck getting through to Somerville?" McLeod asked, opening the door.

Shaking his sandy head, Cochrane scooped up the phone and note so McLeod could get in. "No, sir. He's still in a meeting that was supposed to have ended twenty minutes ago. I tried again, just before the ambulance arrived. Shall I give it another go?"

"Thanks, I'll do it." McLeod took the phone. "Why don't you head us back to the office?"

As Cochrane started the engine and pulled into traffic, McLeod belted up, consulted his note, then punched in the Dumbarton number, which answered on the first ring.

"Inspector Somerville here," said a gruff Glaswegian voice.

McLeod's brow cleared, and he gave Cochrane a thumbs-up. "Hello, Jack. This is Noel McLeod."

"Oh, aye? My sergeant told me you've been trying to get in touch with me. What can I do for you?"

"I'm hoping you can give me some information," McLeod said. "What, if anything, do you know about a dead man who was washed up yesterday on Mull of Kintyre?"

"You seem pretty well-informed already," Somerville said. "I only got the case this morning."

"The young couple who found the body are friends of mine," McLeod said. "They asked me to find out if the police have been able to identify the man."

"I suppose you told them that that's classified information, for as long as the police choose to withhold it?"

"No need for that. Young Lovat's no stranger to police work. He's a professional artist - a damned good one - and he does forensic work for me now and again. You can take it from me that he knows how to keep his mouth shut."

"I'm damned glad to hear that," Somerville said frankly. "I was dreading the thought of having this whole thing leak to the media before we'd got a chance to piece some answers together."

"That sounds ominous," McLeod said. "What have you got?"

"A damned nuisance!" Somerville replied. "This is strictly off the record, but we're all but certain the dead man is an Irish Fisheries officer, name of Michael Scanlan, who went missing several days ago off the coast of Donegal. His brother's flying in tonight from Belfast in order to make a positive ID, but no one's in any serious doubt about it, including the Irish government. They're sending along a representative from the Garda Siochana, who will liaise between us and our opposite numbers in Dublin."

"It's turning into an international incident, then, if you've got the Irish police involved," McLeod said. "I take it that we're not talking about a simple drowning."

There was a pause.