44 Scotland Street - Alexander McCall Smith [39]
“Can’t have worked properly,” said the younger policeman.
“Pretty obvious,” said the older one.
Pat said nothing. Perhaps it was the end of a long shift for them and they needed their sleep. But even if that were the case, she did not think that the young man deserved this humiliation.
She led them through to the back room and pointed at the fragments of wood on the floor. The younger policeman bent down and picked up one of the splinters.
“From the window,” he said.
80
The Lothian and Borders Police Art Squad
The older policeman looked at Pat, who met his gaze briefly, and then he turned away. He peered at the window glass and shook his head.
“No prints there,” he said. “Nothing. I should think that whoever it was who wanted in was disturbed by something. It happens all the time. These people start an entry and then something gets the wind up them and they’re offsky.”
“Offsky?” Pat asked.
“Yes,” said the policeman. “Offsky. And there’s not much we can do, although I can probably tell you who did this. All we can suggest is that you get your alarm seen to. And get a new catch – a more secure one – and put it on this window at the back. That’s about it.”
Pat listened in astonishment. “But how do you know who did it?” she asked.
The older policeman looked at her patiently. Then he raised his wrist and tapped his watch. “I retire in six hours’ time,” he said. “Thirty-six years of service. In that time, I’ve seen everything
– everything. Horrible things. Sad things. And in my time in the Art Squad, aesthetically disturbing things. And after all that time I’ve reached one conclusion. The same people do the same things all the time. That’s how people behave. House-breakers break into houses. Others break into shops. It’s no mystery. I can take you right now to the houses of the house-breakers in this city. I can take you to their actual doors and we can knock on them and see if they’re at home. We know exactly who they are –
exactly. And we know where they live. We know all that. And so if you think I’m picking on anybody, then let me tell you this. This was probably done by a man called Jimmy Clarke
– James Wallace Clarke, to be precise. He’s the person who steals paintings in this city. That’s what he does. But of course we can’t prove it.”
Pat looked at the younger policeman, who returned her glance impassively.
“It must be frustrating for you,” she said.
The older policeman smiled. “Not really,” he said. “You get used to it. But my colleague here has it all in front of him. I’m Akrasia: The Essential Problem
81
offsky this afternoon. My wife and I have bought a bed-andbreakfast in Prestonpans. That’s us fixed up.”
The younger policeman raised an eyebrow. “Will anybody want to stay in Prestonpans?”
“It gets visitors,” said the older policeman curtly.
“Why?”
The question was not answered, and they moved back into the main gallery. The older policeman walked about, looking at the paintings, leaving the younger man by Pat’s side.
“My name’s Chris,” said the policeman, his voice lowered. Pat nodded. “Mine’s Pat.”
“He’s very cynical,” said the policeman. “You know what I mean?”
“Yes,” whispered Pat. “I do.”
“Not everyone I meet in this job knows what cynical means,”
said Chris. “It’s nice to come across somebody who does.” He paused. “Would you like to go for a drink tonight? That is, if you’re not doing anything.”
Pat was taken by surprise and it was a few moments before she answered. She was free that evening, and there was no reason why she should not meet Chris for a drink. She had only just met him, of course, but if one couldn’t trust a policeman, then whom could one trust?
“I wouldn’t mind,” she said.
He was visibly pleased with her response and he gave her the name of a wine bar off George Street. He would be there at seven o’clock, he said, adding: “Not in uniform, of course. Hah, hah!”
Pat winced. She suddenly realised that she had