LITMIR.BIZ

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mind.

      He was going to kill her. He was Duncan Hamilton’s fixer, or agent, and though his accent was surprisingly Scottish he was probably a member of the Mafia as well, and he was going to kill her.

      But that didn’t mean she had to give in without a fight, she decided.

      ‘OK, I’ve tried polite!’ she exclaimed, snatching a syringe from the instrument trolley beside her, ‘but polite is clearly something you don’t understand. This syringe contains a sample of your friend’s blood and if I’m not very much mistaken he’s probably HIV positive. Come one step closer to me and you’re going to be HIV positive, too.’

      He glanced down at the syringe, then at her. ‘That syringe is empty.’

      Damn, and blast, but she’d picked up the wrong one.

      ‘It’s…plasma.’ She bluffed. ‘Plasma is a part of blood, but it has no colour—’

      ‘Lady, that syringe is empty, and I am…’ He reached inside his jacket again, and she closed her eyes.

      This was it. She was dead, finished, history, and she could see the newspaper headlines now.

      Forty-five-year-old, divorced female consultant…because the newspapers always got your age wrong…murdered at the General Infirmary. Ms Kate Kennedy was found lying in a pool of blood having been shot at close range by—

      ‘…Inspector Mario Volante.’

      Her eyes flew open to see the man was holding out a police identity badge towards her and felt more foolish than she’d ever done in her life.

      ‘You’re a policeman,’ she said faintly. ‘But you…’

      Quickly she bit off the rest of what she’d been about to say. Maybe he was undercover, and it was part of his brief to look scruffy. And then again, maybe she was just an idiot.

      ‘You thought I was some sort of hit man, didn’t you?’ he said, his mouth twitching into a smile, and she flushed.

      ‘What else was I supposed to think?’ she demanded. ‘You appear out of nowhere, looking like…’

      ‘Like what?’ he said, clearly confused, and the colour on her cheeks darkened.

      ‘The way you’re dressed…All the policemen I’ve ever seen have worn uniforms, with caps, and badges, and…and stuff.’

      ‘I’m CID, Drugs Squad, as is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Evanton. We don’t go in for uniforms, and caps, and badges, and…stuff.’

      He was laughing at her. She knew he was, and nobody—but nobody—laughed at Kate Kennedy.

      ‘You don’t sound Italian, Inspector Volante,’ she said tersely, and his eyebrows rose.

      ‘I was born in Aberdeen to an Italian father and a Scottish mother, but even if both my parents had been Italian that doesn’t mean I have to sound like I’m auditioning for a part in The Godfather.’

      It was a rebuke, and a just one. It also, she thought, explained his amazingly blue eyes.

      ‘Let’s cut to the chase, Inspector Volante,’ she declared, tossing the syringe back onto the instrument trolley. ‘As you so correctly noticed, Mr Hamilton is dead, so neither you nor your colleague is going to get any information out of him.’

      ‘Did he say anything to you before he died?’

      ‘Just some names and addresses—nothing that made any sense—and now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a waiting room full of sick people—’

      ‘I want to hear what he said.’

      ‘And didn’t you hear what I said?’ she exclaimed. ‘It was just a random list of names, and addresses, and I’m busy. B-U-S-Y.’

      He squinted at her name tag.

      ‘Dr Kennedy, I’m busy, too,’ he said, his tone even, ‘and if you don’t give me ten minutes of your time I’ll take you downtown and book you for obstruction and, believe me, that will take a whole lot longer than ten minutes particularly if we include the strip search.’

      He meant it. She could tell from the cold, hard gleam in his blue eyes that he meant it, and she gritted her teeth.

      ‘OK. All I can remember him saying—’

      ‘Not here,’ he interrupted. ‘I want somewhere quiet—private—where we can’t be overheard. What’s through there?’ he added, nodding at the door at the end of the treatment room.

      ‘A store cupboard.’

      ‘Perfect.’

      Not for her, it wasn’t, Kate thought, as Mario Volante steered her into the cupboard and shut the door. If she’d thought he was big and intimidating in the treatment room, it was as nothing to how big and intimidating he felt when he was standing toe to toe with her in a cupboard.

      ‘Cosy, isn’t it?’ he said, as though he’d read her mind, and her chin came up.

      He was laughing at her again—she knew he was—and she’d had enough of him laughing at her. More than enough.

      ‘Look, can we get on with this?’ she demanded.

      ‘Fine by me,’ he said, extracting a small black notebook from his pocket and elbowing her in the ribs in the process. ‘OK, tell me exactly what Hamilton said.’

      With an effort she forced herself to think of nothing but the few minutes she’d spent alone with Duncan Hamilton.

      ‘First he told me some names. Di Angelis was one, and Mackay was another. Fascali—’ She frowned. ‘No, that’s not right. Faranelli. Yes, that was it. Faranelli.’

      ‘Any other names?’ he said, his pen flashing across the page of his notebook.

      ‘There was one more. It was the name of a town, but…’ She thought hard, and eventually shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, it’s gone.’

      ‘Don’t worry about it. It might come back to you later. Tell me the addresses.’

      ‘Inspector Volante,’ she protested. ‘Duncan Hamilton had pulled off his ambu-bag, and I was trying to get it back on again so I wasn’t really listening.’

      ‘Please,’ he insisted. ‘Anything you can tell me—anything at all—might be vitally important.’

      His blue eyes were fixed on her, searching, intent, and she swallowed hard. Concentrate, Kate. Concentrate.

      He has beautiful eyes.

      No, not on that. Concentrate on remembering what Duncan Hamilton told you.

      ‘He mentioned a house in Mount Stewart Street,’ she said quickly. ‘Number 6, I think. And somewhere in Lansdowne Drive. Number 4—or maybe it was number 5. Then there was 55 Cedar Way, and somewhere in Picard Avenue, and…’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t remember any more.’

      ‘You’ve done very well,’ he replied, snapping shut his notebook.

      ‘I just wish I could have saved Duncan Hamilton’s life,’ she murmured.

      ‘Once a packet bursts, it’s odds on that the body-packer will die.’

      ‘Then why in the world would anyone choose to do it?’ she protested, and he shrugged.

      ‘Because money can be a very powerful persuader if you’re poor and up to your eyeballs in debt.’

      ‘Yes, but—’

      ‘And they don’t all do it for the money,’ he continued. ‘Some of them are offered safe passage into a country that wouldn’t take them if they tried the legal, immigration route, and others do it because their family members are being held as collateral to ensure their cooperation.’

      ‘But

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