‘Aye, somewhere in Kilmarnock.’ He shook his head. His hair was growing out, I noticed, from its soldierly close-crop. ‘It seems a wee bit strange, though. I’ve been tae Kilmarnock in Scotland. I’m guessin’ this one’s a wee bit different.’
‘A lot more sunshine, for one thing.’
He thought about this. ‘And mebbe they grand hooses with big garridges?’
‘I think that would definitely be the case.’ I looked at Daniel. ‘Are you coming with us?’ I asked.
He laughed. ‘You’ll be safe with Alasdair, I’m thinking. Meanwhile, I badly need a rest. Is it all right if I stay here?’
Music to any woman’s ears – this particular tune like an effervescent Mozart piano concerto. I sternly suppressed my libido, telling it that work must come first. It almost listened to me. ‘I hope you haven’t been doing anything too dangerous?’
‘I’ve been casing the joint. Several joints, in fact.’ His mild, dark eyes seemed alert with mischief. Seeing the blatant concern in my expression, he took my hand and clasped it firmly. ‘I have visited a few Armenian warlords, or so I believe. And that I was not expecting. I knew about the Azeris, but these people look uncommonly armoured up, and dangerous. But don’t worry. I was sufficiently disguised, or so I hope.’ He handed me a card on which was a logo for El Dorado Real Estate, with the name Gordon MacTavish proudly in the centre and a mobile phone number beneath it. At the bottom, in small print, was a web address: www.eldoradorealty.org.au.
‘Armenian?!’ I exclaimed. ‘That’s a coincidence.’
‘Oh yes?’
And I told him about the hummed tune, and how Marie had identified it as an Armenian love song.
‘So,’ I concluded, ‘it is only too likely that our Second Burglar – the one who wasn’t the ineffable Jordan – is in fact Armenian.’
‘Hmm. That seems quite likely, under the circumstances – which I’ll come to in a moment.’
I noticed that Alasdair had subsided unobtrusively onto a chair in one corner of the room. Soldier instincts, no doubt. A clear field of fire and no possibility of unexpected ambush.
Daniel sat down in the chair next to mine and took my hand again. ‘Gordon MacTavish?’ I asked him. ‘Really?’
‘A patently fake Scots name, such as might have been adopted by Glaswegian Jews a few generations back to avoid suspicion.’
‘And you impersonated a real estate agent because nobody thinks of them as anything other than a mildly annoying nuisance. Daniel, that’s brilliant! What did you find out?’
‘Several things. I spoke to many Armenians. We have a kindred interest, both being holocaust survivors, so by and large we get on. I tried one house, where I got a reception around the temperature of liquid nitrogen, but I think they were Caucasian Muslims, and they may just have been responding to my self-evidently Hebraic appearance. But the Armenians worried me. One house in particular is a proper fortress, and nobody came to the door. I gave them my spiel through the intercom, and their dismissal was … brusque. I need to talk to Uncle Solly again.’ He leant back in his chair and poured himself another glass of my sauv blanc. I noticed he was a little paler than usual. Despite his offhand manner, I guessed that his enquiries had been stressful in the extreme. I wanted to embrace him and bury his head against my breasts, but not in front of an audience. Even one so unobtrusive as Alasdair.
‘Did you meet any Greeks?’
‘Yes, I did. Why?’
I explained about Philomela and her sister. When I mentioned Anzac Drive his face split into a grimace.
‘They looked at me as though I were an inferior brand of gastropod. It probably was number thirty-four, as you say. But they didn’t look anything like gangsters, so I left quickly.’
‘I’m glad.’ I turned to our tame squaddie. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink, Alasdair?’
He shook his head slowly and smiled. ‘No thanks. Shall we go and do this Soup Run thing?’
I looked at my clock. Seven-thirty. It was still light, but why not? In summer the Soup Run began in daylight.
I kissed Daniel goodbye and bade him make himself well and truly at home. Taking the lift down with Alasdair was a strange feeling. I trusted him. The British Army does not make mistakes with their psychological profiling. Yet this man had been tried beyond endurance, I guessed, and was still on the road to recovery. We exchanged glances as the lift descended, and he smiled. ‘Ye’ve nothing to fear, Corinna. I just wanted to gae oot. Daniel explained the Soup Run to me. It sounds grand.’
The doors slid open, and we emerged in time to see Mrs Pemberthy and her dreadful little dog Traddles, who sniffed once at Alasdair’s ankles then disappeared behind his mistress with the merest of whimpers. Mrs Pemberthy glared at me and shook her head with the air of someone who has just discovered five-eighths of a caterpillar in her salad sandwich. She pushed past us into the lift, Traddles padding next to her high heels in demure silence. As the doors closed upon her, she emitted a snort like a dyspeptic locomotive.
Alasdair looked quizzically at me. ‘So whae’s the auld biddy?’
‘One of our tenants. She, and her dog Traddles, perform an essential role in our little community.’
‘Neighbourhood Witch?’
‘Actually, we do have one of them. You remember Meroe? ‘
‘Aye, she give me the sleep charm. So what’s her story? ’
‘Mrs P is someone no one else can get on with, so she impels us together like little magnets. I doubt we’d manage half as well without her.’
‘Aye, my grandma wis the same. She swung a mean umbrelly back in Paisley.’ His eyes swept across Calico Lane and his chin jerked downwards. ‘Whaur now?’
I led the way towards the cathedral, where the Soup Run began its nightly ministry under the benign aegis of the Anglican church. Alasdair stared in wonder. As did I. Since I had last seen the van, it had grown. There was Sister Mary, tiny and indomitable in her grey habit and blue wimple. Inside the van, wearing an apron and stirring a large pot of soup, was none other than Jordan King. His eyes caught mine for a millisecond, then with a toss of his dark fringe his head bent once more over the pot. Beside him was a sweet-looking girl assembling sandwiches. But next to the van were two new erections. Within a small marquee barbers were plying their trade at two chairs, barbering, shaving and generally prodding. And next to that was a busy laundromat, in which two pairs of windows showed forth the gladsome sight of soapy laundering and tumble-drying.
Sister Mary appeared beside me and stretched out her wrinkled hand with pride. ‘Corinna, it’s good to see you. Are you coming out tonight? Oh, and Alasdair! Splendid to see you looking so well. You’re coming too?’
Alasdair bowed his head stiffly. ‘Sister,’ he muttered, with the tiniest bob of his head. No Catholic this squaddie, obviously. I recalled now that Strathclyde had long been a hotbed of sectarian strife. But he would be on his best behaviour. Of that I was certain. She beamed up into his face and took his hand. He flinched, ever so slightly, but relaxed. Doubtless the love of God was flowing freely into him and calming him down.
‘Sister Mary,’ she announced brightly. ‘Glad to have you, Alasdair. We have Ma’ani tonight, but he might need some backup. Saturdays are always a bit fraught, especially on these hot summer nights.’