The Impossible Dead (23 page)

32

Organising this visit had taken several days and more than a few phone calls, but now Fox was driving through the gates of Carstairs State Hospital. Carstairs to many was a stop on the night train between London and Edinburgh. There wasn’t much of anything there – the railway station; a village with a shop; and not far away, the home to many of Scotland’s most violent and least predictable prisoners. He parked in a ring-fenced area, was buzzed through a gate, and entered the main building. A few other visitors had arrived at the same time as him. They looked inured to the security procedures. Palms were checked by a machine. It would show if the visitor had been in contact with drugs in the recent past. A positive reading meant no visit that day. Bags were checked, and there seemed to be a random sampling of mobile phones, a swab identifying traces of illicit substances. The queue shuffled forward. The faces were docile, if strained. One woman had brought her young daughter. The kid clung to her mother and sucked on a dummy she was probably a year or two too old for.

‘Inspector?’ A woman was pushing past the queue. She shook Fox’s hand and introduced herself as Gretchen Hughes. ‘It’s Dutch,’ she explained, as if to intercept a question she was always being asked.

‘Thanks for getting back to me,’ Fox said.

‘No problem.’ She went to a window and retrieved an ID badge for him. Fox reckoned the drill would be the same as at any prison, so handed over his phone at the same time.

‘Donald doesn’t get many visitors,’ Hughes was telling him.

‘He gets some, though?’

‘Not in the past year.’

‘And before that?’

She studied him. She had short blonde hair and pale-blue eyes. There was a plain gold band on her wedding finger, indicating the existence of a Mr Hughes.

‘That sort of information probably requires a formal request.’

‘Probably,’ Fox agreed as she led him past the queue. All he had asked for was a meeting with Donald MacIver. ‘But would Donald tell me?’

‘I doubt you could trust his answer.’

‘Is he a fantasist?’

She looked at him again and gave a wide smile. ‘Have you been reading up on the subject?’

Fox was not about to admit that he had.

‘No, not a fantasist,’ she decided to answer. ‘But he has good days and bad. The medication keeps him on a fairly even keel.’

‘Any subjects I should avoid?’

‘Just be sure to call him
Mr
MacIver. I worked with him almost two years before we were on first-name terms.’

‘How many inmates do you have?’

She made a tutting sound. ‘
Patients
, Inspector – please remember that.’

‘Patients usually get better and leave their hospitals,’ Fox replied. ‘Does that happen much here?’

Doors had been unlocked and locked again behind them. Fox wasn’t sure what he had expected. It was a lot quieter than a jail. Plenty of people, but they moved slowly, cautiously. The staff were in T-shirts and looked as if they trusted this new arrival a lot less than they did their regular charges.

‘Where am I seeing him?’ he asked into the silence. He was trying to work out if Gretchen Hughes was a doctor of some kind. Her badge wasn’t giving anything away.

‘His room,’ she answered. ‘He likes it there.’

‘Fine with me.’

A few moments later, they arrived at the open doorway. Hughes tapped on the jamb with her knuckles.

‘Donald? This is the visitor I was telling you about …’

She took a step back so that Fox could walk past her into the room. MacIver was seated at a table. There was space for a single bed and some shelves. An antique map of Scotland had been Blu-tacked to the wall. MacIver was reading a newspaper. He had a stack of them on the floor next to him. He was marking words and phrases with a thick blue crayon. So far, he seemed to have underlined almost every paragraph of the page under scrutiny. There was a chair opposite him, so Fox eased himself down on to it.

‘Do you want anything?’ Hughes asked. Fox started to shake his head, until he realised the question had been aimed at MacIver.

‘Nothing,’ the man muttered, still intent on his task.

‘I’ll just be outside,’ she said, moving away but leaving the door open. Fox studied MacIver, trying to think of him as ‘patient’ rather than ‘inmate’. The man was tall, maybe six three or four, and broad-shouldered. He had long grey hair, reaching halfway down his back, and a grey beard that would have made a wizard proud. The eyes behind the circular spectacles were large, the spectacles themselves smeared and in need of a wipe. His short fingernails were crusted with grime, and there was a slightly sulphurous smell in the room.

‘Mr MacIver, my name’s Fox.’ Fox could see newsprint reflected in the spectacles. Another paragraph needed to be underlined. MacIver did it with painstaking care, skipping any word he did not deem essential. As far as Fox could see, it was a story about the plans for a new road bridge across the Firth of Forth.

‘They’ve done away with the toll, you know,’ Fox said. ‘The Forth Road Bridge – one of the first things the SNP did when they got into power was—’

‘Call that power?’ MacIver interrupted. The voice sounded as if it was being drawn from the bottom of a well. ‘Power’s exactly what
that
isn’t.’ Fox waited for more, but MacIver was back at work.

‘What
is
power, then?’ he decided to ask.

‘It’s something you hold in both hands like a weapon, something you can choose to use to strike at your enemies’ hearts. When you bring light to the deserving and cold darkness to everyone else –
that’s
power.’

Fox was scanning the books piled on one shelf. Some names he recognised, some he didn’t. ‘I remember reading MacDiarmid’s poetry at school,’ he commented.

‘Christopher Murray Grieve – that was his real name.’

‘You knew him?’

‘We might have crossed paths – there were certain howffs in Edinburgh and Glasgow. Preachers and communists, gentlemen philosophers …’ His voice drifted away and he stopped his work, staring at the page without seeing it. Finally he looked up into the face of his visitor. ‘Have we met before? Should I know you?’

‘No.’

‘Only, I forget things.’

‘My name’s Fox, and I’m interested in Francis Vernal.’

‘He died.’

‘I know.’

‘A martyr to the cause.’

‘You really think so?’

‘When Francis spoke, he could make kings or topple them.’

‘You knew him pretty well, then?’

‘He was that rarest of creatures – a thinker who could
do
. A man who didn’t just talk about things but worked to make them happen.’

‘He was pretty active,’ Fox seemed to agree.

‘Which was why he had to die.’

‘You think he was targeted?’

‘The man was shot at point-blank range. No more than four weeks later, they came for me. They’d been busy in the interim – planting evidence in my basement. All very impressive when they kicked the door down and came in dressed in their radiation suits. I was wearing pink striped pyjamas.’ He was enunciating with care. What teeth Fox could see were blackened and uneven. ‘Wouldn’t even let me get dressed. And they knew exactly where to look for their “evidence”.’

‘You went to prison at first.’

‘Aye, but that wasn’t enough for them. They could see I was prospering there, talking to the men, opening their eyes to the tyranny.’

‘You got in a fight with another inmate …’

‘He was paid for his efforts. That’s the only explanation as to why
I
was the one punished! Solitary, then Barlinnie, then Peterhead …’

‘More violence?’

‘More goading and intimidation,’ MacIver corrected him. ‘More of everything that might break the spirit and drive a man towards the madhouse.’ He wagged a finger at Fox. ‘But I’m as sane as you are – take that news with you when you go.’

Fox nodded, as though in agreement. ‘So what did Francis Vernal do exactly? Within the organisation, I mean?’

‘Francis was our one-man brains trust. Lot of hot heads that needed cooling – he was the man for the job.’

‘He looked after the finances too, didn’t he?’

‘He was useful in many ways.’

‘The money came from hold-ups and robberies,’ Fox persisted. ‘You used it to buy guns and explosives?’

‘A necessary evil.’

‘Did Mr Vernal keep any guns in his car?’

MacIver blinked a few times, as though waking from a nap. ‘What are you doing here? Why all these questions?’ He looked down at the newspaper as if he had never laid eyes on it before. ‘Burns said it best, you know:
bought and sold for English gold
.’ He stabbed a finger against the artist’s impression of the new bridge. ‘That’s what you’re seeing here.’

‘
A parcel of rogues in a nation
,’ Fox said, finishing the quote while reaching into his pocket. He had the photo from Professor Martin’s book, the one of Vernal with Alice Watts and Hawkeye. He placed it on top of the newspaper, along with the two matriculation photographs of Alice.

‘Francis,’ MacIver said, rubbing his thumb across Vernal’s face. ‘And Alice.’ His eyes widened and he lifted one of the snaps, holding it up and studying it.

‘Any idea what happened to her?’ Fox asked.

The old man shook his head. He was stroking his beard with his free hand. He seemed transfixed by the picture. ‘Youth, energy, beauty – everything a movement needs.’

‘She was sleeping with Vernal.’

‘Alice had many admirers.’

‘Including yourself? Did you ever hear from her afterwards?’

‘She did the right thing. They assassinated Francis and then came for me. Alice went underground.’

‘And Hawkeye?’ Fox leaned forward a little to tap the photograph. Hawkeye arm in arm with Alice.

‘Still out there, I dare say. Somewhere in the world where there’s a cause worth fighting for.’

‘Did you know his real name?’

‘He was always Hawkeye.’

‘Does no one from the old days keep in touch?’

‘Why would anyone want to come see me? I’ve nothing to offer.’

‘I spoke with John Elliot recently.
He’s
not exactly gone underground, has he?’

‘I’ve seen him on the television.’

‘He’s never visited?’

MacIver shook his head.

‘That photograph’s from a book,’ Fox went on. ‘It was written by an academic called John Martin.’

‘Like the singer?’

‘Different spelling. He asked to speak to you and you turned him down.’

‘Did I?’

‘That’s what he says.’

MacIver shrugged. ‘I don’t remember him.’

Fox thought for a moment. ‘Does the name Gavin Willis mean anything to you?’

‘Gavin Willis?’ MacIver rolled the words around his mouth. ‘Gallowhill Cottage?’

‘Yes.’

‘Beautiful spot. Somewhere over in Fife …’

‘Near Burntisland. Gavin was a policeman when you knew him.’ MacIver nodded. ‘And a sympathiser?’ Fox paused. ‘
More
than a sympathiser?’

‘Never an active member.’

‘He got guns for you, though, didn’t he? Maybe kept them at the cottage until you needed them. And I suppose he could get rid of them for you too, when occasion demanded.’
After a bank job, say: who was going to notice an extra handgun going into the furnace? Evidence destroyed
… ‘Gavin held on to Francis Vernal’s car, Mr MacIver. Why would he do that?’

‘Clever man,’ MacIver said quietly. ‘I always wondered …’

‘Wondered what?’

‘Whether anyone found the money.’

‘The money from the armed robberies? A few thousand, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s what they said. They didn’t want the public to know.’

‘Know what?’

‘We were good at what we did. We sent anthrax to the highest in the land, razed government buildings, held up banks and armoured cars …’ He smiled at the memory. ‘We were several hundred strong, and I’m the only one they ever locked up.’

‘How much money was in the car, Mr MacIver?’

‘Thirty or forty thousand.’ MacIver paused to think. ‘More or less.’

‘Did he keep it in the boot?’

MacIver nodded. ‘Below the spare tyre.’

Fox remembered Tony Kaye crowbarring open the boot and lifting the perished tyre – nothing underneath.

‘You’re sure about that figure? Thirty or forty?’

‘A lot of money back then.’

Fox nodded in agreement, recalling the price of an Edinburgh flat in 1985 –thirty-five thousand. Was it money worth killing for? Of course it was; people had died for far less.

‘There are bombs going off right now in Scotland,’ he told MacIver. ‘You think the bombers are justified?’

‘
Justified
is an interesting word – we could spend a year and a day debating it.’ MacIver fixed Fox with a stare. ‘They have a
cause
, they have passion and commitment. They have seen the systems around them fail, yet the status quo remains. Frustration turns to anger and anger to a sense of injustice.’

‘That’s how you felt back in the day?’

‘We
all
felt it!’ MacIver’s voice was rising as his agitation grew. Suddenly Gretchen Hughes was in the doorway, flanked by a couple of orderlies.

‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.

MacIver was on his feet. He stared down at the newspaper with all its underlined paragraphs, then snatched at it and began tearing it to shreds. The orderlies moved forward, Fox making room for them.

‘Betrayed and given trinkets?’ MacIver was spluttering. ‘Call that power? Why not call it what it is?’

Hughes’s hand was on Fox’s arm.

‘Time for us to leave,’ she said.

Fox stood his ground. ‘What is it?’ he asked MacIver. The hand on his arm tightened.

‘I think that’s quite enough, Inspector.’

‘It’s a kind of death,’ MacIver stated, voice shaking. ‘And we’re paying for it. Mark my words – we’re paying for it …’ He slumped down on his chair.

‘You need to go now,’ Hughes was telling Fox.

‘I’m going,’ he assured her, backing out of the room.

33

Fox had no way of getting in touch with DCI Jackson, so he started driving in the direction of Stirling. The radio news reports told him the blast had happened somewhere close to the village of Kippen. Fox’s satnav advised him to take the A73 and the M80. His heartbeat was returning to something like normal as he played back the visit to Carstairs in his head. MacIver had lost little of his zeal. He wasn’t an orator like Francis Vernal, perhaps, but Fox could imagine him filled with passionate argument, sounding heated but rational. He could well imagine young people hanging on his every word. He would have sounded like a man with justifiable grievances, if few answers – other than insurrection.

Fox stopped at a service station, filled the car’s tank and stayed parked while he ate a sandwich and drank a bottle of Irn-Bru. When he got back on the road and started to see signs to Kippen, he found himself part of a convoy, tucking in behind a van with a satellite dish on its roof. The TV crews were on their way to cover the bomb blast. The van eventually signalled to enter a country park at the foot of a range of hills. Paths led into the woods, and there was a muddy car park, filled with police patrol cars. Fox hauled his Volvo on to the closest verge and got out. Journalists were talking into their phones or to each other. Uniformed officers were trying to stop them wandering off. Bemused ramblers were returning to their cars, only to find them blocked in. Fox could see no sign of Jackson. He showed his ID to a uniform and was pointed in the direction of the right-hand path. On another day it would have been a pleasant enough hike, though Fox would have chosen different footwear. He slipped on leaves a few times, just about staying upright. As he walked further into the forest it grew eerily quiet, and he stopped and listened, breathing deeply. He was reminded of the Hermitage of Braid, near where he’d grown up in Edinburgh. As a kid, he’d gone there with Jude, playing games of hide-and-seek and chasing sticks down the narrow, fast-flowing stream. Right up until the day she started finding other boys more interesting than her brother.

He took out his phone, tempted to call her and share the memory, but hesitated. A couple of uniformed officers emerged from the path ahead. They asked to check his ID.

‘I’m not a reporter,’ he assured them, but they took a good look anyway. The one who handed the warrant card back looked like he had a question to ask –
What’s this got to do with the Complaints?
– but Fox moved on before he got the chance. The climb levelled out and he could see a clearing over to his left. Several figures had gathered there. Fox walked towards them, no one paying him any attention. Jackson, arms folded, was talking to a dark-haired woman. She wore a cream trench coat and green wellingtons, and she too had her arms folded. Fox stood and waited for Jackson to notice him. It was the woman who turned her head first, narrowing her eyes a little as she tried to place the new arrival. Jackson turned to see what had caught her attention. He muttered something to her and tramped in Fox’s direction.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he asked, keeping his voice low.

‘Sorry,’ Fox apologised. ‘I would’ve called if I’d had your number.’

Jackson was trying to lead him out of the clearing, but Fox stayed put. There was a small crater that everyone else seemed interested in. Blackened foliage and strewn earth. Fox wondered for a second why the trees were glinting, then realised their bark was studded with shrapnel – bits of nails and nuts and bolts.

‘Looks like they’ve got the quantities about right,’ he stated.

Jackson had placed himself between Fox and the scene. ‘Look, I’ll give you my number; we can talk later.’

‘It was just the one question, really.’

Jackson didn’t seem to be listening. He handed Fox his business card. The address was New Scotland Yard, London.

‘Just the one question,’ Fox repeated.

‘Can’t it wait?’

Fox stared at him. Jackson sighed and folded his arms again.

‘The watcher team – is that what you called them? The ones who rifled Vernal’s car while he lay injured in the front seat …’

‘What about them?’

‘Did they leave their jobs soon after? Or maybe start buying flash watches and Italian suits?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’ve just heard that there was thirty or forty grand in that car.’

‘You think they stole it?’

Fox shrugged. ‘It’s a theory, and that means I may have to write it up.’

‘Look, write whatever the hell you want. I’ve told you what I found in the vaults.’

‘You’ve not told me their names.’

‘And I’m not going to.’

‘Are they still active?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

Over by the bomb crater, the woman cleared her throat. Jackson took the hint. ‘You need to go,’ he told Fox.

‘Who is she?’

‘She’s the Chief Constable of Central Scotland, and right now I’m keeping her waiting.’

‘Didn’t recognise her without her uniform,’ Fox said. ‘I’ll let you get back to it, then.’

Jackson didn’t need a second invitation. He strode towards the circle of investigators and mumbled some sort of apology.

Fox took his time returning along the path. Another forensics team passed him, lugging heavy boxes of equipment. The TV vans had got their satellite dishes properly positioned. One reporter was doing a piece to camera. Fox recognised the face – he worked on the same show as John Elliot. Somehow Elliot himself, one-time dabbler in terrorism, was stuck doing pieces about restaurant menus.

‘No word from the authorities as yet,’ the reporter was telling the audience at home, ‘but a press conference will take place in an hour or so’s time …’

The sound recordist wasn’t happy. A dog was barking in the back of a nearby car. The dog’s owner was remonstrating that he was boxed in by the reporter’s own van.

‘Middle of bloody nowhere,’ the cameraman complained, ‘and there’s still always something …’

A few cars had arrived after Fox, and had parked behind him. Locals, it looked like, curious to see what was going on. Fox manoeuvred past them and headed in the direction of the M90. His phone let him know he’d missed a call. He checked voicemail. It was Fiona McFadzean, asking him to ring her. But the signal was dropping, so Fox decided on a detour north and east along the A91 into Fife, heading for Glenrothes. Tulliallan Police College wasn’t far away at one point, and that got him thinking about Evelyn Mills again. There was a week-long course coming up – Bob McEwan had mentioned it in passing. Nobody in the office had shown interest, but Fox wondered if Mills might know about it. Three days and nights … back at the scene of the crime…

‘She’s married,’ he reminded himself out loud, then he switched the radio on, turning the music up, trying to drown out his own thoughts.

‘You shouldn’t have come all this way,’ McFadzean said when she opened the door to him. Paul was seated at his computer and offered a wave by way of greeting. Fox nodded back.

‘I was actually in the vicinity,’ he lied.

‘I’ve been hearing about Kippen – just gets grimmer and grimmer, doesn’t it?’

Fox made a non-committal sound. ‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’

McFadzean gestured towards Paul, who twitched his head, meaning he wanted Fox to approach the computer.

‘Remember you asked about those revolvers? Specifically: provenance?’

‘Yes.’ Fox bent at the waist, the better to study the monitor. It was a paper trail. Paul had managed to split the screen in half, so one side showed information on the gun that had killed Alan Carter and the other the revolver found near Francis Vernal’s body.

‘There’s a connection,’ Paul stated. ‘Both weapons were reported “lost or mislaid” in June 1982.’

‘Stolen from an army base?’

‘Good guess, but not quite right. I’m amazed they were still using revolvers in the eighties, but apparently some officers liked them.’ Paul clicked the mouse again, and Fox read the details.

‘The Falklands?’

‘The Falklands,’ the young man confirmed. ‘Conflict kicked off that month. Lot of equipment was handed out but not handed back.’ There was list after list to confirm this. He kept clicking on the mouse, so fast Fox couldn’t keep up – but then that was the whole point.

‘So how did the guns end up here?’ Fox asked.

‘Servicemen probably smuggled them back,’ McFadzean joined in. ‘Either as keepsakes, or so they could sell them on.’

‘Definitely the latter in this case,’ Paul added. ‘A few other firearms from the conflict – pistols rather than revolvers – turned up on the streets of Britain in the mid-eighties.’ The police reports appeared on the screen. ‘London, Manchester, Nottingham …’

‘Birmingham, Newcastle, Glasgow,’ McFadzean added.

‘And Belfast,’ Paul stressed. ‘Mustn’t forget Belfast …’

‘We even caught one of them,’ McFadzean told Fox. The police photograph duly appeared on the screen.

‘Name was William Benchley,’ Paul said. ‘Operated out of Essex. Left the army after the campaign – even picked up his medal. But stolen weaponry became his business.’

‘Did he sell the revolvers?’

Paul shrugged and looked to his boss.

‘No idea,’ she confessed.

‘Where is he now?’ Fox was studying the photo of the shaven-headed, scowling Benchley.

‘Died in Barbados a few years back. Drowned in his swimming pool.’

‘Moved there after serving his sentence,’ Paul explained. ‘Bearing in mind his lifestyle, I’d say some of the arms money was waiting for him when he got out.’

‘Much good it did him,’ Fox said quietly, reading the news report of Benchley’s death.

‘Anyway,’ Paul cautioned, ‘we’ve no reason to suppose he sold those particular guns.’

‘But someone did.’

‘Someone did,’ the young man agreed. ‘The one found at the scene of the Vernal car smash – I’ve got nothing else for you on that.’

Fox took the hint. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘Took a bit of tracking down …’ Paul paused. ‘The internet was no use – a lot of stuff in the Fife Constabulary vaults hasn’t been digitised.’

‘Paul had to actually spend time poring over something other than a screen.’

Paul stuck his tongue out in response to McFadzean’s sarcasm. Then he handed Fox a set of stapled photocopied sheets. ‘The revolver found next to Alan Carter had been handed in to police in October 1984. It was found in a hedge in Tayport.’

‘Near Dundee?’ Fox asked.

‘The Fife side of the Tay Bridge. Police at the time wondered if it might have been used in a robbery. There’d been a bookmaker in Dundee relieved of the week’s takings by a masked man toting a handgun. This was three days before the revolver was discovered.’

‘So the gun had gone from the Falklands to Dundee?’

Paul shrugged. ‘Could have ended up there after being passed along a chain of owners.’

‘Was the gunman ever caught?’

But Fox could see well enough from the printout that the case had never been solved. The profit from a week’s betting – just shy of nine hundred pounds. Would that have been enough to tempt the likes of the Dark Harvest Commando? It was hardly a bank heist …

‘Any of this useful?’ McFadzean asked as Fox continued reading.

‘I’m not sure,’ he confessed. Then he patted Paul on the shoulder. ‘But it’s bloody good work, all the same …’

Once home, Fox called Tony Kaye.

‘How’s the report going?’

‘We’re managing to make it look like it was put together by a pair of Einsteins.’

‘No change there, then. What are you up to tonight?’

‘Dinner with my good lady. Want to join us?’

‘Can’t spare the time, Tony.’

‘I keep forgetting about your busy social calendar.’ Kaye paused. ‘Well, the offer’s always there …’

‘Thanks, but I’m sorted. Any news from the kid?’

‘He’s headed back over to Fife. Been to the barber and everything.’

‘Cheryl Forrester again?’

‘He’s smitten.’

‘Warn him off, will you? We don’t know what titbits she might be collecting for Scholes and the others.’

‘You reckon her for a Mata Hari?’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’ Fox was lying along the sofa, the TV remote in his free hand. He flicked to a news channel, keeping the sound muted. ‘Did you hear about Stirling?’

‘Sounds like a copycat to me – these nutters see it on TV and think: I could do that; stir things up a bit.’

‘The brass seemed to be taking it seriously enough.’

There was silence on the line while Tony Kaye digested this. ‘What were you doing there?’

‘Looking for DCI Jackson.’

‘The guy from Special Branch?’

‘I had something I needed to ask him.’

‘This is Vernal, isn’t it? You’re still digging?’

‘And I think I’m hitting a few worms, too. According to Jackson, the spooks had nothing to do with Vernal’s death. But Donald MacIver says there was a chunk of cash hidden in the car boot. Thirty to forty grand’s worth.’

‘Who the hell’s Donald MacIver?’

‘He led one of the splinter groups at the time.’

‘And where is he now?’

Fox hesitated before answering. ‘Carstairs.’

‘You’ve been to Carstairs?’

‘Had to be done, Tony.’

‘Was he in a straitjacket?’

‘Bit high-strung, but coherent with it.’

‘And you believe him about the money?’

‘Yes.’

Kaye seemed to think for a moment. ‘Then Gavin Willis got it,’ he surmised.

‘And did what with it?’ Fox countered. ‘Plus, how would he have known it was there?’ But of course there was every chance Willis might have known – guns exchanged for cash, maybe at dead of night in a deserted car park …

‘More questions than answers, Malcolm,’ Tony Kaye was saying. ‘Mind if I give you a word of advice?’

‘You’re going to tell me to drop it.’

‘Something like that, yes. Hand the whole lot over to CID – not Fife necessarily; there’s got to be someone in Edinburgh you can give it to.’

‘Just when I’m starting to enjoy myself?’

‘Is that what you’re doing?’ Kaye gave a sigh. ‘You’ve not got anything to prove, Malcolm. To me or the High Hiedyins or anyone else.’ He paused for a moment. ‘At least take a night off – go see a film or something.’