Blackstone's pursuits ob-1 Read online

  ‘He told me to go and see Kane, to get both halves of the fiver from him, then to get my arse over to Switzerland with some close-mouthed helper, and bring back the lolly. He promised me a five per cent success fee. To spare you the mental arithmetic, that’s forty-five grand. For me, more than a year’s wages in one hit.

  ‘I phoned your number last night. A woman answered; I guessed it must have been Dawn. She put me on to Kane, I told him what the score was and he said “Yes sir, very good, sir. Come here at ten tomorrow morning, and I’ll give you the bank-note.” That’s us up to date.

  ‘I’ve never seen Kane, not even a photograph, but I’m assuming that’s him through there on your bed. Unless your sister’s lying under it in the same condition, then it looks as if you’re in for a family scandal.’ Her face twisted in pain, and I bit my tongue, to punish it for running away with itself, like always.

  ‘That’s your theory, Mr Detective, is it?’

  ‘Prim,’ I said, ‘I’m a private enquiry agent, not a detective. I interview witnesses in court cases for lawyers, and that sort of stuff. I was a policeman for six months, once upon a time, and I turned it in because I couldn’t stand the Clever Bastards in the CID, and the bullying sergeants in uniform who’d spent the best part of their service sitting on their brains.

  ‘But what I said there, I’m sorry, but it’s the first thing they’ll think. No, it’s the only thing they’ll think. If these blokes see any easy answer, they don’t spend a hell of a lot of time looking for a difficult option. They’re not trained to be clever, they’re trained to be logical.’

  The old tongue was really running away with itself now. I suppose I could have stopped it, but I wasn’t prepared to bite it that hard.

  ‘Look Prim, I find it difficult to believe that anyone could do something like that next door, especially someone with a sister as …’ I gulped, but I had run straight off the cliff, like Wiley E. Coyote, and all I could do was keep on running and hope that I didn’t hit the ground. ‘… as downright tasty as you, but the boys and girls from the Leith Polithe won’t dithmith the idea. And like it or not, we’re going to have to call them.’

  She nodded. Her blonde hair was cut fairly short, and more than a bit untidy after her journey. Suddenly I found myself wanting to smooth it.

  ‘I know we are,’ she said, ‘but how about if we have a shooftie round to see if we can find that fiver before we do? Your clients would like that, wouldn’t they.’ Until that moment, I’d never grasped what ‘askance’ meant, but when I looked at Prim, I knew for sure. ‘Well,’ she said, picking up my expression. ‘If it’s there, all of it, it’ll mean that Dawn … and we don’t know for sure she was here … didn’t kill him for the money. Won’t it?’

  I saw the sense in that. But I saw even more in the forty-five thousand good reasons I had for wanting to find the fiver too. ‘Aye, okay. Let’s look, at least.’

  Policemen are like buses. When you need one, they’re nowhere to be found. But when you don’t …

  I’ll never know why anyone could call a game ‘Postman’s Knock’. I mean, when it comes to knocking there’s no-one in the same league as a polisman. We had just stepped out of the kitchen when the thump on the door echoed around the hall. Prim’s flat was on the first floor of the tenement. I’ll swear that I heard at least three doors open as the sound swept through the building. She stepped up to the door and peered through the spy-hole.

  ‘It looks like a traffic warden,’ she said. ‘But his uniform …!’ The second knock sent her reeling backwards. ‘Okay,’ she shouted. ‘Keep your hair on.’ She swung the door open. The be-fouled traffic warden was there, all right, flanked on either side by two of Edinburgh’s finest. One of them, I recognised. When I did my probationer spell at Oxgangs he had been the senior constable and chief barrack-room lawyer at the station. He was one of those guys who was determined to see it out to pension time and sod all the rest. Wherever they go they infect the whole station, whingeing and bitching until they’ve pulled morale down to rock bottom. Eventually they’re rotated to start all over somewhere else. This one’s name was McArthur, but at Oxgangs everyone, from the Chief Inspector down, had called him McArse.

  His sidekick could have been me seven years earlier. He was a fuzz-cheeked probationer, so spick that I guessed his Maw still did his laundry, and so span that I guessed she pressed his uniform for him as well. I shook my head at the thought of what could happen to the poor wee bugger on the beat in Leith.

  McArse stared right over Prim’s head, straight at me. I could see something stirring behind his eyes, but his sort have trouble putting a name to their chief constable, let alone a short-serving wet-ear from almost a decade earlier. He gave up as soon as he started and went straight into Chapter One of the training manual, ‘The Policeman as a Public Servant’.

  ‘Hey, youse. Mister. What the fuck about this then?’ He thrust Exhibit A into the hall, with the evidence of the outrage drying on his cap and shoulders. ‘Another fine mess you’ve got yourself into, Oz,’ I thought.

  When you’re as thick as McArse very few things will stem the tide of your aggression, far less rock you back on your heels. The only one I know that works every time is a counterblast from a small, furious woman. When the woman in question has just stepped off a transcontinental flight minus a night’s sleep, after twelve months in the middle of a genocidal African war, well it really is no contest.

  From behind I could see her shoulders quiver as she surveyed the soiled public official before her. The warden stood there, wishing suddenly that, rather than stopping the first idiot he had encountered with flat feet and a black and white check band round his cap, he had made his way quietly back to his depot, to blame the incident on a large family of incontinent seagulls, attracted by the shine of a car he was booking.

  ‘Constable!’ hissed Prim. A good hiss is far more effective than a bellow, any time. ‘Get this apparition out of my flat, at once, and take a grip on your manners.’ McArse looked at her, noticing her for the first time. The ponderous wheels of his brain weighed up the situation for a few seconds, until without a word, he took the quailing warden by the collar and drew him backwards out on to the stairhead.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said.

  When I was a kid, if I was ever bullied, I used to get my big sister to sort it out. Standing there behind Prim, I felt a wave of deja vu sweeping over me. ‘Look pal,’ I said to the warden, more from a need to assert my independence as a man — or even my presence — than from any wish to appease the thing, ‘accidents will happen, okay. Sorry and all that.’

  Prim looked at me over her shoulder, incredulous again. I made a face that was intended to say, ‘Look I don’t normally throw up at crime scenes, and even less frequently over traffic wardens, but the smell in there just got to me all of a sudden. Okay?’ That’s what it was meant to say, but it didn’t work. Incredulity stayed in place, until it was replaced by one of my big sister’s playground looks, the one she would throw me just before she put the boot into the Primary Three class bully. It said very clearly, ‘You can explain yourself later!’ Oddly, I felt a surge of delight when I caught the ‘later’.

  She turned back to the odd trio in the doorway and pulled off a masterful role switch. ‘Yes Constable, we’re sorry, but you see, the most terrible thing’s happened. We were just about to call the police.

  ‘I’m just back from abroad. My boyfriend picked me up from the airport. When we got in he went into the bedroom and he found …’ From somewhere, she conjured up a sob. ‘You’d better look for yourselves.’ She pointed behind her to the door.

  McArse was no better with a tearful woman than with an angry one. He nudged the probationer. ‘Gaun, Jason …’ ‘Bugger me,’ I thought. ‘He’s called Jason!’ ‘… away and take a look.’ He glowered at the traffic warden who had led him into this pit of torment. ‘You! You can go. Ye’re stinkin’ the place oot onywey.’ The Yellow, Orange and Slightly Pink Peril slunk off, out
of the picture forever. McArse gave the reluctant boy Jason a shove towards the bedroom.

  I know. I should have said something. I’d been in the boy’s shoes once, yet I let him walk unwarned into that bedroom. Rotten bastard, eh? ’Fraid so.

  Unlike me, Jason didn’t throw up. Mind you, I’d take throwing up every time rather than what he did. A low, keening sound came from the room. A wailing ‘Oooowwhhh,’ which grew in intensity and distress, the sound of knees and thighs being squeezed tight together in a fruitless effort to prevent the inevitable.

  ‘Ooohh!’

  In the doorway the old soldier pretended not to hear. He stood there like Pharaoh trying, in the midst of the Red Sea, to ignore the fact that something very significant was happening to the water table — an apt comparison in the circumstances.

  ‘Hector.’ The call came from the room. If you’ve ever wondered about ‘tremulous’, that was it. The veteran looked at the ceiling.

  ‘Hector!’ Slightly more urgent this time. ‘And whereabouts were you abroad, Miss?’ the reluctant visitor asked Prim.

  ‘McArse!’ It was a howl from Hell. ‘Get fuckin’ in here!’ Shocked into movement, the constable lumbered through the hall and into the bedroom. Five seconds later, he backed out white-faced.

  ‘Oh my God, Miss. Was he like that when you found him?’

  I almost said, ‘No, you stupid bastard, he was alive!’ but decided that silence was a better option. Prim had figured that one out too; she nodded meekly.

  The probationer Jason eased himself awkwardly out of the bedroom, trying desperately not to look at anyone. I didn’t have the heart to ask if he was all right, because I could see that he wasn’t. I could recognise a career cut short when I saw one. I let him go as he shuffled along the hall and out to the stairhead.

  At last, McArse, from somewhere, dredged up the memory of what it was like to be a policeman. ‘Where’s your phone, Miss?’ he asked, quietly. The one thing that keeps guys like him alive in the force is their knack of knowing when to delegate, upwards or downwards, and that is just as often as they can.

  Prim and I retreated silently to the flat’s small living room as he went into the kitchen to phone.

  ‘Why did you say that about getting back from the airport?’ I asked her.

  She looked at me. Shyness sat oddly on her. ‘I don’t know. It just came out. I suppose I thought it would be awkward for you if I told them what really happened. I mean your client’s secret would be out and everything.’

  ‘Aye, and I’d be in the frame as Obvious Culprit Number One.’ She smiled. She didn’t say ‘Hardly.’ She didn’t need to.

  Instead, she said, ‘What happens now?’

  I shrugged. ‘The serious boys arrive. The CID. The Clever Bastards with absolutely no sense of humour. Not a bit like those two out there. Look, Prim, we’re going to have to be straight with them. Nothing held back. What I mean is you’re going to have to tell them that Dawn was living here.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Somehow, that didn’t reassure me.

  In which Dylan gets the blues, we get lucky and I seize my chance

  The Clever Bastards who turned up were from Leith CID. Ebeneezer Street was only a short hop from their station and so we heard rubber burning on the road outside less than five minutes after McArse’s call.

  The officer who burst into the living room might as well have had ‘High Flyer’ stamped on his forehead. He radiated ambition as he looked down at us, sat together on the couch facing the window. Guys like him can be very dangerous. Turn them loose on a criminal investigation, especially one that’s heading for the High Court and the tabloids, and they don’t see people, they see rungs on the ladder of success.

  I knew his face from the wine bars and fancy pubs around Charlotte Square, but not his name. He filled in the blank in my knowledge at once. ‘I’m DI Michael Dylan. The plate on the door says Phillips. Is that both of you?’

  Prim shook her head. ‘No, it’s my place. We don’t live together.’

  ‘You’re telling the truth, Prim,’ I thought. ‘Careful, that could be dangerous.’

  She squeezed my arm. I don’t know whether she meant to dig her thumbnail into my wrist, but if she did, it was unnecessary. I’d learned enough about Primavera Phillips in our short acquaintance to be happy to let her lead the dance. I sat there dumb. ‘This is Oz Blackstone, my boyfriend,’ she said. I did my best to look gormless. From Dylan’s expression, I succeeded.

  For a DI he looked pretty young. Early thirties, I guessed, not much older than me. He was a real designer polisman, dressed in an olive-green suit that looked like Armani, and with his feet encased in tan leather shoes that definitely were not made for pounding the beat. Someone once said to me that Dylan saw himself as a bit of a cult, and that most of his colleagues agreed … only they spelled it differently.

  Everything about him said that he was aiming for the Command Suite, and the predatory look in his eye told me that he could see Prim and me helping him on his way.

  He didn’t disappoint me. ‘How about making it easy for me?’ he said. ‘The way I see it, honey, you set the wee chap up. You lure him to this place with promises of unbridled passion. You’ve got him gasping for it and helpless, then Oz here comes in and knifes him.

  ‘All you really need to tell me is what you were after. Was it money, or is this a contract job? The rest is pretty obvious.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Prim. ‘Indeed.’ There was a long, dangerous silence. Dylan looked down, all smugness and expectancy. ‘And having done that,’ she went on, softly, but with an edge to her voice that made me think of a demolition ball swinging unstoppably towards its target, ‘the cold-eyed hitman here went and barfed out the window all over a traffic warden?Yes?

  ‘Then, after that mishap, the death squad hung about the scene until PC Murdoch and Oor Wullie arrived.’

  She stood up and squared up to the Armani suit and its contents, which suddenly seemed a touch less sure of themselves. ‘Let me tell you a few things, Mr Dylan. First, this is my flat, that ruined bed next door is mine, and I’m not happy about it. Second, no way would I let a thing like that through there anywhere near me.’ I wasn’t quite sure which thing she meant, the whole or the part. I guessed, she meant the latter, and felt a lot better about life, manhood, and associated issues. ‘Third, if you care to repeat that allegation before independent witnesses, Oz and I will sue you right out of that suit.’

  I sat there on the couch, staring at Prim’s bum in her tight, faded jeans. It was a nice, round bum, generously fleshed but firm. I tried to imagine her committing acts of unbridled passion upon the person of the late William Kane, but somehow I wound up taking his place, with a bridle figuring somewhere in the scene, too. Eventually I forced myself to look up at Clever Bastard Dylan. He stood there, his face working itself into a cheesy grin as he fought to protect his dignity. ‘Okay,’ he said, finally. ‘Just testing. Have you any idea who that is, through there?’

  She looked him dead in the eye. ‘Neither Oz or I have ever seen that man before in our lives.’

  He missed the fact that she hadn’t answered his question. ‘Okay. The constable said you got back from the airport and found the body?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Prim. She dug into her vast bag and produced a boarding card. ‘There.’ She thrust it at Dylan. ‘That’s the flight I was on. Eight o’clock shuttle. It was a bit late so Oz and I didn’t get back here till after ten.’ He bought the lie without question.

  ‘The guy in there’s been dead since last night.’

  ‘Oh, you know a lot about bodies do you?’ Dylan was the sort of prat who patronises women automatically. This time he didn’t even realise he was doing it until the axe of Prim’s sarcasm fell on his neck.

  ‘I’m afraid I do. I’ve seen all sorts over the last twelve months. A few days ago, in fact, we went into a village and found a policeman with his testicles in his mouth. Just as well for his sake that he was dead. I mean what good’s a pol
iceman without …’

  Quite suddenly, she began to sob. ‘Thank Christ,’ I thought, relieved that she wasn’t that tough. I stood up and turned her towards me, holding her like the concerned partner I was supposed to be. ‘There, love,’ I said, warming to the part. ‘You had a hell of a time out in Africa. A dead stranger in your bed’s the last thing you needed to come home to.’

  I glared at Dylan. He was completely conquered now. ‘Look, Mr … eh Blackstone, was it? Why don’t you look after Miss Phillips. My people will just have a look round … if that’s all right, that is?’

  ‘Aye, sure. You get on with it.’

  I expected Prim to break the clinch when the door closed behind him, but she hung on in there. Her sobs were subsiding, but every so often a fresh outbreak would set her generous chest rubbing against my belly. Remembering that she had been a stranger an hour before, I racked my brains for images which would distract me and kill the reflex which Prim’s bra-less nipples were triggering in me. I thought of Hibernian defending a one-goal lead on a wet Saturday in January. I thought of an evening at the ballet with a woman I didn’t like. I thought of the bit in Pulp Fiction where John Travolta shoots Marvin in the face by accident. I thought of Van Morrison. I thought of a bottle of duty-free Grolsch after midnight on a cross-channel ferry.

  None of it worked. Before she could get the wrong idea, which would have been right all along, I held her away from me at arm’s length. ‘Come on Prim. There’ll be time for that later.’ She looked back at me tear-stained, and nodded. It’s funny how there are people you can know for an hour and it seems like a lifetime.

  ‘Yes, you’re right. That prick’ll be back.’ (‘ You never know,’ I thought mischievously to myself.) ‘I’ll need to work out a story that’ll protect Dawn, as far as I can.’

  Dylan must have had a pressing lunch date, because the prick was back within fifteen minutes. ‘The Doc’s arrived,’ he said. ‘Her first estimate is that he was killed between ten and midnight last night by a right-handed man. If you’re up to it now, Miss Phillips, perhaps you could clear up just one or two things.’