Lethal Intent

by Quintin Jardine

  'So you went looking for that tenderness somewhere else.'

  'No!' she protested. 'It found me.'

  'And if I really believed that…'

  Four

  Neil McIlhenney sat bolt upright. The room was cool, yet he was perspiring, and breathing hard. He felt his heart thumping, seeming to play a rapid, but thankfully steady tattoo against his ribcage.

  Louise stirred beside him, but did not waken. He slipped out of bed and went into their bathroom, feeling his way in the darkness and not switching on the light until the door had closed behind him. He stared at his naked self in the mirror, then rubbed the stubble on his chin, as if he was reassuring himself that he was still in the world, that he could still experience ordinary sensations.

  As he looked, he saw that his arms and shoulders were glistening, and that the hair on his chest and belly had spun itself into damp curls, black but heavily grey-flecked. He picked up a towel and dried himself off, then brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth with cold water. When he felt sufficiently composed, he yanked the cord to turn off the mirror's illumination and opened the door once more.

  His wife was sitting up in bed as he stepped back into the room. Her reading light was switched on and she was looking at him anxiously, her arms wrapped round his pillow, pressing it to her breasts. 'What's up, love?' she asked, quietly. 'This is damp. Are you feeling ill?'

  He shook his head. 'I'm fine: bad dream, that was all. I shouldn't have had that cheese.'

  She grinned, reassured. 'When I was a kid, my poor old dad used to warn me, "Eat cheese for supper and you'll see your granny", meaning you'll have dreams. My granny died when I was five and I missed her like hell, so I used to sneak into the kitchen before I went to bed and pinch a big lump of Cheddar, or whatever else was in the fridge. It didn't work, though: I never did see her.' She paused as he slipped back under the duvet. 'Did you?'

  'Did I what?'

  'See your granny?'

  He reached out and ruffled her hair, then took the pillow from her. 'Both my grannies are still alive,' he reminded her. 'I don't need to use dairy products to conjure up visions of them.'

  'What did you see, then?'

  A corner of his mouth twisted in a slight grimace. 'I don't think I want to talk about it'

  'Scary?'

  'Weird.' He gave a shiver, remembering the coldness.

  She dug him gently in the ribs with an elbow. 'Go on, tell me. You'll feel better. I used to go to this shrink who made me tell him all my dreams.'

  As he looked at her, a broad, incredulous smile spread across his face. 'Why the hell did you need to go to a shrink?'

  Lou McIlhenney gave a small frown. 'For the same reason most people go: my head was messed up. It was after my first marriage went down the toilet. I was depressed, lonely, and drinking a bit. My work suffered in the process. For a while I tried to rebuild my confidence with casual affairs, but I found I couldn't do casual.' She shrugged her shoulders. 'So I did what any self-respecting actress would do in the circs: I got the name of a Harley Street psychiatrist from my doctor, and I went into therapy.'

  Neil smiled again. 'It worked, that's for sure.'

  She snorted. 'Two years and God knows how many thousand quid later it worked. The gremlins were gone and I started to do my best work.' And then she smiled. 'I still suffered from occasional self-doubt, though. Do you know when I realised for sure that I was cured?'

  'Tell me.'

  'The day I met you: when I went to dinner at Bob and Sarah's and you were there in the fourth chair, I said to myself, "Louise Bankier, this is your moment. You're going to have him." And I did.'

  He laughed at her honesty. 'You were that sure of yourself?'

  'He really was a very good shrink.'

  'And he made you tell him your dreams?'

  She nodded.

  'All of them?'

  'Every one, in all the detail I could remember.'

  'Pervert.'

  'That thought did cross my mind, but after a while I could tell him the most intimate things without bothering about it.'

  'Did you ever worry about your dreams winding up in the Sunday scandal sheets?'

  'No. He taped all our sessions but he only worked from notes. He gave me all the tapes; it was his way of making me sure he'd have nothing to gain and everything to lose by leaking to the press.'

  'I can see that,' Neil conceded.

  'So tell me your dream. I promise I won't sell it to the Sunday Mail.'

  'They wouldn't buy it. Just your common or garden nightmare, that was all.' The vision was still vivid in his mind; he recounted it for her, step by step, until the moment when he snapped awake.

  'I see,' she murmured, thoughtfully, when he was finished.

  'So what's your verdict, Dr Lou?'

  'Did you ever have any experiences as a child that related to the dream?'

  His forehead wrinkled for a second or two, and then his eyebrows rose. 'Now you mention it, yes,' he conceded. 'When I was a kid, like six or seven, we had a very big snowfall and it lay for a while. My pals and I decided we'd build an igloo in my back garden, as you do. It was a real pro job, just like the Eskimos have, only it wasn't quite as good as we thought. I was inside it on my own when it collapsed. I was buried in snow and ice and I thought I was going to suffocate in it. Maybe I would have too, but my dad saw it happen and he hauled me out.'

  'There you are, then,' said Louise triumphantly. 'Classic case: I'm pregnant, and you're worried about something like that ever happening to our child. No doubt about it.'

  'Mmm.' Neil scratched his chin. 'A couple of small doubts, maybe. I've already got two kids, and I never had that dream or anything like it when Olive was pregnant with either Lauren or Spencer.'

  'No, but…'

  He held up a hand. 'Something else,' he said. 'And this is the scary bit. The woman in the car, the woman driving: it was Olive. It was my first wife, and she took me up there and left me to my death.'

  Five

  'Get wid da, get wid da hot funky beat!'

  The dee-jay's voice boomed out of the speaker array, over a heavy, insistent bass rhythm. On the packed floor dancers moved, some in time to the music, others in the mistaken belief that they were. The hall was decked out for the season: paper Christmas trees hung from the roof, and long strands of tinsel were wound round the lighting gantry. Several of the clubbers were wearing party hats.

  The man turned to his companion and nodded in the general direction of the stage as the single line sounded out again and again.

  'D'ye think any of those have any fucking idea what that noise is about?' he asked, flashing a wickedly provocative grin that made his teeth shine unnaturally white in the beams of ultraviolet light that wove random patterns around the club.

  The other man shrugged, displaying no interest in the question. 'Who the fuck cares?' he growled. 'Is this mate of yours gonnae show or no'?'

  'He said he would, but he's an unreliable bastard.'

  'He can rely on a sore fuckin' face if he pisses me aboot.' The man's little eyes screwed up, becoming, for a second, mere pinpricks in his fleshy face as if to emphasise his threat, and his menace. 'So can you an' all. Ah'm fucked waitin' for this guy. Dis ye want tae deal or no'?'

  'Sure. Same rate as before?'

  'Naw. It'll be seventy-five this time.' The man paused. 'Naw, make that a hunner and fifty: yis'll be buying yer mate's as well.'

  The sardonic grin was gone. 'Seventy-five a baggie? What happened tae the fifty quid it wis before?'

  'Inflation. Supply and demand. Call it whit ye like, but that's the tab, Davie boy. Now stop with the wide-eyed fuckin' innocence…' He paused and pointed to a third man standing a few feet to the right: around thirty, well dressed, well groomed, a stockbroker out for a night on the wild side. '… before somethin' bad happens tae ye.'

  Davie boy looked down at his feet. 'Okay,' he muttered. 'Let's do it. Same place as before?'

  'Aye. Just gies a minute t
ae get in there first. We dinnae want tae 'go in thegither.'

  'Like anybody would care in here. Why dae ye use the ladies' anyway? Why no' the gents'?'

  'Too easy for the nasty boys tae hide in the gents'. Nae coppers in the ladies'.'

  'Man, they have women polis tae!'

  The fleshy face split into what passed for a smile. 'Ah kin spot thae a mile-off. Fuckin' dykes, the whole bunch. See yis in there.' He turned on his heel and pushed his way through the crowd. The lyric, and the beat, thumped on relentlessly.

  Davie boy waited for two minutes, checking the time on his watch as it passed. Finally he followed the man's footsteps. The toilets were on the other side of the hall, two doors a few yards apart, one marked 'His'. He walked towards 'Hers', noting that, as usual, the stockbroker was standing guard outside. They exchanged a glance as he pushed the door open; the eyes were cold, dispassionate, maybe a little weary of his tedious job.

  He stepped inside. There were half a dozen stalls; the second was in use, the door of the fourth bore an 'out of order' sign and was sealed with tape, and the others were vacant. A line of wash-basins faced them, and on the far wall were three slot machines, two selling condoms and the third tampons. A blonde in a dress that might have been painted on was feeding pound coins into the Durex dispenser.

  The dealer waited until she had left, and until a wiry red-head had emerged from the second cubicle and returned to the hall without washing her hands. There had been no sound of flushing. Davie boy guessed that either she had been badly brought up, or had been injecting; he placed a bet with himself on the latter. As always, neither woman had paid any attention to the two alien invaders, or even looked in their direction.

  'Okay,' said the dealer, as the door closed on the red-head. 'Get your fuckin' money out'

  Davie boy produced a roll from his pocket. He began to peel off notes, then hesitated. 'Ah dunno, man,' he muttered. 'A hunner and fifty's serious cash tae me. Whit if ma mate disnae turn up at a'?'

  The stocky man's face seemed to stiffen. 'What if?' he snarled. 'Tell ye something, son: we're here because you told me Ah was going' tae sell two baggies o' smack.' With his left hand, he took two small clear packs of white powder from the breast pocket of his jacket and waved them in the air. 'You're no leavin' till Ah dae…' The eyes became tiny once more. '… or yis urnae leavin' at a'. Here's another "what if" for yis.' His right hand slipped into his jacket pocket. Davie boy tensed, anticipating a blade, but instead the dealer produced a Nokia cellphone. 'What if I just press that green button there? Ah'll tell yis what'll happen. Ma man's phone'll ring on the other side of that door. When he sees it's me that's callin' he won't bother tae answer. He'll jist come in here and cut your fuckin' face off.'

  As if from nowhere, the sardonic grin was back. 'Well, Jingle,' he murmured. 'Maybe you'd better just press it and we'll see.'

  A look of fury crossed the dealer's face; a snarl escaped from his lips as he held the Nokia in the air and pressed the send button.

  Davie boy took a step to the side, so that he could keep both the dealer and the door in his line of vision. The man he had called Jingle stared at it, waiting for it to burst open, and for the stockbroker to set about his business.

  But it stayed firmly closed. Instead, there was a tearing sound as the door of cubicle four ripped free of its sealing tape. A woman stepped out. She wore a black satin trouser suit and her brunette hair was expensively cut; she was pretty, but her face was set and she looked all business.

  'Hey, Mavis,' Davie boy exclaimed. 'Jingle here reckons you're a lesbian. Is that right?'

  The woman kicked the dealer, once, twice, on each calf with the pointed toe of her shoe, sending him slumping to his knees, seizing his hands as he fell and holding them in the air for Davie boy to bind his wrists together with plastic handcuffs.

  Standing straighter now, and looking altogether different, he wrenched the man back to his feet. 'I am Detective Chief Inspector David Mackenzie,' he said. 'Fettes; Drugs Squad commander. My friends and enemies alike call me Bandit. This is Detective Sergeant Mavis McDougall, who is, for your information, as straight as a die. But she didn't take offence at being called a lesbian. No, she objected to you trying to sell me a class A drug, for which offence, Charles "Jingle" Bell, we are placing you under arrest. Now, tell me if you understand the following.'

  He recited the formal caution; when it was complete, Bell said nothing, but spat in his face.

  'Thank you,' said Bandit Mackenzie, taking a paper towel from the dispenser and wiping himself. 'That'll come up nicely on the video. Camera's in the tampon machine, by the way: we reckoned that was the one that'd get the least use. So, in addition to possession with intent to supply, you'll also be charged with assaulting a police officer. Come on. Let's get you out of here so the ladies can use their toilets.'

  He grasped Bell by the arm and marched him towards the door, which McDougall opened for him. Outside a crowd of clubbers had gathered around the stockbroker; he was face down on the floor, bleeding heavily from the nose, with his hands cuffed behind his back. A long knife lay beside him, and there was a smear of blood on the wall, where, Bandit supposed, his face had hit it, hard. As if to confirm this guess, a muscular man in a leather jacket stood over him, with a foot on his neck. His curly blond hair looked surreal as it was caught in the zooming nightclub lights, and his green eyes gleamed.

  'You will not try that again,' said Deputy Chief Constable Andy Martin to the prone stockbroker, then he looked up at Jingle Bell. 'And neither will you, my friend. This may not be my patch any more, but I will not tolerate anyone setting up a dope business anywhere, least of all in a place owned by a friend of mine. But you weren't to know that, were you, any more than you were to know that Spike Thomson doesn't scare easily.'

  He smiled, even more wickedly. 'You and your pal did me favour, though.' He chuckled. 'After all these months in uniform, I've really enjoyed this wee bit of action.'

  Six

  They sat side by side on the terrace of their suite in the Pier House, looking out across the Gulf of Mexico, listening to the varied sounds of the resort as they drifted up to them. The sun had vanished below the horizon, but there was still sufficient light for them to take in the waterfront action.

  Sarah stretched out her long, tanned legs, resting her heels on the balcony rail and sitting further back in her chair. She swirled the ice round in the Cuba Libre, which she had brought up from the bar, and glanced sideways at her husband. 'It's broke, isn't it?' she whispered.

  'I guess so,' he replied.

  'Can we fix it?'

  'I don't know; my name might be Bob, but I'm no builder. What do I have to do to make it better?'

  'You could start by forgiving me.'

  Bob looked into her eyes. 'I did that on day one,' he told her. 'And anyway, it's a bit rich for me to be forgiving you. I haven't had an angelic past. Forgiving is no problem, love. It's forgetting that's the hard part'

  'What can I do to make you forget?'

  'Nothing. I don't think I ever will.' He gave a small shrug of his shoulders, then reached down to take a can of Miller Lite from the ice bucket by his side and popped the ring-pull. 'The question is, can we live with it, with what we know about each other?'

  'I can,' she answered, 'if I know that in spite of it all you still care about me.'

  'I do. That's not in question. Plus, I was a lone parent for most of Alex's childhood; I don't really want our three to have that experience.'

  'So you'll stay with me for the kids, is that what you're saying?'

  'Not entirely, but that's a pretty solid reason.'

  'Maybe it isn't for me, though. I'm lonely, Bob. Consciously or not, you've distanced yourself from me; and it's not just because of Ron. It happened before that… in fact Ron and I probably happened because of it. You don't realise it, but I've been really lost. I was going crazy back home, waiting for you to unbend and show me some real affection. Eventually I had to do something dra
stic: that's why I ran off here and challenged you to follow me.'

  He laughed softly, then took a mouthful of beer. 'Fine,' he said. 'Let it all be my fault, then.'

  Something in his tone made Sarah's eyes narrow. 'It doesn't cut both ways, does it?' she asked. The question seemed to come from out of nowhere, taking him by surprise. A simple snapped 'No!' would have dismissed it, but it hung in the air for a second; a second too long.

  'Bob?' She swung her feet off the railing and turned half round in her chair. 'Have you been with someone else?'

  'No,' he replied at last, but she had fastened on to his hesitation.

  'No?' Her eyes were narrow.

  'No, I have not been with anyone else ... certainly not in the Ron Neidholm sense.'

  'In what sense, then?' The sudden coldness of her tone seemed to be intensified by the warmth of the sub-tropical evening.

  You want me to be completely honest? Okay. I met someone recently,' he said carefully. 'I find myself attracted to her, and I think it's mutual, but that's as far as it's gone.'

  'Someone at work?'

  'Not in the force, but someone I encountered recently, in a professional situation.'

  'Not a suspect, surely,' Sarah exclaimed, sarcastically. 'You didn't see a hooker and get the hots, did you?'

  'Don't be silly. I meet a lot of people in my work without feeling their collars.'

  'It wasn't her collar I was asking about!'

  'Very funny,' he muttered, unsmiling. 'As I said, there was an attraction, mutual and inescapable, but no more than that. There might have been, but I didn't… we didn't… because it wouldn't have been right'

  'But the attraction is still there.' There was no question in her tone.

  'I'm here, am I not?'

  'You wouldn't take that evasion from a suspect, so don't try it with me.'

  'Yes, it's still there.'