Agency O

by Tor Fleck

  About twenty minutes later, Richard appeared at Mrs McGilvray’s door.

  ‘Why are the police outside our flat?’

  ‘Somebody broke in,’ said Paul. ‘I thought you were out for the night.’

  ‘What? Oh, that didn’t work out,’ said Richard. ‘I got these though.’ He opened up a large holdall and produced two tartan suits. ‘For our pitch.’

  Paul didn’t respond.

  Mrs McGilvray appeared at Paul’s back. ‘Your flatmate’s in shock, Dick,’ she said. Dick? ‘He’s been attacked.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus. Are you okay?’ Richard laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Paul, forcing a smile. ‘Luckily, Mrs McGilvray heard the banging and when she rang the bell they legged it.’

  ‘There was more than one?’

  ‘Oh aye, son,’ said Mrs McGilvray. ‘There was at least two o’ the wee bastards. One in the flat and one down on the landing, waiting.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Richard. ‘Are you okay, Mrs McGilvray? It must have been terrifying for you.’ It was Richard’s turn to show genuine concern.

  ‘Och, no. They’d soon know all about it if they came near me.’

  Richard didn’t doubt it.

  A CLUMP-CLUMP on the stairs caused all three heads to turn swiftly. A uniformed policewoman appeared at the top of the landing. ‘Mr Grant?’ she asked.

  Paul nodded.

  ‘My name is WPC Betts. Can I come in?’

  The briefest hint of dawn crept through the curtains and into Mrs MGilvray’s 1960s time warp of a living room as four hands reached over the coffee table at the same time and lifted up four mugs of tea.

  WPC Betts took a sip and lowered her mug. She turned to Paul. ‘I need to take a statement from both you and – ?’

  Mrs McGilvray’s smile showed three missing teeth. ‘Mrs Margaret McGilvray,’ she said, reaching out a hand. ‘Here to help.’

  WPC Betts shook Mrs McGilvray’s hand. ‘I’ll take Mr Grant’s statement first, then we’ll do you.’ Margaret nodded. She knew the drill. She’d been interviewed by CID just after her late husband had fallen down the stairs.

  ‘Just when you’re ready,’ PC Betts reassured Paul.

  Paul took a deep breath. Then another.

  ‘Did you get a good look at them?’ Richard interrupted, earning himself a glare from WPC Betts.

  ‘No,’ Paul replied. ‘Just the hat. It was the same flat cap, pulled down over his face.’

  WPC Betts leaned over. ‘You just said, the same flat cap. What do you mean by that?’

  Paul glanced over at Richard. Richard nodded. Paul continued. ‘A couple of weeks ago I was followed home by a man wearing one of those 1930s prohibition-type caps.’

  ‘Oh,’ said WPC Betts, ‘like on that TV show, you mean?’

  ‘Peaky Blinders,’ said Richard.

  ‘That’s the one.’ WPC Betts grinned. ‘My partner loves that show. So, when exactly did this incident occur?’

  Paul mentally worked the dates back. ‘3rd … 11th of ,’ he said. ‘I was coming back from Charing Cross Library. He followed me all the way to the flat.’

  ‘And did you report it?’ WPC Betts scribbled a couple of lines in her notepad.

  ‘No,’ said Paul. ‘I didn’t think much of it.’ Liar. ‘But then a few days later …’

  WPC Betts glanced up. ‘A few days later … what?’

  ‘A few days later I … er …’ Richard was gesturing behind the constable for Paul to shut the fuck up. WPC Betts swivelled round, but she wasn’t fast enough to catch Richard quickly drop his hands by his side.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Paul. ‘I guess I should have reported it at the time.’

  Mrs McGilvray noticed that Paul’s hands were shaking. ‘Drink your tea, son,’ she said, ‘and I’ll get you another biscuit.’ She pulled herself up from her armchair.

  ‘Before you do that, Mrs McGilvray,’ said WPC Betts. ‘Could you tell me what you saw?’

  ‘There were two of them,’ said Margaret. ‘One came running out and nearly knocked me down the stairs. Another was waiting for him on the landing next floor down.’

  ‘Did you see their faces at all?’

  ‘As Mr Grant said, one was hiding under his hat. The other was wearing a balaclava. I’ll give him balaclava!’ Margaret’s lips tightened at the thought of painful retribution.

  ‘So they were both male?’ WPC Betts asked.

  ‘I really don’t know,’ Margaret admitted. ‘I didn’t have my glasses on.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs McGilvray,’ WPC Betts smiled. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  Margaret nodded again. They’d said the thing same after her late husband’s death.

  WPC Betts turned back to Paul. ‘Just one more thing. Has anything been stolen from the property?’

  ‘I didn’t get a chance to look,’ said Paul. ‘I came straight over here.’

  ‘I’ll go and check,’ Richard offered, and rose from his chair. When he was gone, WPC Betts cleared her throat.

  ‘Have you lost a set of keys recently?’

  Paul pulled a laden key-ring from his pocket. ‘Nope.’

  ‘You see,’ said WPC Betts, ‘there’s no sign of forced entry.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Are you in the habit of leaving your door unlocked?’

  ‘In Glasgow? Are you kidding?’

  Richard poked his head back in. ‘I can’t see anything missing.’

  Paul turned to his friend. ‘Have you got your keys?’

  Richard checked his trouser pockets, front and back. Nothing. He checked his coat. Nothing. Lastly, he unzipped the holdall lying at his feet. Again, nothing. Confused, he felt around his trousers again. ‘I seem to have …’

  Paul let out a long frustrated sigh.

  ‘It would appear the intruder or intruders may have used your key to enter the property,’ said WPC Betts.

  ‘But I had them earlier,’ Richard protested. ‘Oh god,’ he said, a hand flying to his mouth.

  ‘What?’ asked Paul, fearing the worst.

  ‘I was over at the theatre I used to work at, you know, trying on some suits. I know a girl who works in props.’ Richard paused, thinking back. ‘I tried on a couple. Then we went for a drink – oh, shit.’

  ‘Oh shit what?’

  ‘I think I might have left them in the pub.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ exclaimed Mrs McGilvray, causing the other three to stare at her in astonishment. ‘I mean … which pub?’

  ‘The Beehive.’ Richard stole a look at Mrs McGilvray’s bouffant. ‘You know, at the back of Buchanan Street Bus Station.’

  ‘That’ll do for now,’ WPC Betts said, rising to her feet. ‘Oh, just one more question. Do you have contents insurance?’ Paul and Richard looked at each other blankly. ‘No,’ they said in unison.

  Okay,’ said WPC Betts, tucking her notebook into her top pocket. ‘Probably just as well. An unlocked door and hastily damaged goods would probably invalidate your claim anyway.’ She looked at Paul and Richard through narrowed eyes, as though she knew they were hiding something. ‘I think we have everything we need for now. If anything else pops into your head …’ She continued with the hard stare ‘… even if you don’t think it’s relevant … pop into the station, or give us a ring. In the meantime …’ She stuck her cap on her head and adjusted it. ‘… I suggest you review your home security arrangements and change the locks on your front door.’

  After WPC Betts had gone, Paul turned to Mrs McGilvray and smiled. ‘You’ve been very kind,’ he said.

  ‘Och, away with you,’ said Margaret. ‘But as for that friend of yours over there …’

  Back in the flat, Richard found Paul propping the bathroom door up against the wall. ‘I really am sorry about the keys, mate,’ he said. Paul turned to face him and growled. ‘You were scoring some blow, weren’t you? Don’t deny it. That’s what they do in the bloody Beehive.’

  No answer from Richard.
He couldn’t deny it.

  ‘And that was why you didn’t want to tell the copper about the assault.’

  Richard tried to squirm his way out of it. ‘I just didn’t want to complicate things,’ he said. ‘You know, with the script.’ He grabbed Paul’s arm. ‘Jesus, The script! Was it on your computer?’

  ‘The script!’ Paul roared. ‘Fuck sake, is that all you can think about? I could have been fucking killed tonight.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a drama queen,’ said Richard. ‘A couple of druggies broke in looking for skank money and legged it the minute Hell’s Granny arrived.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Paul. ‘If it wasn’t for Margaret – ’

  ‘Oh, it’s Margaret, now, is it? When’s the wedding?’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  RAT-A-TAT-TAT!

  ‘Aha! Perfect timing,’ sneered Richard as he headed out the room. ‘It’s never too early to discuss seating arrangements.’ He threw open the front door.

  It wasn’t Mrs McGilvray who stood in the doorway facing Richard. Not unless someone had pumped her full of helium and dark net steroids in the past five minutes. Whoever it was stood in his own obese shadow, leaning against the door-frame and blocking out most of the light from the landing. His neck was slick with sweat, his breath heavy and rasping from the climb up the stairs. It was all he could do to flash his badge. ‘Inspector Quinn, CID,’ he wheezed. ‘Can I have a word?’

  Richard stared at the inspector for a moment, trying to take in the entirety of him. ‘Why not?’ he said sarcastically, and stood back. ‘Come in and join the party.’ Inspector Quinn straightened up, wiped his feet on the mat, and stepped into the flat.

  ‘Paul!’ shouted Richard. ‘We’ve got a visitor. Inspector Quinn from CID. All we need now is the Police Commissioner and we’ve got the whole set!”

  ‘I’m just following up on your break-in earlier this evening,’ Quinn told Paul when he appeared. The Inspector spoke with a strange mid-Atlantic accent, somewhere between Glasgow and New Jersey.

  ‘Follow up?’ Richard asked. ‘Already?’

  Quinn wiped his sweaty forehead with a large, heavily-stained handkerchief. ‘We have a few loose ends, Mr Gann.’

  Richard tilted his head. ‘How’d you know my name?’

  ‘I’ve been briefed on what happened, sir.’

  ‘Bit OTT for CID to be involved in a run-of-the-mill break-in, isn’t it?’ asked Richard.

  ‘Let him speak,’ snapped Paul.

  Quinn shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

  ‘Would you like to sit down, Inspector?’ Paul offered.

  ‘Do you have a hard-back chair? Quinn asked. ‘I’m not on good terms with sofas.’

  Paul brought a chair in from the kitchen, which Quinn cautiously lowered himself onto. The frame creaked ominously as his buttocks spread across the seat and down over the sides like lava. ‘Thank you,’ he said, looking even more uncomfortable than he had a moment before.

  ‘You said loose ends,’ Paul prompted. ‘Which ones exactly?’ He glanced down with horror at the Inspector’s over-stretched and visibly stained underpants, which seemed to be trying to climb out from the crack of his arse.

  ‘Do you have any enemies, Mr Grant?’ Quinn asked.

  Paul hesitated. He’d just seen what looked like a squashed chip stuck to the end of the detective’s dangling coat-tail.

  ‘Only his mother,’ Richard cut in, with a fake laugh.

  Quinn turned, with monumental difficulty, to Richard. ‘And what about you, Mr Gann?’ he asked. ‘Anyone harbouring a grudge against you? Someone you’ve maybe crossed swords with recently?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Richard. ‘I’m pretty much universally loved.’

  Paul rolled his eyes.

  ‘And what about your film project?’ asked Quinn. ‘How’s that going?’

  Paul took a step forward. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘The “I” in CID is there for a reason, Mr Grant,’ Quinn smiled. ‘It stands for ‘Intelligence’.’

  ‘You mean “Investigation”,’ Paul corrected.

  ‘You seem to have quite a following on social media,’ Quinn continued. ‘A haven for trolls and the like. Or so I’m led to believe.’

  ‘Look,’ Richard interrupted. ‘What’s this about? My flatmate’s been through a traumatic experience tonight. He’s not up to any more questions.’

  ‘You don’t think there’s a connection between your break-in this evening and what you’re up to online?’ asked Quinn, pulling the waistband of his pants rapidly up and down in an effort to alleviate an itch on his arsehole.

  ‘We’re not “up to” anything,’ Richard protested. ‘The two things are unrelated.’

  Paul threw up a hand. ‘Stop!’ he yelled. ‘Just stop.’ He turned to Quinn. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. My friend is a knob. Please ignore him. He won’t go away, but at least you won’t have to look at him.’

  Quinn smiled. ‘Is there something you’d like to tell me, Mr Grant?’

  Paul drew in a breath. ‘We’ve had a number of death threats. Online, and by email.’

  ‘Unrelated,’ Richard repeated, shaking his head.

  Paul carried on. ‘A couple of weeks ago, Richard was attacked. And we think it was the same person who’d followed me earlier that week.’

  ‘My flatmate is misinformed,’ said Richard. ‘Yes, I was attacked, but it was likely the consequence of a heated conversation I’d had in the pub earlier that evening.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ said Paul. ‘What about the cap?’

  ‘An unfortunate coincidence,’ Richard insisted.

  Paul shook his head. ‘You’re unbelievable. Next you’ll be saying tonight wasn’t a real break-in.’

  ‘What was the name of the pub?’ Quinn interrupted.

  ‘I can’t remember,’ Richard lied, looking away.

  ‘Could you describe what happened?’ asked Quinn, his patience waning. ‘Or have you forgotten that as well?’

  Richard held Quinn’s stare for a moment before lowering his gaze. ‘I was walking home,’ he said. ‘Someone pushed me to the ground and started beating the crap out of me. I managed to escape before any serious harm was done. End of.’

  ‘And what time was this?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Richard with a smirk. ‘My watch was covered in blood.’

  ‘It was around midnight,’ said Paul. ‘I was up working when I heard Richard come in.’

  ‘And did you get an ID on your assailant?’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Richard. ‘Why are you are so interested in something completely unconnected to tonight?’

  A bead of sweat dripped off Quinn’s nose. ‘It’s important for us to establish a clear and accurate picture,’ he said, ‘to assist in any subsequent investigation.’

  ‘Woah, wait a minute!’ said Richard, holding his hands out. ‘Investigation? I don’t want to be investigated.’

  Quinn eyed Richard suspiciously. ‘I’m not suggesting you’re under investigation, Mr Gann,’ he said. ‘Like I said, I’m just tying up a few loose ends.’

  ‘Calm down, Richard,’ said Paul. ‘The Inspector’s only doing his job.’ He turned to Quinn. ‘So, do you think this is all connected to our videos and the script?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to discuss any ongoing investigation,’ said Quinn, trying to stand up, ‘but you can rest assured …’ His body teetered dangerously to one side. ‘… that we are looking into all aspects of the case.’ Quinn’s arms spun like windmills as his legs gave out and he crashed back down onto the chair. THUD! Frustrated, he looked up at Richard and Paul. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll keep you informed of any developments.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Richard. ‘You can’t just come in here and allude to some so-called wider investigation and then just leave it at that. If we’re in danger, we should know.’

  ‘Whoever’s doing this wants us to take it all down and delete our files,’ said Paul. ‘Are you saying that’s what we should do
?’

  ‘Let’s just say the case is close to completion,’ replied Quinn, ‘so it’s more a matter of sitting tight.’ He made an embarrassingly poor second attempt at leaving his chair.

  ‘Let me,’ said Paul, offering Quinn his arm. Quinn batted it away and pushed himself up with an almighty groan. Finally on his feet, he took a moment to make sure he wasn’t going to fall back down again. ‘Sit tight for now,’ he said. ‘If anything changes, call me.’

  ‘So that’s it?’ said Richard, throwing his arms up. ‘Sit tight?’

  ‘That’s right. Do nothing for now. I’ll be in touch.’ Quinn shuffled to the door.

  Richard shook his head. ‘Unbelievable. You come in here and tell us we’re being stalked, then expect us just to “sit tight”?’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ asked Paul. ‘Isn’t it all “unrelated”?’

  ‘It’s not that, it’s him.’ Richard pointed to Quinn. ‘With all his scare-mongering shite.’

  Quinn turned to Paul. ‘You can sleep tight, Mr Grant. Everything’s in hand.’

  Paul walked Quinn to the door. ‘What if this guy comes back?’ he asked. Quinn stopped and looked Paul straight in the eye. ‘It’s important that for now, you hold your nerve. You understand?’ Paul nodded. Quinn turned and headed down the stairs, gripping the bannister tight. ‘And tell your shit-for-brains friend to cool the beans!’ he bellowed over his shoulder. ‘I can’t guarantee his safety.’

  In the morning, Richard knocked quietly on Paul’s door. There was no reply. He tried again.

  ‘Piss off!’

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ said Richard, his ear against the door. ‘Can I come in?’ Heavy footsteps thudded across the room. Suddenly the door was flung open and Richard almost fell into Paul’s arms.

  ‘What do you want?’ growled Paul, pushing his friend away.

  Richard straightened up and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a half-folded A4 sheet of paper and stuck it in Paul’s face. Paul took an instinctive step back and grabbed the paper. Unfolding it, he read it to himself, his lips moving silently. When he’d finished, he looked up at Richard in fear. ‘When did you get this?’

  Richard reached back into his pocket and pulled out a second sheet of paper, similarly folded. ‘That one was last Saturday. This one – ’ He handed Paul the second sheet. ‘ – I got on Tuesday.’