Murder in the Merchant City

by Angus McAllister

  ‘The old man thinks your idea’s shite,’ he told the little bastard.

  ‘What idea was that?’

  ‘The Kane’s Knuts proposal, what the hell do you think?’

  ‘I thought that was your idea.’

  ‘Don’t get cute with me. He’s thrown it in the bin, where it belongs. I don’t know why I bother listening to you.’

  Anderson said nothing, but gave him that look that so infuriated Martin. The look seemed to say, ‘It’s because you don’t have any ideas of your own.’ The insolent bastard! Martin filled with rage, as if the words had actually been spoken. ‘Have you got nothing else to say?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I have. I’m fed up with your fucking attitude. It’s time you realised who runs things here. I do. It’s my name on the letterhead, my name on the wall outside. Got that?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Well, it’s about bloody time.’ Martin continued to rant on for several minutes. Anderson just stood there and said nothing.

  When Martin eventually paused, Anderson said, ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ve got work to do if you haven’t.’

  After all the shit he had to take from Rose and his father, it was good to find someone he could let loose on. It was a pity that Anderson didn’t react more, instead of just keeping his mouth shut in that smug, smartass way. He thought he had the old man in his pocket, that was it. Well, Martin would see about that! Just wait until his father retired, or croaked, then the bugger would find out who was boss.

  He got more satisfaction later on by yelling at the sixteen-yearold intern and reducing her to tears. By the time he was ready to set off on his afternoon rounds, he was almost content. Then, on his way out he went to the toilet and found that someone had written a message on the plaster wall, in big letters, using a felt-tipped pen:

  MARTIN KANE IS A USELESS KNUT

  That bastard Anderson! Except that it didn’t look like his handwriting. Martin realised that it could have been any one of half a dozen men from the factory floor. One of them came in as Martin was still trying to obliterate the message with his ballpoint. ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’ Martin snarled at him.

  He was still in an evil mood as he drove off. If it wasn’t Anderson, how did anyone else know about his secret project? Even his father had just found out about it. Whoever it was, Anderson must have put him up to it. He’d get to the bottom of it all right and sort the bugger out.

  He had left sharply, shortly after twelve, and for lunch made do with a snack en route so that he could start early on his rounds. This was his usual way of stealing some free time for himself later in the afternoon.

  The first half of the afternoon was frustrating, with several West End pub managers remaining obstinately blind to the merits of Kane’s Kola and Kane’s Krisps. But what did you expect when the old man kept refusing to let them extend into tonic water or ginger ale, or any of the other soft drinks you needed for the licensed trade market? The problem was, his father wasn’t really interested in that market. He didn’t see its potential, as Martin did.

  Then, when he was about to give up the afternoon as a dead loss, he managed to find a corruptible manager in a Byres Road pub. In return for an envelope of banknotes, which Martin had in readiness, he took a trial order of Krisps and Kola. The day was beginning to improve.

  It was still only three thirty, and out of the slush money that would appear in his expense account under a suitable euphemism, Martin had saved a little for himself. Money that Rose, with her formidable mastery of the family finances, would never know about. It was time for some well-earned relaxation. He set off for the Merchant City.

  The woman at the front desk confirmed that there were three girls working that afternoon: Annette, Candy and Justine. The first two he’d had before, but the third was a new name to him. Candy, he knew, was definitely tasty, but she was with a customer. He’d had Annette last time; she had a certain appeal, with her innocent, nice-girl-next-door looks, belying the fact that she was just a bloody whore like the rest of them. But when he entered the lounge Annette pointedly ignored him, continuing to stare at the TV as if no one had arrived. Rude bitch!

  But this all became irrelevant when he saw Justine. She was easily the best of the three. Younger than the other two and definitely a cut above them. The best-looking girl he’d ever seen in the place, with the possible exception of the one called Miranda. And there were no other customers around to jump in before him, like that bastard last time.

  She even acknowledged his arrival with a nice smile and got him a drink, chatting away as she did. That was a pity, as she was more impressive with her mouth shut. He drank his juice quickly and went off with her before any rivals had time to appear.

  She continued to talk crap as she took him to the cabin and after she had returned to give him his massage. He should have known better. Some of them might seem classy, but you had to keep remembering that this was an illusion; they couldn’t be quite normal, or they wouldn’t be working in such a place. In her case it was obviously because she was too thick to do anything else.

  She rubbed oil into his back as if she were kneading a piece of dough. Didn’t she know that a massage was supposed to be an erotic experience, for Christ’s sake? As she punished his body, she gabbled on and on, telling him about her fucking daughter and her fucking house for about the third time. Then she said, ‘Are you married, Martin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you got any kids?’

  ‘I’ve got a daughter.’

  ‘Is that right? That’s amazin’! Just like me.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I mean, she’s a bit older.’

  ‘Oh aye. Would ye like to turn on your front?’

  He turned over, and she put more oil on her hands, beginning to pummel his chest. ‘What age is your daughter, Martin?’

  ‘Ten. Can we talk about something else?’

  ‘Oh aye, if ye like.’ With hardly a pause, she switched into another routine of shite from her seemingly endless repertoire. Martin felt the annoyances and frustrations of the day, which had earlier begun to ease, descend upon him fourfold.

  Eventually, interrupting her in full flood – there was no other way to get a word in – he said, ‘Are you going to take your clothes off?’

  She looked taken aback. ‘Oh aye, of course, if you like. Were ye wantin’ somethin’ extra?’

  ‘No, I just came in for the massage. You’ve got such a nice light touch.’ She regarded him uncertainly. ‘What the hell do you think?’

  She looked at him blankly. God, she was dim. At least he had shut her up for the time being. Then she said, ‘What would ye like?’

  He thought of asking for oral – that would muzzle her for a while – but then thought better of it. If she showed the same degree of skill as she did with the massage, she’d probably bite it off. ‘How much do you charge for a fuck?’ he asked.

  She was looking increasingly unhappy, but gave him a price. ‘OK,’ he said, and gave her a nice smile, a reward for shutting off that godawful babble. ‘Why don’t you take your clothes off, there’s a good girl.’

  She smiled happily, pathetically reassured by his apparent change of mood. She began slowly to unbutton her white coat.

  Then – would she never learn? – she started up all over again. ‘A lot of married men come here, you’d be amazed. I cannae understand why, do they no’ get it at home? Is that the case wi’ you, Martin? Does your wife know you come here? I don’t suppose she does. You know I don’t think that’s fair, wi’ you havin’ a daughter an’ all. What’ll she think when she grows up if she finds out that . . . ?’

  Justine broke off as Martin pushed himself up into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side of the massage table. ‘What the fuck’s that got to do with you?’

  Justine took a step back, her coat half unbuttoned. She now looked serio
usly alarmed, the fact that she had overstepped the mark having at last registered. Unfortunately, she reacted by resuming her babble, now speeded up and tinged with hysteria.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didnae mean anythin’ by it, I was just tryin’ tae be friendly. I like tae have a good blether wi’ the customers, it’s nice tae be nice, I didnae mean tae be rude, honest, I’m sorry, I mean—’

  Martin drew his arm back, and slapped her face hard with the back of his hand. ‘For Christ’s sake, shut up!’

  She did.

  Martin felt a surge of elation that he had not expected. He imagined that it was his wife Rose in front of him, and hit Justine again, and again, this time using his fists. Then, before she could recover from the initial surprise and begin to scream, he put his hand over her mouth.

  ‘If you make a fucking sound, I’ll kill you. Got it? Got it?’ Justine nodded, and he took his hand away. She whimpered a little but otherwise was quiet. He found that he was sexually aroused. What do you know? He took hold of her white coat and pulled it fully open, ripping off the buttons.

  ‘Take off the rest of your clothes and lie down on the table.’

  He hit her a few more times for good measure, then he pinned her down, climbed on the table and yanked her legs apart.

  18

  Consequences

  ‘Did you hear about Sylvia?’ Annette asked.

  ‘What about her?’ said Candy.

  ‘Edna gave her the push. She found heroin in her handbag.’

  ‘Stupid bitch. When was this?’

  ‘Sunday. I doubt if the stuff was even for her. It would be for that arsehole she lives with.’

  ‘Still, she shoulda known better. She knows what Edna’s like.’

  It was true. Edna’s practice of periodically searching her employees’ effects was not one of her more endearing qualities, but it was well enough known. Not that they entirely blamed her. The presence of drugs was the one thing guaranteed to attract the police, and no one wanted that.

  ‘What do you think she’ll do?’ asked Annette.

  ‘Mibbe she’ll get a job in the Boiler Hoose. I don’t suppose Edna found anything on Miranda?’

  ‘No such luck.’

  ‘What does she dae wi’ all that money she earns?’

  ‘What do you do with all yours? I guess Miranda’s husband gets some of hers.’

  ‘She’s married?’

  ‘Oh aye. I’ve met him.’

  ‘Does he know what she does?’

  ‘He certainly does. She says he’s cool about it.’

  ‘You mean he doesnae like it?’ said Candy.

  ‘No, he’s relaxed about it. He doesn’t seem to mind.’

  On their first shift together after Annette had met Miranda’s husband, Miranda had briefly confided this much, as if she felt some explanation was necessary. Then she had resumed her usual reticence, and her husband Derek had not been mentioned since.

  ‘What’s he like?’ asked Candy.

  ‘Just like her, only male.’

  ‘Fucksake,’ said Candy. ‘Well, at least she’s better aff than Sylvia. If ye’re gonnae be stuck wi’ an arsehole, he might as well be a high-class one. Who got Sylvia’s place on the Monday shift, by the way?’

  ‘Claudia.’

  Candy laughed. ‘Well, that’s good news. You should pick up mair of Miranda’s leftovers.’

  ‘Thanks a lot. Claudia does all right.’

  ‘Aye, but fae her regulars. She knows they’ll follow her tae the new slot. They’d show up at five on a Sunday mornin’ if she told them to.’

  ‘She’d probably get a bigger turnout,’ said Annette. ‘She’s a strange one, Claudia. I don’t know what to make of her.’

  ‘Dae ye understand Hitler?’

  ‘Obviously some punters like her style. The trouble is, with her it isn’t an act. She really does hate the customers. All of them. Why do you think that is?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Candy. ‘Maybe she was abused when she was a wee girl. Maybe she’s a butch dyke an’ she just hates men. Who cares?’

  ‘I mean the punters are just human beings, like the rest of us. They’re all different. Some of them are bastards – like that one who’s in with Justine. Some of them are just pathetic. But there’s nice ones as well.’

  ‘Why do I get the feelin’ that this is leadin’ up tae somethin’?’ Candy asked.

  Candy could sometimes be quite astute. Annette realised that she was blushing. ‘You know that guy Jack who comes in here?’

  ‘Your boyfriend?’

  ‘Aye, well . . . He’s asked me out. On a date.’

  ‘Great. Will I get an invite tae the weddin’?’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m the one bein’ daft,’ said Candy. ‘Has he got money? Is he gonnae whisk ye away tae a life of luxury?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘So he’s just fed up payin’ for it. He thinks he can get you tae do the business for nothin’.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘Or you could offer him a cheaper rate if you cut oot the middle woman. Just as long as Edna doesnae find oot.’

  ‘You make it sound really sordid.’

  ‘No, just stupid. At least you’ll no’ need tae worry aboot him findin’ out what you do. I think he might have twigged already.’

  Annette was wishing that she had never raised the subject. She was supposed to be the sensible one, Candy the scatterbrain, and now Candy was giving her advice. It was probably good advice too.

  A customer arrived and soon had gone off with Candy. It was now after four thirty. Annette hadn’t noticed any other new arrivals. Maybe she would get one more customer, maybe not, but either way it hadn’t been a bad day. She made herself a cup of coffee and sat down opposite the lounge door, which gave her a view down the corridor.

  She wondered how Justine was getting on with that bastard, the one called Martin. She had disobeyed one of her own rules that afternoon and totally ignored him. Normally she did her best to make the customers feel welcome: it was good manners as well as good business. But in his case she was happy to make an exception.

  Just then she noticed him appear from the direction of the changing room and hurry off down the corridor. That was odd. If he’d had time to get dressed, maybe even have a shower, then Justine should have reappeared by now. Maybe she was taking a shower. That had been her own impulse after a session with Martin.

  A few moments later, when Justine still hadn’t showed, Annette decided to investigate. She checked the shower area, the toilets, even the sauna and steam room, but they were all deserted. So was the changing room. Maybe Justine had met a punter in the corridor and gone back into the cabin with him. That sometimes happened, but if so she should have told Moira at the front desk. Annette went down the corridor to check.

  ‘Did Justine go in with another customer?’ she asked Moira. ‘Apart from the guy who’s just left?’

  ‘No. Why, did you think she was skippin’ the queue?’

  ‘No.’ Annette couldn’t be bothered explaining and went back up the corridor to the cabins. Why was she hesitating? Damn it, if Justine was with a customer, the door would be locked.

  She knocked on the door of Cabin 2. ‘Justine?’

  There was no reply. She tried the handle and the door opened. She went in.

  Justine was alone in the cabin. She was squatting on the floor, naked, her back to the wall, her hands clasped tightly round her knees, weeping quietly. Streaks of mascara ran down each cheek, like some kind of primitive war paint. Blood was flowing from her nose and her mouth. The room, which Justine normally kept in a state of tidiness unequalled by any of the other girls, was in a mess: her white coat lay on a heap on the floor, with half the buttons missing; her underclothes and shoes were scattered about; the towel on top of the massage table was crumpled and bloodstained. On the table, obviously flung there in a hurry, were several banknotes.

  For a moment Annette sto
od in shock, taking in the scene. Then she went into the cabin, having the presence of mind to shut the door after her. In case Candy’s customer should hear anything, she thought, hating herself. ‘Oh, Justine!’ she said, sitting down beside the other girl. At first Justine shrank back, then she let Annette put her arm around her. She winced in pain at the contact and Annette loosened her grip. Justine’s sobs grew louder. ‘Oh, Annette!’ she wailed. ‘Oh, Annette! What am I gonnae dae?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Annette. ‘It’s all right.’ Why do we say such things, she wondered? Obviously it wasn’t all right.

  ‘He . . . He . . .’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘He hit me. He kept hittin’ me. He wouldnae stop. Oh, Annette . . .’ She resumed her sobbing, and winced again when Annette gave her a hug. Obviously a number of bruises would soon be showing. ‘He . . .’ Justine lowered her voice, as if afraid to say the next part. ‘He raped me.’

  ‘The bastard!’

  ‘Oh, Annette, it was awful!’

  ‘I know. I know.’ Annette reached up to the nearby table for a box of tissues. ‘We’d better get you cleaned up.’ She gently wiped the blood and make-up from Justine’s face. The bleeding had slowed down but hadn’t quite stopped.

  Then she got up. ‘Just sit there for a minute.’

  ‘Don’t leave me!’

  ‘I won’t. I’m just going to get help.’

  Annette opened the door. By a piece of luck, Candy was in the corridor. She must have brought her customer to fulfilment in record time, no doubt encouraged by the approaching end of her shift and the many open pubs outside.

  ‘Where is everybody?’ Candy asked.

  ‘Justine’s in here. Her last customer gave her a doing.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s not great. Could you see if Edna’s there?’

  The magical hour of the shift change – and the first cash handover – was almost upon them, and Edna was on the premises. She hurried through to the cabin, full of concern, some of which might have been for Justine. She fussed over her and then, with Annette’s help, got her on her feet and back into her clothes. They had to take it carefully, as every move caused Justine pain. After Candy had been dispatched to check that the coast was clear of customers, they half carried her to the girls’ changing room. Edna produced a first aid box and Justine was cleaned and patched up some more. Then they helped her into her street clothes, a slow and painful procedure.