Designer Crime

by Allen Whitehead

  'Come on,' Joe snapped. 'We ought to get out of here. They might have some more mates.'

  He glanced round at Tam, who was still on his knees, gasping for air. Striding across to him, he picked up the metal bar and then the knife, throwing them into a bin full of restaurant waste. Fraser winced as Joe put an arm around him and helped him to his feet.

  'Have you got a broken rib?'

  'I don't know. I don’t think so. I think it’s just bruised, but it’s going to be bloody sore tomorrow.'

  They began to make their way to Rose Street, but Joe suddenly stopped and ran back to the knife man, who was still lying motionless in the road.

  'Hey you,' he said, shaking his shoulders. 'Speak to me. Are you all right?'

  The man blinked and groaned. He rolled sideways and spat, blood streaming from his nose.

  Joe got up and ran back to Fraser.

  'What was that all about? He tried to fucking kill you.'

  'Yeah, I know, but I could have killed him too. The last thing we need is for him to choke on blood or his own tongue – I think I’ve broken his nose. Anyway, he’s coming round now, so we ought to make ourselves scarce.'

  They walked, as quickly as Fraser was able, into Frederick Street.

  Joe walked up to a taxi that was parked against the kerb. 'Can you take us home?'

  'What’s up wi’ him?' said the driver, looking suspiciously at Fraser who was holding his side. Blood was also running down his cheek, from the small but deep cut below his eye. 'He’s not going to puke in ma taxi. I’ve had enough of that.'

  'No, I’m ……' Fraser began, and then he stopped, holding on to a litter bin to steady himself. He leaned forward and was violently sick in the gutter.

  'Piss off,' said the taxi driver, starting his engine. 'I’m not taking him anywhere.'

  He put the vehicle into gear, and set off quickly towards George Street.

  'I’ll be all right now,' Fraser smiled weakly.

  They walked down to Princes Street and Joe waved at another taxi coming towards them. It pulled up beside them.

  'Can you take us home. My friend’s been ill, but he’s going to be all right now.'

  'Yeah. Must have been something I ate,' muttered Fraser.

  'Aye,' replied the driver, knowingly. 'It’s amazing how many people suffer from bad food. I see them all the time. Where is it you’re going' pal?'

  'Bruntsfield, isn’t it, Fraser?'

  'Near enough. It’s Warrender Park Terrace.'

  It wasn’t a long journey, and Fraser began to make a good recovery. When the taxi stopped, he reached into his pocket for his wallet.

  'I’ll get it,' said Joe.

  'Will you hell! After what you did for me tonight? No way …... the least I can do is pay to get us home. Look, Joe … I’d invite you to come in for a coffee or something, but I know that as soon as Laura sees what I look like she’ll blow a fuse … You’ll catch the flak too, ‘cos she’ll blame you as well as me, so another time, eh?'

  'Sure. It’s cool, man. Look after yourself though, and if you think that you might have concussion or a cracked rib or something, don’t mess about. Get to see a doc, okay?'

  'Yeah, I will. Thanks again, Joe. I’ll see you in the morning.'

  * * *

  Chapter 2 October

  When Fraser arrived at the office, he found that Paul was already there, making himself a cup of coffee. He cursed under his breath, because he had hoped to get there first, and begin work in his studio in the basement. He'd wanted to postpone the embarrassing questions that would inevitably arise when his colleagues saw how he looked. One side of his face had swollen and his right eye was half-closed – a deep, rich, plum colour and he had a plaster covering the cut on his cheekbone. There was also a long graze above his other eye, extending round and up his temple. Concealed beneath his shirt, his body was covered in extensive areas of bruising and tenderness, and he was thankful that these were not also visible.

  Paul was an energetic 34 years old, who could still be persuaded to turn out for his local rugby club, and who had, a dozen years earlier, been a useful scrum half, playing at county level and once in a Varsity Match for Cambridge against Oxford. He was also an early riser, and he adhered to the common principle that people who live furthest from their place of work always arrive first, whereas those who live just around the corner inevitably arrive, breathless, ten minutes after everyone else.

  'Bloody hell, man. Whatever happened to you?' he said.

  'I fell over,' muttered Fraser.

  'Like hell, you did. Come on, what happened? You look like you got hit by a truck.'

  'Last night, in the pub, me and Joe had a difference of opinion with a couple of head-bangers,' he said ruefully.

  'Is Joe all right?'

  'All right! Is he all right! I’m telling you, Paul, Joe just about saved my life last night. There were these two guys beating the shit out of me with an iron bar when he took them on. He flattened the guy with the iron bar in about ten seconds. Then the other one went for him with a knife. He never backed off though. Cool as you like ... He just ignored it, did his impression of Bruce Lee, and a minute later the guy was out cold in the gutter. It was bloody amazing; I’ve never seen anything like it – except in films, and that’s just acting. He was for real. I've heard people talk about karate and that, but I’ve never really thought about it. Seriously – I’ve seen one or two street fights in my time, but I’ve never, ever, seen anyone fight like Joe – he was something else.'

  'Well, it doesn’t altogether surprise me. You remember when he came down from Aberdeen for his interview?'

  'Yeah?'

  'Well, he showed his drawings to me and Neil, and we were both pretty impressed. I think we'd more or less decided that we were going to offer him a job there and then, but we carried on chatting for a bit, and Neil asked him what interests he had outside of Architecture. He said that karate was the way he lived his life, and being an architect helped him to do that, by paying the bills. He said that one day he planned to build a beautiful, traditional dojo, to teach others karate in, and he'd invite the world’s best instructors to come to teach him and his group, in the spirit of the finest Japanese masters.

  It all seemed rather strange to us, but he’d given us a couple of references, so I followed up on them. They both said good things about him, and one of them went on to talk a bit about his karate. It seems that three years ago he was selected, one of three, to represent Scotland in an international competition in Tokyo. In the individual combat, a Canadian guy, who reached the semi-finals, eliminated him in the third round. But in the kata competition, Joe came runner up in the whole tournament. Some of the other competitors thought that he should have won, but the Japanese think that no one else can compete at their level, so it was pretty much a foregone conclusion that it would be a Japanese guy who would win in Tokyo. So I learned then that he’s pretty damn good – our Joe. So how did you two get into the fight?'

  Fraser ignored the question. 'Kata, what’s that then?'

  'I didn’t know, either, so I looked it up on the net. Seems it’s the traditional method of teaching karate; a kind of series of exercises and techniques that have been handed down through the generations. They use all different types of moves that have been developed over the centuries, and as the students progress, the kata get harder and more complicated. At the same time, their movements get more flowing and beautiful – a bit like a kind of martial arts ballet. That's what I read and it seems that’s what Joe’s striving for.'

  'I don’t know about flowing and beautiful, but I’m bloody glad it was effective, I can tell you. And you know what? Bugger me if he didn’t go back to the guy that tried to cut his guts open, to check that he was okay. If he hadn’t been, I think he would have called an ambulance, and arranged for him to be taken to hospital himself!'

  The door opened and Bob Dixon came in. He was a tall, good-looking twenty-three years old architecture student who was getting wor
k experience with the practice.

  'Been fighting with the missus again, Fraser?'

  'Bugger off!' he replied, wincing as he tried to smile.

  * * *

  It was around half past ten when Joe arrived at the office. He had gone straight from his flat to the site of a small housing association development, which was under construction in West Calder. It was his usual, weekly inspection visit, and although there were no real problems, the site foreman had kept him talking for a while.

  'Hi Ali,' he said, taking off his coat, and hanging it up. 'Is Fraser in?'

  'Yes, he's in the downstairs studio. He's been singing your praises all morning; claims that you saved his life, last night.'

  Alison Kay, the practice receptionist, typist and general Jill-of-all-trades, was a popular member of the staff. She was a plain, stocky woman of forty-seven, but she had a very attractive, husky voice. Paul once said that her sexy voice when answering the telephone was worth at least two new projects a year to the company.

  'I don't know about that,' Joe replied. 'He's probably been exaggerating a bit. You know what he's like?'

  'Yes, but its not like Fraser to give the credit for anything to someone else. You obviously impressed him. We've all been admiring his black eye.'

  'I thought, last night, that he'd probably look a bit worse for wear, today. He was lucky if he didn't get any broken bones.'

  'Well, I know where to come if I need a bodyguard, anyway,' Alison purred, looking at him from under lowered eyelids.

  'Aye, well, I don't think that you'll need one as much as he did,' he smiled.

  He poured himself a mug of coffee and carried it down to the basement studio, where Fraser was seated in front of a computer terminal.

  'Hi, Fraser. What sort of reception did you get from Laura last night?'

  'Oh, hi, Joe. Oohh ... bloody awful, man. She nearly had a hernia. Says I'm grounded until I learn to behave myself. I think, really, she was a bit scared when she saw all the blood on my face. I didn't think that I looked so bad, until I saw myself in the mirror this morning.'

  'I've seen worse. The swelling will go down in a couple of days. The bruising will take a bit longer, though – maybe a couple of weeks.'

  'I've got to thank you again, man. You were brilliant, last night.'

  'It's okay.'

  'Some of the others knew about your karate, but I didn't. Do you practice a lot?'

  'Sam and me have started a class on a Thursday evening – in a primary school in Bruntsfield. I train there too, as well as teach. And I do some stretching and exercises at home most evenings, and also if I'm out running, I try to fit in one or two kata as well.'

  'So Sam does karate as well?'

  'Oh, yeah. 'Course she'd have to, married to me. Actually she's quite keen, although she hasn't been practising as long as I have. She's a brown belt – 2nd kyu.'

  'What about yourself. What belt are you?'

  'I'm a 3rd degree black belt. Most people would say “3rd dan”.'

  'That's pretty good isn't it?'

  'It depends what company you're in. Some guys who've dedicated their lives to karate have attained 8th degree or even higher. So in that respect, I'm still a learner.'

  'But could you teach someone like me to beat up people the way you took out those guys last night?'

  'No way! Karate doesn't teach you how to beat up people. The teaching is all about self-discipline, and self-defence. Besides, the Courts take a very dim view of people, trained in martial arts, hurting other people. It’s the same with boxers or ex-servicemen. You've got to realise that the two guys last night were amateurs, and they were pretty inept.'

  'They seemed dangerous enough to me.'

  'They were in their way, but if they had been properly trained to use a knife or a stick, then things could have been very different for me when they took me on.'

  'Paul said something about you being into the spiritual side of karate – what's that about then?'

  'Ah, now you're asking me the secret of life, man. I can only really tell you the way that I feel … It's when movements are fluid and easy; breathing natural and co-ordinated with the movements; and the techniques are delivered slow and forceful or fast with maximum impact. And all this is done without any conscious thought or concentration – you know, a bit like riding a bike without thinking of pedalling, but only being aware of the wind in your hair and the sun on your face. That's when karate is spiritual. But even if you don't ever experience that, it's still great exercise – good for all the muscle groups, and for flexibility. It also teaches respect ... there, that's the full sales pitch!'

  'I've never thought of karate like that.'

  'Most haven't.'

  'Maybe I'll come on a Thursday to take a look. You've got me curious, now.'

  'Great, I'll look forward to seeing you there. It's in the gym hall at the Primary School – starts at half past seven.'

  Russell Weston came down the stairs, carrying four foam presentation boards. A pleasant and amiable student architect, undertaking a year of work experience to help pay for his next period of full-time study, he had collected the boards from the printers, where they had been professionally encapsulated with a thin plastic film. He unwrapped them, laid them out on a table, and then stood back to inspect them.

  He adjusted glasses and peered through them. 'They look cool, don't they? You and Joe did a great job on them.'

  'No, man, it was a team effort,' Fraser replied. 'The Photoshop images that you worked up, give the right impression too. I think that we've made a decent effort between us. You'd better get along to Rutland Square, though. We don't want to miss the deadline for submissions.'

  'I know. Can I borrow your car?'

  Fraser tossed him the keys to his Golf GTi. 'Off you go, then, but don’t get caught speeding along Queen Street!'

  Russell gave a hollow laugh. 'Chance would be a fine thing. It’s nose to tail along there at the moment.'

  'Well, make sure you get there before twelve o'clock. And don’t forget to write “Edinburgh Old Town Re-development Competition” on the outside of the package when you wrap them up again, and make sure that you don’t stick in a compliments slip or anything. The entry mustn’t have anything on it to identify us until after the judging.'

  * * *

  Chapter 3 November

  Paul switched on his computer and opened his e-mail account. Among the twenty two unopened messages was one from the Royal Incorporation of Architects, inviting him to attend the announcement of the results of the Edinburgh Old Town Re-development Competition.

  'Liz – the RIAS have invited me to attend the results of the Old Town competition!' he shouted. 'You know what that means?'

  She smiled. 'I've got one too. It means we must be among the winners. We'll get a commendation at least. That's fantastic, Paul. I told you we were in with a good chance ... It's a great scheme. Wait 'till we tell the others – they'll be over the moon. When is it?'

  'A week on Friday ... Oh, that's a shame – I'm washing my hair that evening.'

  Liz smiled again, because Paul had begun to go bald in his twenties, and what little hair remained was trimmed very close to his scalp.

  Fraser was the first to be told, and he raced around the offices, telling the good news to everyone that he met, like an excited puppy.

  'Don't count your chickens yet, boy,' laughed Liz. 'It might only mean a runners-up mention, but even that would be great for publicity.'

  * * *

  'Hi, love,' called Paul as he opened the door to his house. In the hallway, he moved an assortment of toys away from a cupboard door with one foot before opening it and hanging up his jacket.

  'Daddee!' screamed a high-pitched voice as his five years old son raced down the hall and hurled himself at him.

  'Hiya, Ben,' Paul laughed, swinging him round; almost bouncing him off the handrail to the staircase.

  'Careful ... you'll do for him one of these days,' smiled Jo, Paul's wi
fe as she joined them.

  She had her strawberry blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail and was wearing a smock top over her denim jeans, with the sleeves rolled up. In her arms, she was carrying their second child Daisy, who had recently celebrated her first birthday.

  'Show Daddy what you learned today,' she added, proudly, placing the child down on unsteady feet. 'Walk to Daddy, pet.'

  'She can, Dad – walk and that,' said Ben as Paul put him down.

  'Come on then, Daisy, love – show me what you can do.'

  Paul got down on his knees and held out his arms, smiling broadly as the little girl tottered towards him on wobbly legs. She almost made it before her knees caved in and she sat down with a bump on the floor.

  'I told you Dad. She can, can't she?'

  'That's great. She certainly can now, Ben,' smiled Paul, sweeping her up into the air, holding her giggling at arms length above his head.

  'I don't know. Why is it that men always have to throw kids around? You can never pick them up and give them a normal hug.' Jo said with a wry smile.

  She grabbed Ben by the hand and pulled him forwards and then put her arms around the three of them.

  ''Cos that's your job,' Paul said kissing her. 'I've got news too. We got letters today from the RIAS inviting us to the ceremony where they'll announce the results of the Edinburgh Old Town Competition. It means that we're gonna get a mention.'

  'Oh, Paul – that's terrific. You lot have put such a big effort into the scheme, especially Fraser and what's his name ... Joe. You said that you were pleased with it. It deserves to have paid off – the hours you all put in.'

  'Aye, well, we're keeping our fingers crossed. What's for dinner, I'm starving.'

  'Bring the kids,then. I've got a pizza in the oven, and there's a salad on the table ... Go and wash your hands, Ben ... And you can open a bottle of wine, love. We've got stuff to celebrate.'

  * * *

  When the day of the announcement arrived, it was a large group that left the office. Paul, trying to look cool and calm, Liz, Neil, Fraser and Joe, who were joined by recently qualified Architect Julia and students Russell and Bob, who had also worked on the competition entry. All were fully aware of the value of even a commendation to a young Practice, in such a prestigious architectural competition. The event was to be held in the Grand Gallery of the National Museum of Scotland. Built in 1861, the magnificent Victorian hall has an elegant cast iron structure supporting a soaring glazed atrium.