by Ian Rankin
There were half a dozen big bags on the bed, all the clothes she’d bought. I nodded and went back into my room.
In fact, it took her more like fifteen minutes. She had put on some make-up and some perfume. She looked and smelled nice. ‘Make sure you bring your key,’ she said.
On our way down in the lift, she told me she wanted me to know something.
‘Just in case anything happens to me.’
‘What’s going to happen?’
‘Nothing, I hope. Train to London . . . but they’ll be watching the stations, won’t they? There’s a boat from Rosyth to the continent, but I’d need a passport. I’m not sure yet, Gravy. There’s got to be some place, hasn’t there?’
‘Lots of places,’ I agreed.
‘Somewhere I’ll be safe. People want to hurt me, Gravy.’
‘What people?’
‘Well, maybe not hurt me, maybe just scare me.’ The lift doors opened and we got out. She didn’t say anything else. She asked the man behind the desk for the car key.
‘We’ll bring the car round, madam.’
‘No, we just need to get something.’
So he went off and came back with the key. ‘Bay twelve, madam.’
We started walking again. Out of the hotel and across a sort of courtyard. The car park was on the other side of this. It was concrete, several storeys high. Celine started talking again.
‘I saw something I shouldn’t have, Gravy. I was out walking by Brigham Woods. Do you know where that is? Edge of the city. I was trying to clear my head. A boyfriend had dumped me. Fair enough, it happens, but he’d taken up with someone I knew. Someone I thought was a pal. And how could I ask them?’
‘Ask them what?’
‘How long it had been going on.’
‘A walk is good when you want to think,’ I agreed.
‘Bad timing, though. There was a car, see. Three men in it. I got a good look at them. Couple of days later, it’s in the papers. “Body found in Brigham Woods.” So I went to the cops. I was just . . . I dunno, I just thought how amazing to be part of that, to know something that could change everything. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Maybe.’
We were walking up the slope into the car park. It was dim in there. There were numbers on the floor. Bay twelve, we wanted . . .
‘I could ID the men, you see. And it turns out one of them was the victim, and the other two work for a man called George Renshaw. He’s a villain, Gravy, and his second-in-command is called Don Empson. The police showed me their photographs. It was sort of too late by then, even though I knew I was in deep. I tried telling them I couldn’t be sure, not a hundred per cent sure. I said I wasn’t going to testify in court. But they kept on at me. Then they told me it might be best if I moved out of my flat for a while. I knew what that meant, it meant they were on to me . . .’
‘Who?’
‘Renshaw and Empson, plus the other two, the ones I’d ID’d. And the thing is, there’s no way I’m going to go to court. Cops would have to drag me there screaming.’
‘Well then,’ I said, trying to comfort her. ‘That’s all right then. Just tell them that.’
‘Right,’ she said, giving me another of her looks. Then she pointed. ‘Here’s the car . . . Don Empson’s car. I still can’t work out how your pal Benjy got hold of it.’
‘He was your pal too,’ I reminded her. She gave a little twitch of the mouth.
‘Go get your precious gloves,’ she said, clicking the button to make the locks snap open. She’d turned her back, arms folded, head bowed. I think she was feeling sorry for herself. I could see my gloves. But when I reached into the car, I felt beneath the driver’s seat until I found what I was really looking for, the blue plastic bag. The balaclava came out too, but I pushed it back into hiding. I placed my gloves in the bag and closed the door after me.
‘Happy now?’ she asked.
‘Happy,’ I agreed.
She had her mind on other things. All the way back to our rooms, not once did she ask where the blue bag had come from.
Chapter Nine
Bob Sanders Meets a Bent Cop
Bob Sanders didn’t like visiting other cop shops. He always felt he was being judged by his fellow officers. He knew what they might be seeing, a guy close to retirement, a guy on his way to the scrapheap, a guy who should have done better. But Bob knew he was good at his job. The only reason he hadn’t been promoted was that he had made enemies. If he didn’t like you, he told you so to your face. If he didn’t like your way of running things, he told you to your face. Not everybody was happy with that.
He’d been on the force for years, so was well known, if not always well liked. He pushed open the door of the cop shop and walked up to the desk, pressed the bell to let someone know he was there. When they arrived, he showed them his warrant card and asked to speak to Detective Sergeant Connolly. DS Connolly didn’t invite him up to the CID office, he came downstairs to meet him instead. Connolly was in his early thirties and looked tough but jaded, the sort of officer who should have found himself a different job. Being a cop had become too easy. Connolly shook Bob’s hand and asked him what the problem was.
‘You’re assuming it’s a problem,’ Bob said with a thin smile.
‘When isn’t it?’
Connolly asked if they could move outside. The day was bright and windy. On the pavement, he lit a cigarette. Bob had turned down the offer of one. Bob stood there, waiting for Connolly to get comfortable. But that wasn’t going to happen.
‘I’m interested in a BMW,’ Bob said. ‘I asked the comms centre to send out the licence number, and guess what they told me? They said it had already been done. I found that a bit odd, so I asked them when, why and who. Last night, it turns out, and the one asking was you, DS Connolly.’
Connolly inhaled some smoke and held it there, releasing it down his nostrils. He gave a shrug by way of an answer.
‘I’m assuming you know,’ Bob went on, ‘that the car in question is owned by a man called Donald Empson. It might tie him to a shooting at a garage yesterday. But the team only just got hold of that, while you seem to have a crystal ball tucked away somewhere.’ Bob paused, but Connolly was still concentrating on the cigarette. ‘Now, unless you want me going higher up with this, and by “higher up” I mean all the way to the top, I want to hear your side of the story. Might be, we can keep it between ourselves. Might be, you won’t lose your job and your pension.’
It was the sort of threat Bob knew Connolly would react to. The man puffed out his cheeks before speaking.
‘It was a favour.’
‘Who for, Don Empson?’ Bob watched as Connolly nodded. ‘So someone’s taken his car and he wants it back. Did he mention the shooting?’
‘He said there might be someone wounded.’
‘The guy in the garage is dead.’
‘I think he meant whoever has his car.’
‘And you kept this to yourself?’ Bob got right into Connolly’s face. ‘You’re worse than they are, do you know that?’
Connolly met the stare. ‘I’ve known it for years,’ he said, flicking away the remains of the cigarette and heading back into the cop shop.
Bob took out his phone and called Jane with the news.
Councillor Hanley’s house
Lorna Hanley had woken up that morning at seven. Her husband Andrew wasn’t in the bed. Putting on her dressing gown, she opened the door of his study a couple of inches and found him in his chair, asleep in his clothes. His mobile phone was beeping, telling him he had messages. His neck was at an awkward angle, and she knew he would be stiff when he woke up.
Downstairs, she made tea for herself and unloaded the dishwasher. There were only two Weetabix left, so she made a note to buy more, then dumped the empty packet in the bin. The bin was nearly full, so she hauled out the bag and tied it in a knot, replacing it with a fresh one. This was supposed to be Andrew’s job, and like so many of Andrew’s jobs she always ende
d up doing it herself. She had the radio playing as she ate breakfast. There was a report about another shooting. There were so many of them these days in the city. A garage owner was dead. The report stated that ‘one or more assailants’ might be on the run, and injured. She tutted and unlocked the kitchen door, taking the bin bag with her. When she opened the garden bin, she saw that there was a pair of shoes inside. They were Andrew’s shoes, his perfectly good shoes. Well, perfect apart from the paint, but paint could be removed.
She had shopping to do, and reckoned she could find a shoe repair shop. Maybe they’d be able to help. She placed the shoes in a carrier bag and decided to put them in the car so she wouldn’t forget. She had started to forget things, which was why lists were such a good idea.
‘You’ve too much on your plate, girl,’ she told herself.
But when she went out front to the car, she saw that there was a dent to the back bumper. No wonder Andrew had been in a mood last night, someone had banged into his beloved Jaguar! She tutted again and unlocked the doors. Yesterday’s newspaper was on the passenger seat. She swapped it for the shoes and took it into the house with her, ready for recycling. But Andrew had scrawled something in the margin of the front page. Maybe it was important. She placed her glasses on her nose and read the message.
RAYMOND’S GARAGE, 4 p.m., Empson/cash.
Lorna Hanley stared at the words as though they were written in some foreign language. She heard a noise in the doorway. Andrew was standing there, rubbing at his face.
‘You were there,’ she told him, her voice trembling. ‘You were at that garage, the one where the man was shot.’
He blinked at her. His mouth opened, and then closed itself again. Husband and wife locked eyes for a few moments. She was ready to hear his denial, but instead he turned and ran, leaving the front door wide open. She watched him go. She even stepped outside, to see where he might be heading, but he was gone. Back indoors, she finished her cup of tea, staring at nothing in particular. Then she lifted the telephone. Other wives might not do it, but she’d been brought up differently. She knew it was the right thing.
‘Hello?’ she said into the receiver. ‘Police . . . ?’
Chapter Ten
Gorgeous George Phones his Brother
‘Stewart? Is that you?’
‘Who else would it be? What’s the matter?’
Gorgeous George Renshaw was out of breath. He’d managed to flee the scrapyard and disappear into the maze of streets nearby. He knew he had to talk to his lawyer, but for some reason he’d called his brother instead. He was heading towards a café he knew. It was only two blocks further up the hill.
‘Are you walking?’ Stewart sounded amazed.
‘A cop came to see me.’
‘So?’
‘So she recognised one of the cars. Don took it from Raymond’s. I was just getting rid of it.’
‘So it ties Don to the scene of the shooting?’
‘And me with him!’
‘All you have to say is that you don’t know anything about it. Don Empson came to you with a car he wanted turned into scrap. You know him of old, so you felt you had to oblige.’
‘That’s good,’ George said quietly. He knew now why he had called Stewart. Stewart was always the one with the ideas.
‘So now I’ve done you a favour, maybe you can do one for me and get my money back from whoever took it!’
‘Don’s on the case.’
‘Of course he is. Until the cops pull him in . . .’
George had reached the café. Its door opened with a little ping of a bell. The owner knew him, nodded and smiled. George took the table by the window, phone still pressed to his ear.
‘Where is he anyway?’ Stewart was asking. ‘His nephew’s still not turned up for work.’ There was the sound of another phone ringing at Stewart’s end. He told George to hang on while he took it. George stared out of the window, wondering how the world could look the same as always when his own personal universe was exploding. It was less than a minute before Stewart came on again. ‘That was the cops,’ he said. ‘They want to know where they can find Benjy.’
‘He’s not turned up yet?’
‘No.’ Stewart fell silent, until George began to fear the connection had been lost. But then he heard his brother exhale loudly. ‘Hold on a second,’ Stewart said. ‘How did the cops find you, George? How come they put two and two together so fast?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Don left the car with you, next thing you know, the cops are on to it. Meantime, nobody’s seen Benjy since yesterday lunch-time. Do you see what I’m getting at? It’s Don.’
‘What is?’
‘The cash! A little retirement present to himself. He’s been wanting out of the firm ever since the old man died. So he sets the whole thing up. Goes to hand over the cash but has Benjy waiting in the wings . . .’
‘Don wouldn’t do that.’ George’s head was spinning. A mug of strong tea had appeared on the table and he ladled sugar into it. More ended up on the table than in the mug.
‘Come on, George, think about it!’ Stewart was saying.
George was trying to think. It wasn’t easy. There was a hissing noise in his ears and his heart was pumping. Don hadn’t tried stopping the shooter. Don hadn’t gone after him. Don had left the Bentley for George to get rid of. Don was out there somewhere with Sam and Eddie.
‘You really think . . .’
Oh yes, Stewart really thought. ‘Do you have any idea where he is now?’
‘Going after Celine Watts. He’s got Sam and Eddie with him.’
‘And who are they working for, George? You or Don?’
‘They’re my guys.’
‘Then tell them to bring Don in. We’ll have a few words with him, see what he has to say.’
George nodded. ‘Meantime, what about Hanley?’
‘I’ve not tracked him down yet. Might have to pay a house call.’
‘He’ll be bricking it.’
‘To start with, yes. But eventually, he’s going to start asking for the money again.’
‘You’ll get your money back, Stewart.’
‘I know I will, little brother. I know I will.’
Bob Sanders has news for Jane
Bob Sanders was on the phone to Jane again.
‘Where are you?’ he asked her.
‘Just leaving the scrapyard.’
‘So a team turned up, then?’
‘At long last, yes. Any news on Empson and his BMW?’
‘No, but listen to this. A woman decided to call 999.’
‘That is strange.’
‘Her husband is Andrew Hanley. He’s on the council. In fact, he’s Head of Planning.’
‘I’m with you so far.’
‘Mr Hanley came home last night with blood on his shoes. Guess where he’d been?’
‘Where?’
‘Raymond’s Garage.’ Bob paused. ‘For a meeting with Donald Empson and an unknown amount of cash.’
Jane whistled. ‘Is he hurt?’
‘His wife doesn’t think so. He told her the blood was paint.’
‘So if he’s not hurt, and Empson’s not hurt, we’re still one short.’
‘And Benjamin Flowers still hasn’t put in an appearance. Maybe Mr Hanley can fill us in.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Well, according to his wife, he fled the house when she confronted him. I’m guessing it may tie in with some other calls we’ve been getting about a man, no jacket and no shoes, running hell for leather through Murison Park.’
‘Is a patrol car on its way there?’
‘Yes.’
‘What would I do without you, Bob?’
‘Save a fortune on confectionery,’ he answered.
Don Empson is in trouble
Sam and Eddie were hungry. They were almost always hungry. That was why they’d pulled into a lay-by on the ring road. There was a snack van parked there. Don Empson could smell fr
ied onions.
‘Best burgers in the city,’ Eddie had said. Despite which, Don had said he wasn’t hungry. He swallowed another three pills instead, washing them down with water from a bottle. His stomach was on fire. ‘Try to keep your stress levels down at work,’ the doctors had advised. Some chance. He’d bought the water when they’d stopped for petrol. He had tried phoning his police contact again, but Connolly hadn’t picked up. Dead ends, everywhere he looked.
He hoped Benjy was holed up somewhere and being looked after. It was Don’s own fault. The boy had never been right for the job. There had always been little plans and notions, quick-money schemes. More than once, Don had covered his nephew’s backside. There were gambling debts, poker games gone wrong. And expensive girlfriends to go with that flash car he drove. Weekends in five-star hotels. Wrong, all of it.
Don’s own fault.
The best he could hope for was to get the money back pronto, then try to smuggle Benjy out of the country. That was the only option, or else he was dead meat. This was what Don was thinking as he stared out through the windscreen. Sam and Eddie were chomping their way through the burgers, kicking at stones, laughing about something. Not a care in the world, so it seemed. When Don’s phone rang, he reached into his pocket for it.
He was wrong.
Not his phone, hers. He reached into his other pocket. He didn’t recognise the number on the screen. He knew better than to answer, his voice might scare off whoever was on the other end. Instead, he let the phone ring. And when it stopped, he waited until the screen told him he had 1 Missed Call.
Followed a few moments later by 1 New Message.
Don punched the numbers and pressed the phone to his ear. It was Celine Watts’ voice. She was calling her own phone.
‘Donna?’ she began, meaning her cousin, obviously. ‘Look, I hope you get this. Your own phone’s out of credit. Sorry I ran off like that, but I just want you to know I’m all right. I’ve got to get away for a bit, that’s all. Came into some cash, too, but relax, I’ll see you get some.’ Don’s fingers tightened around the phone. He knew whose money it was. ‘Anyway, just wanted you to know. I’ll call you again, once I know where I’m going. Take care.’ An electronic voice replaced Celine’s, ‘Message ends.’ Don stared at the phone’s screen and then punched some numbers in, the same numbers that had come up when Celine made the call.