Kiss Her Goodbye

by Allan Guthrie

  "Closing early today," Joe said. "Now which one of you is Dom?"

  "You're the guy on the phone," the one with the colorful hair said.

  "So you must be Dom." Joe strode towards the desk.

  Dom backed against the wall, bunching a fistful of his garish shirt like a woman whose blouse buttons have all popped. He glanced at his colleague. Dom was the less tanned of the two.

  Joe ignored Dom. He said to the other one, "And you are?"

  "Carlos Garcia Gonzalez. And you, senor?"

  "You think I could speak to Mr. Park, Carlos?"

  Carlos started speaking in Spanish. Joe didn't understand a word of it. The closest he'd come to Spain was reading Thomas Kyd's play "The Spanish Tragedy" at university. Carlos clasped his hands in front of him.

  Joe said, "I don't understand, Carlos."

  "Please, senor, I do not know this man of whom you speak."

  Joe ran his tongue over his teeth. He placed his hand on his forehead and closed his eyes for a second. He breathed deeply and exhaled. "Okay," he said. He leaped forward and smacked Dom as hard as he could on the cheek.

  Dom's face blanched.

  "Mr. Park," Joe said.

  Dom shook his head.

  "Carlos?" Joe said.

  "You want me scared, yes?" Carlos held his hands in front of his face as if he was ready to catch a football. "Like this?" His voice quaked. "Please, no. I don't know no Mr. Park. Please, senor." He lowered his hands and smiled. His voice returned to normal. "Is that what you want?"

  "Disappointing," Joe said. "I was hoping you'd cooperate. I don't want to hurt Dom for nothing."

  A little color had returned to Dom's face. At Joe's words he dived round the side of the reception desk and bolted towards the back of the shop. Joe cut him off. Dom kept running, so Joe stuck out a foot and tripped him. Don flew for a couple of feet and cried out when he hit the floor. When he pushed himself onto his hands and knees, Joe could see blood dripping from his mouth. Dom turned. The color had drained from his face again. Any paler and he'd have been dead.

  "I really want to get in touch with Mr. Park," Joe said, hovering over Dom. Dom flinched. Joe pulled the young man's hand away from his face and examined the cut. Upper lip. Nasty. Probably put a tooth through it. "You'll need that stitched," he said. "Why don't you just tell me the number? You do phone him, right? Or is it Carlos who gets in touch?"

  Dom said nothing. He dabbed his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at the floor.

  "Well?" Joe looked up. "Carlos, are you going to tell me?"

  "I don't know no Mr. Park, senor."

  Joe cuffed Dom, aiming for the boy's cut lip. Judging from Dom's cry, his aim was perfect. Joe said, "However scared you are of Mr. Park, you really ought to be more scared of me. I'm a complete psychopath. Know what that is, Carlos? Maybe Dom can translate for you. No, tell you what. I'll demonstrate. I'll take Dom through the back and shove him under a sunbed for a while. Got all the time in the world, you know. Couple of hours in there might refresh his memory."

  "No good," Carlos said. "He will pass out from the heat and tell you nada."

  "Thank you for the advice, Carlos."

  "Is my pleasure. I know, also, the word psychopath. In Spanish we say, psicópata. What is your name, senor?"

  "Joe Hope."

  "Joe Hope," Carlos said, watching Dom shake. "Joe Hope?" He faced Joe, grinning. "My father was a psicópata. One day he tried to run my mother over in his car. She went to the police but they didn't give no shit. She went to a lawyer and he told her it was very bad if she moved out of our home. She moved into the spare room. She kept tijeras — scissors — under her pillow." Carlos lowered his head. "It didn't help."

  "I'm very sorry about your domestic problems," Joe said. "But right now I have other things on my mind. I need to speak to Mr. Park about certain domestic issues of my own."

  "My father killed my mother. Then he killed himself. I was lucky he didn't try to kill me."

  "You've had a rough time, Carlos. I know how you feel. I'm very sorry for you."

  "He did this to her." Carlos positioned his hands as if he held an invisible ball between them. His fingers curled. "To my mother."

  "He strangled her," Joe said.

  "Strangled. Yes." Carlos relaxed his fingers and his arms dropped to his sides. "I was in my bedroom listening to music. I heard nothing. There is a very high bridge in the town where I come from. My father drove to this bridge and stopped in the middle. He climbed onto the wall and jumped into the precipicio." Carlos made a whistling sound as he described his father's descent by drawing a line in the air with his index finger. "Muerto." He tapped his chest twice. "Huérfano."

  Dom tried to get to his feet. Joe looked at him and he stayed where he was.

  Joe said, "How did you end up in Edinburgh, Carlos?"

  "My girlfriend was a student here. She is no longer my girlfriend. I have a new girlfriend." Carlos smiled.

  "Good for you, son," Joe said. "And you've got a job, too."

  "More than a job. Florida Al's is my business."

  "You own this place? Then you know Mr. Park."

  "You want to speak to him? I might be able to help."

  Joe looked at Dom and said, "Get up."

  Dom got to his feet. "Carlos," he said. "You can't let this fucking ape get away with beating me up. Look at my lip."

  "Go to hospital," Carlos said. "I will pay you three times for today."

  "Treble time? For the whole day?"

  Carlos nodded. Joe said, "Want me to come back tomorrow, Dom?"

  Dom ignored him. "I'll get my things and go out the back."

  Carlos waited until they heard the door close. He picked up the phone. "You are staring at me. It is not polite."

  "Just wondering," Joe said. "Why are you helping me? I could be anybody."

  "But you are not anybody. I have heard the name of Joe Hope," Carlos said. "You are the man who murdered his wife."

  "I didn't—"

  "No matter," Carlos said. "You remind me of my father."

  "Your father killed your mother."

  "Aye. La hija de puta. I hated the bitch." Carlos dialed. After a few seconds he raised his thumb and said, "Mr. Park, I am phoning about your appointment at Florida Al's."

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Adam sipped mineral water from his brandy glass and waited for Joe's lawyer to arrive, trying his hardest not to look at the girl in the black mini-skirt. He wondered what Dotty would look like in the same outfit. Pretty damn stunning, he thought.

  He picked up his copy of the Evening News and read the headline on the front page. A prostitute had been found dead in an industrial estate in the Seafield area of the city. She was fifteen years old. The police had no clues as to her killer.

  Adam placed the newspaper on the table and leaned back in his seat. He didn't want to read about death. Especially so young a death. Fifteen. That was nothing. Still a baby, really. He wondered how her parents must be feeling. Like Joe, perhaps. Or maybe not. They didn't have quite as many worries.

  Ronald Brewer had contacted Adam about Gemma's funeral arrangements, and they'd got talking. He'd updated Adam on Joe's current situation. Joe was on the run. However, the lawyer believed he was innocent. Brewer was insistent that Joe had been set up. The lawyer seemed a nice young man. Keen. Dedicated. Adam wondered if he could trust him, though. Whose side was he on? Did he want to get Joe back in custody at the expense of justice? Or was it justice? Did Joe kill Ruth?

  Adam didn't know the answer to that. Recent events had shown him just how wrong he could be. Maybe Joe did kill his wife, maybe he didn't. But he didn't appear to be guilty of raping Gemma. And if Joe hadn't been responsible for that, then he didn't have the motivation to kill Ruth that Adam had previously attributed to him. But somebody else did. Adam wanted to give Joe the benefit of the doubt. Gemma had loved her father. That ought to count for something.

  His eyes wandered to the corner table where the girl
with the mini-skirt was drinking with some friends. Her head rolled back as she laughed. It felt as if a small stone was lodged in his throat. Quickly, he averted his gaze. He wondered what Dotty was doing. Pity she'd decided not to join him. She'd stood there in his bedroom staring at her chest, twiddling a button on her cardigan. "It's not a good idea," she said without looking up.

  Her quietly spoken words were a slap in the face. For a moment, he felt dazed.

  Her head bobbed up and down. Her mouth turned down at the sides.

  He wanted to stride forward and envelop her in his arms. Instead he said, "A wise decision." Pursing his lips, he nodded.

  She nodded back at him.

  He held out his hand and she took it. They shook. Then he spoiled what could have been a dignified rejection by saying, "Sure you don't fancy the wee drive to the airport?"

  Her eyes turned towards the floor. He felt her gaze on his feet and felt uncomfortable. "Of course, no, of course you don't. Dotty," he said, holding Gemma's diary aloft, as eager to change the topic of conversation as he was to get at the truth of Gemma's assault, "there's a passage in here I'd like you to look at. I need your opinion, if you can bear to read it. It's about Gemma's father. Perhaps. I'm not sure."

  She looked at him with liquid-filled puppy eyes. "Okay."

  "Might take me a moment to find it. Would you tell me what you think it means?"

  Her words were a whisper. "Thank you."

  He didn't understand why she was thanking him. What did she have to be grateful for? He sighed and began turning the pages. "There," he said, after a while. "There it is." He held the diary towards her.

  She took the book from him. "Here?" She pointed to the passage.

  He was silent while she read. When she finished, she said, "What do you want to know?"

  Adam blinked. He swallowed. He cleared his throat. "Who she's talking about."

  "Well," she said, "Gemma was…" She closed her mouth and her chin dimpled. After a moment she said, "The man refers to himself as Daddy." She was quiet again. Her hand went to her mouth and she spoke through slightly parted fingers. "But that doesn't necessarily make him her father. He might be role playing. Getting his kicks from pretending he's her father."

  Adam prized the diary from Dotty's fingers and flicked forward through the book. "Here," he said. "I'll read this to you. Only a couple of sentences, but they don't make sense. She says: I know I can never tell the truth. I couldn't cope with sending Daddy to prison." He pointed to the page he'd just read.

  "You're like a child sometimes," Dotty said.

  "For Christ's sake!" Instantly, he wished he hadn't spoken. He'd sounded hostile.

  "I meant that in a nice way." She looked at the floor. "I like children."

  "Don't know that many," Adam said. After a second he added, "But those I've met have been nice enough."

  Dotty shuffled her feet. She raised her head slightly. "That passage in the diary," she said. "Gemma didn't want her father to know what happened because she was scared he'd kill the man who raped her. That's what she means about sending him to prison."

  Adam slowly closed the diary. "Perfectly obvious." He nodded his head. "Now that you've pointed it out."

  Dotty said, "Can I go now?"

  He glanced at her. She was evidently upset. He wished he hadn't reacted badly to being called a child. She hadn't intended any criticism. "I'm sorry for putting you through all this." She shook her head and turned her cheek towards him. It took him a moment to accept her unspoken invitation. He placed his hand on her shoulder and she leaned towards him. He held her. She started to shake. He dropped the diary on the floor and wrapped his other arm around her. Instantly, his neck was wet with her tears.

  "I'm sorry if I behaved like a child," he said.

  Dotty didn't reply. They stood like that for a long time. Adam would have stayed like that for a lot longer. But she left. Hurriedly. Darting across the room and out the door.

  His flight had left early the next morning. He saw her for five minutes at breakfast and before he knew it he was in Edinburgh and Dotty was hundreds of miles away.

  His phone was lying on the table next to his glass of water. He thought about calling her. His eyes swept the bar. The girl in the black mini-skirt was struggling back to her table with a couple of pint glasses, a clear drink in a shot glass and a small bottle of orange. The high heels didn't help. She had good legs. Her calf muscles bunched nicely with each step. Just imagine those tanned thighs are Dotty's. Just imagine them gripping your waist. All of a sudden she stopped. He looked up and realized she was staring at him. He wanted to look away but his eyes were glued to hers. "You want to get down on your knees and take a closer look?" she said.

  "No," he said, knowing the question was rhetorical but feeling compelled to answer it all the same. "No," he repeated.

  When she moved away, he realized he should have denied that he was staring at her. He no longer felt like phoning Dotty. He had the sensation that all the eyes in the bar were focussed on him. His face was hot. He gulped down his drink and then dared look up. No one was interested in him. Apart from the boy in the suit gazing at him from the doorway. Looked too young to get served. He started heading this way.

  Adam buried his head in his newspaper.

  Seconds later he heard a voice say, "Evening News. Drinking mineral water out of a brandy glass. You must be Adam Wright."

  Adam lowered his newspaper. Surely not. He was far too young. "Mr. Brewer?"

  PART THREE

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  "Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Park."

  The hitman's handshake was firm. "If you'll excuse me for a second," he said. "You'll need some privacy." He walked over to the window and pulled the curtains. The room darkened. He switched on the table lamp. "I must ask you to remove your clothes."

  "Mr. Park," Joe said. "I didn't think I was your type."

  "If you don't remove your clothes, Mr. Hope, we have nothing to discuss."

  "Can I ask why you want me to undress?" Was this an exercise in humiliation? Carlos had managed to persuade Park to agree to the meeting and Joe knew he ought to be grateful. But now that he was closeted in a hotel room with the hitman, Joe didn't feel an ounce of gratitude. The weirdo wanted him to remove his clothes.

  "I'd like to know you're not wearing a wire. Or hiding a weapon."

  "You don't trust me?"

  "Not in the least."

  "I really don't want to take—"

  "Good day, Mr. Hope. Don't forget to pay the room bill at reception on your way out."

  Joe shook his head and filled his cheeks with air. He let the air out with an exaggerated puff. He smacked his lips together. They felt crusty. "Why don't you just search me, Mr. Park?"

  "Good day."

  A bloody striptease, then, if that's what he wanted. Park sat on the bed, eyeing Joe's every move. Painfully, Joe slipped his jumper over his head. Folded it. Placed it on the room's solitary chair. He did the same with his t-shirt. Then he bent down, ribs protesting, untied his shoelaces, kicked off one shoe, then the other. His socks smelled pretty bad. He hoped Park got a whiff. He removed them and tucked them in his shoes. He undid his trouser belt, the button, then pulled down the zip. He slid his trousers down and stepped out of them. Slowly, he folded his trousers and added them to the pile of clothes in the chair. Wearing only his boxer shorts, he looked at Park.

  Park gesticulated with his fingers.

  "Come on," Joe said. "You seriously think I have a wire down my pants? Maybe you should check up my arse."

  Park looked thoughtful. Then he said, "I don't think that'll be necessary."

  Joe turned his back and tugged his boxers off. "Okay?" He heard Park get to his feet. He could sense the bastard behind him. For a second, he imagined Park really was going to bend him over so he could inspect his backside. But he didn't. Park disappeared into the adjoining bathroom with Joe's clothes and re-emerged, minus the clothes but with a hotel bathrobe, which h
e handed to Joe. Joe offered Park his boxers in return. Park shook his head. Joe looked around and dropped his underwear on the chair. He shrugged into the robe and turned to face the hitman.

  "I can't tell you anything, Mr. Hope," Park said. "You do know that, don't you? I know you're aware of the nature of my professional activities as an expurgator through our mutual acquaintance Mr. Cooper. I'm sure you understand that I can't discuss that. If you came here for information, you're wasting your time."

  "Why did you agree to see me?"

  "You know the score. And your, what shall we call it, situation intrigues me."

  "I don't want information." Joe toyed with the belt on his robe. Park wasn't as clever as he thought he was. Joe could yank the belt out of the robe and strangle him with it. Easy.

  Park said, "What, then?"

  Joe sighed and tied the belt on his robe. The robe smelled fresh.

  "I'll give it to you straight, Mr. Park. Maybe you should sit down."

  Park sat on the bed. "Ah," he said, as if in sudden pain. He opened his jacket and Joe saw a gun tucked down the front of his trousers. Park eased it out and laid it on the bed beside him. Just as well Joe hadn't decided to strangle him.

  There was nowhere for Joe to sit but he felt awkward standing. After a moment's hesitation he sat on top of his boxers. He crossed his legs at the ankles. "I want to offer you a job." Park said nothing. Joe waited a while and then said, "I want you to kill the person who murdered my wife."

  Park started to laugh.

  Joe let him carry on, for a while. "Well?"

  "You get a blow on the head as well as in the ribs?"

  "I'm serious."

  Park tapped his fingers against his forehead. "So, perhaps you should tell me who that is."

  "You know."

  "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Mr. Hope. Perhaps you should leave."

  "You were there."

  Park picked up the gun. "Grief does strange things to a person. You're not thinking clearly."