"You don't want the money? I thought you were a professional."
Park made a clicking noise with his tongue. "As you say, Mr. Hope. I am a professional." He lowered the gun. Kept his hand on it.
"So? Will you do it?"
"Explain something to me, Mr. Hope. If you believe I was in some way involved in your wife's demise, why don't you want to kill me?"
"Did I give that impression?"
Joe's heart was beating furiously beneath his bathrobe.
"So what's this charade about?" Park said.
"You're a pawn. You're insignificant."
"I am? Tell me who I have to kill."
"Why?"
"Fundamental part of the operation, knowing who the target is."
"You already know."
Park laughed again. "Mr. Hope, why don't you get in touch with me again when you are aware of the facts. It'll make the job a lot easier when I know who you want me to kill."
"If I do," Joe said, "will you do it?"
"Can you pay?"
"I just inherited a bundle."
"Which you won't get if you're found guilty of your wife's murder."
"True. If I can't prove I'm innocent I won't get the money and I won't be able to hire you so you won't get any money either. What are we talking here, Mr. Park? Fifty grand? A hundred?"
"The second figure's closer."
"Think about it," Joe said. "Can I get dressed now?"
Park stood and stuffed the gun back in his waistband. He went into the bathroom and returned with Joe's clothes. "If you discover the killer's identity, be sure to let me know."
Joe put on his boxers. He took off the robe and let it fall on the floor. "What about you? The prospect of a hundred grand might jog your memory."
"There's nothing to jog."
"Just in case, I'll give you my lawyer's phone number. You got a pen? I might be hard to get hold of for the next little while."
"No need for a pen," Park said. "Just tell me the number. My memory's flawless."
TWENTY-NINE
The girl in the black mini-skirt gave Adam a hard stare as she left the pub. He breathed a sigh of relief.
"Give the diary to me." The lawyer drank a mouthful of coffee. "I'll make sure he gets it." His coffee had arrived in a glass with a handle, looking like vanilla and chocolate ice cream. Even had a long spoon like the Knickerbocker Glories Adam used to love as a kid.
Adam said, "It's for Joe's eyes only."
"What's so special about it?"
Adam swilled what remained of the water in his brandy glass. The fizz had all but disappeared. "That's personal."
"Mr. Wright, I'm aware of the incident at your establishment in Orkney. Are you still angry at Mr. Hope? Is this about revenge? You still think he killed Ruth? Is that the real reason you want to see him?"
"Here." Adam pulled Gemma's diary out of his coat pocket and opened the book at the first page. "I'm not making this up." He showed the lawyer her name. Then he flicked through the rest of the book. "These are Gemma Hope's last words."
The lawyer was quiet for a moment, stirring his coffee. The spoon clicked against the sides of the glass. "Do the police know about this diary?"
Adam shook his head.
The lawyer tapped the spoon once on the lip of his glass and laid the spoon on the table. "Why not?"
"Perhaps I should leave."
Brewer grabbed his wrist. The boy's slender fingers had a tight grip. "Just a question, Mr. Wright. Nothing more. Your information is confidential, I promise you."
"You know where Joe is?"
"I already told you. He's on the run." The lawyer's hand slid off Adam's wrist and attached itself once more to his coffee glass. He played with the glass, turning it to the left, and back again. He picked up the spoon. Turned it over. A drop of clay-colored coffee landed on the table. He smeared it across the surface with his finger.
Adam said, "Can I meet him?"
"Why ask me?"
"Why are you protecting him, Brewer?"
"Why do you say that?" The lawyer twirled the spoon, then passed it from his right hand to his left.
"Because you're lying. Your eyes are darting all over the place. And look at your hand, fidgeting with your cup, your glass I mean, playing with that spoon as if it was some fancy new toy. And now you're licking your lips as if they were covered in cream. How on earth have you managed to fool the police?"
Brewer's gaze fell. He placed the spoon back on the table. "I haven't spoken to them."
"When you do," Adam said, "you'll need to give a much better performance."
"Give me the diary," Brewer said. "I promise Joe will get it."
"Either I deliver it in person," Adam said, "or I keep it and Joe never gets to see it."
"Why are you so protective of it, Mr. Wright?"
"Gemma's final words."
"That's it? Nothing else?"
"Are you thirsty, Mr. Brewer? Another coffee? A latte, is it? I'm parched. The heat in here is oppressive. I live in an old building, you know, and it doesn't get hot too often in Orkney."
"It's not hot."
"Close. Sticky."
Brewer's eyes scanned the room. He looked into the distance for a second, then switched his gaze back to Adam. "I take it the diary contains something you don't want the police to see? I'm not the police, Mr. Wright. Tell me what it is."
"Gemma entrusted the diary to me before she died. I intend giving it to her father as she instructed and I'd appreciate your help in that matter."
"Give me the diary and I'll deliver it."
"I told you, no."
"Something happened to her that her father doesn't know about?"
"Stop fishing, Mr. Brewer."
The lawyer started fiddling with his glass again. "I can't help you, then."
Adam laughed. "Of course you can." He lowered his voice and leaned forward. "You're harboring a criminal. Why are you doing that?"
Brewer's young face suddenly looked ten years older. "If you don't mind me speaking frankly, you're talking shit," he said. "You have no justification for that statement. None at all."
"Okay," Adam said. "But let's suppose I'm right."
"You're not."
"Hypothetically speaking. Just pretend for a minute. Humor me."
The lawyer moved his glass to the side and clasped his hands on the table.
"I'm interested," Adam continued, "in what would make a lawyer such as yourself protect a fugitive like Joe. Did he offer you a large sum of money to keep him out of jail?" Adam paused, then answered his own question. "I don't think so. You couldn't be bought, could you, Mr. Brewer? You're young. Idealistic. Aren't you? But what about justice, I wonder? You must respect the judicial system. You're a lawyer, after all."
The pub was rapidly filling up with after-work drinkers. Above the rising drone of their voices, the lawyer said, "At university we had to study jurisprudence. One of the essays I had to write was on whether an unjust law was law. What do you think of that, Mr. Wright? How would you answer?"
Adam thought for a moment. "Literally," he said, "it is. It's a law. It may be one that's unjust, but it's nevertheless a law."
"Indeed. And you know what that taught me? The law has nothing whatsoever to do with justice. You're right. I am an idealist. I do believe in justice. But that doesn't make me believe necessarily in the judicial system."
"Is Joe innocent of the murder of his wife?"
"I believe so."
"He was framed, then?"
"That would appear to be the logical assumption."
"Who framed him?"
"I wish I knew." Brewer got to his feet.
"I'm coming with you."
"You can't."
"You think Joe will understand that you were only protecting his best interests when he finds out about the diary?"
"You're an unacceptable risk."
"Is that what I am?" Adam chuckled. "Look at me. I'm overweight and unhealthy. Joe could snap me
in half with a flick of his wrist. Jesus, Mr. Brewer, you could snap me in half with a flick of your wrist."
The lawyer sat down again. "What happened in Orkney, is that forgotten? How do I know you don't have a gun tucked in your trousers or a knife up your sleeve?"
Adam tossed the diary onto the table. "A token of my trust," he said. "Read it. Take as long as you like. Decide for yourself if it's genuine, Mr. Brewer."
Brewer reached out a hand.
"But you can't deliver it," Adam said.
"Why?"
"You don't trust me. Why on earth would I trust you?"
Brewer started to read. Before long, Adam found himself thinking about the girl in the mini-skirt and his face flushed until sweat bubbled on his forehead. He picked up his newspaper and pretended to read, watching Brewer out of the corner of his eye. Gradually, Adam's face cooled and he relaxed a little. He wiped his brow with the index finger of his left hand. Ran his wrist from eyebrow to eyebrow. When he glanced at the lawyer once again, he learned nothing. Brewer's face was expressionless. He was flicking the pages over quickly, faster than he could possibly read them.
Adam said, "You believe me?"
The lawyer looked up, tongue poking through his teeth. After a while, his tongue retreated into his mouth and he said, "I wouldn't know." He closed the diary and handed it to Adam. "But you've told me a good story. And you have some kind of evidence to back it up. I don't think you're a threat." He stood. "So let's go."
They left the pub, walking some distance before they reached Brewer's car. Brewer unlocked it and Adam climbed in. Brewer was quiet and Adam didn't want to disturb him. Adam thought about Dotty, kept seeing that girl in the mini-skirt. In a couple of minutes, Brewer pulled up outside a tenement block and told him to wait.
Adam watched the lawyer cross the road and disappear into the nearest building. Adam gazed ahead. A couple of fields. In Orkney that's all they'd be. Just a couple of fields. Mind you, somebody'd probably plough them before too long. Here, they masqueraded as a park. Traffic trundled along the main road bordering the near side. A couple of youths crossed the road, zigzagging through the traffic, holding beer cans aloft like stop signs.
The car door opened and Brewer got back in. "Joe's not here."
"You expect me to believe that?"
The lawyer faced him, eyes narrowed. "Believe what you like."
"That's it, then, is it? Shall I just get out? Catch a bus to the airport?"
"I don't know where he is."
"We can wait, if you think he might come back."
"I couldn't say."
Adam placed his hands on the dashboard. "Don't you have any idea? Who does he know? Who would he go to see?"
Brewer's forehead creased. He turned on the engine. "Why doesn't he have a mobile like any normal person?"
Adam didn't say anything.
*
Joe's friend, Cooper, wasn't at home. Brewer said, "There's only one other possibility I can think of."
They drove in silence. After a while, Brewer said, "How did you know I was helping Joe?"
"I couldn't think of any other reason you'd be so nervous. You're his lawyer. You believe he's been framed. It made sense."
The lawyer bit his lip.
He was biting his lip twenty minutes later when Adam noticed the traffic had thinned. "Where are we?"
"Leith."
The sun had disappeared behind a bank of clouds. The Firth of Forth was grey and flat and dotted with dark islands. When they turned left, a wall obscured their view. A couple of seagulls scrapped loudly on the pavement, wings flapping as they danced around a few chips a young lad in a Hibs jersey had just spilled. The car turned left again and Brewer pulled into the curb. Hardly anyone about. Just a couple walking past holding hands and a short, burly man, wrapped in a fawn-colored padded jacket with a red design on the front, crossing the road.
Adam swivelled in his seat and reached for the door handle.
"Hang on." Brewer's face was frozen.
"What?"
"Guy getting into that car over there." The lawyer said no more, eyes staring straight ahead.
"What, for goodness sake?"
"It's Cooper."
Adam studied the squat figure he'd observed crossing the road. "What's he doing here?"
"Shit," the lawyer said. "You see that?"
"See what?" Cooper drove off. Adam turned, watched the taillights disappear. Brewer was out of his seat in a flash.
"What's the hurry?" Adam shouted through the open door, feeling his bulk as he raised himself out of his seat. "What did I miss?"
"His coat," Brewer said. "There was a stain down the front."
"So he's a scruff. What's the big deal?"
"Looked like he spilled a carton of cranberry juice."
Adam slammed the car door shut. "Right behind you."
THIRTY
Joe was thinking about Monkman. No doubt the bastard would be delighted with the recent turn of events. Probably reinstalled himself in Joe's house by now. At this moment, he'd have his feet up watching Joe's TV, drinking a glass of Joe's whisky. Well, he was welcome to the damn house. He could squat there as long as he wanted, because Joe couldn't go home. Even if Monkman wasn't there, the police would be watching the flat.
Things didn't look too good for Joe. A policeman was living in his home. He had no car. His daughter was dead. And he was wanted for his wife's murder. He'd love to go round to Cooper's and joke about it with him. But (and this was something Joe still couldn't get his head round), it looked increasingly likely that Cooper was the person who had set him up.
Joe kept looking for flaws in his logic. Well, it wasn't logic. It was guesswork. Conjecture, supported by circumstantial evidence. Park hadn't given anything away. Joe still had no real proof. He ought to go to Cooper's and batter the truth out of him. Problem was, if Ronald was right about the surveillance, the police would nab him as soon as he poked his head down Cooper's street. Then he'd be screwed.
But what if he was wrong? What if Cooper hadn't set him up? What if his friend had acted for the reasons he'd stated and somebody else had killed Ruth with Joe's bat and stuffed her in the boot of his car. Guilt gnawed at Joe's stomach. It was good to have something else now the pain that had been nagging away at his side had dulled. Who else could it have been, though? That image flashed back into Joe's mind. A snapshot of Cooper whacking Ruth with the baseball bat. So easily envisaged. Jesus, there weren't too many people who could have beaten a woman to death. Cooper was more likely and more capable than most. Joe wanted it not to be true, but, deny it all he wanted, Cooper looked guilty as hell.
When Joe was talking to Park, he'd wanted to come right out and ask him. But questioning a hitman was a sensitive matter and, ultimately, Joe knew it would do no good. Park wouldn't answer. And if Joe pushed it, Park would invite him to leave forcibly. Joe had done what he could. He was almost certain Cooper was guilty. About ninety percent certain. Which wasn't certain at all. But it was enough to make the odds sufficiently small not to bother betting on. Cooper couldn't have done it. Could he? However convoluted, there had to be another explanation. There had to be.
Joe looked up, realizing he'd walked all the way back to Ronald's flat. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys the lawyer had given him. Instinct had roped him back in to safety. It was good to know that his sense of self-preservation was still intact. Ronald was right. He'd never make it to Cooper's. But damn it, how was he ever going to find out the truth?
Joe shoved the keys back in his pocket and turned around. He sat on the doorstep. After a while he got up again. He unlocked the door and climbed the stairs. He headed straight for the phone.
Sally answered. "Cooper's still out."
Joe hung up and dialed Cooper's mobile. He didn't answer and Joe didn't bother leaving a message.
THIRTY-ONE
The girl answered the door with a cloth held over her face. The cloth looked like it had been used to mop up a spillage of
red wine. Only the edges of the cloth retained the white of its original color.
Her eyes latched onto Adam's. His mouth twitched in the beginnings of a smile, but when her gaze switched to the lawyer, Adam let his smile collapse. Her voice was nasal. "What do you want?"
"You okay, Tina?" the lawyer asked.
"What does it look like?" She turned, leaving the door open. Brewer waited a moment, then followed her into the flat. Adam stepped inside, turned to glance down the empty corridor and closed the door after him.
In the sitting room the lawyer said, "Did Cooper do that?"
"How do you know?"
"Saw him getting into his car."
"Was he walking funny? I got him a pretty good kick in the balls." She moved the cloth away from her face. Dried blood clung to the rim of one puffed nostril. "I was about to give him another when he nutted me. Can't believe I walked right into it. You ever been headbutted?"
Brewer shook his head. She looked at Adam. He also shook his head.
"I don't believe we've met." She held out the hand that wasn't holding the cloth. Her fingers were cold and trembled in his grasp. For all her bravado, he suspected she was badly shaken up.
"You sure you're okay?" he asked her.
"I'm used to getting knocked about. This" — she touched her nose, tenderly — "is nothing."
"I wouldn't say that. Could be broken."
"Wouldn't be the first time."
"You should get it looked at." He was still holding her hand.
"What happened?" Brewer said.
"Still don't know your friend's name," Tina said to the lawyer while continuing to stare at Adam.
Adam told her his name. "I'm Joe's wife's cousin," he added. Her fingers dragged away and his hand hung in mid-air for a second before he let it fall to his side.
"What happened?" Brewer repeated.
"Sit down," she said. "Got to wring this cloth out again." She marched into the adjoining kitchen and turned on the tap.
Adam followed the lawyer. Brewer sat down on the settee and Adam sat next to him. Tina's flat was as pristine as a showroom. Maybe she was selling it. Keeping it tidy for prospective buyers. Adam scanned the carpet. Not a trace of blood. How the hell had she managed that? Bust nose, Cooper's shirt apparently covered in gore, but no sign of any here. "Nice flat," he said. "Very tidy."
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