What You Pay For

by Claire Askew

  She stalked through the bullpen, hyper-aware of her puffy face, last night’s lack of sleep draped around her like an itchy scarf. She’d hoped to get into her office and shut herself in without being noticed, but before she was even halfway across she heard Amy’s voice.

  ‘Marm.’ The younger officer had stood, and was striding towards her between the desks.

  ‘Morning.’ Birch pasted on the best smile she could muster. Amy looked great as always. Of course she does, Birch thought. She’s twenty-eight.

  ‘I’ve been trying to reach you this morning.’

  Birch winced. The phone had rung at 5.30 a.m., at 5.45 a.m., and each time she’d picked up to hear that same weird, hoarse breathing. The crank calls were pissing her off. She wanted them to stop, not least because then she could file away the nagging idea that they were somehow connected to her weird encounter with the skull-masked man.

  She couldn’t tell Amy any of this, of course. She hadn’t reported the encounter yet, though it was second on her day’s to-do list – right after hiding from Anjan.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she said, ‘sorry, I put it on silent last night, and then forgot I’d done it.’ It was bad bullshitting, she knew.

  Amy eyed her for a second, before continuing. ‘I just wanted to let you know,’ she said, ‘I’ve heard who Solomon’s lawyer is.’

  Birch pulled her mouth into a straight line, and tried to make her eyes go blank. She couldn’t know before Amy, without having to explain how she knew before Amy. Fuck, she thought, this would have been so much easier over the phone, too.

  ‘Tell me.’

  Amy opened her eyes wider, and for a fleeting second Birch wondered if this was for dramatic effect: that Amy knew everything, that perhaps Anjan had told her in some bizarre outburst. But no.

  ‘Marm, it’s Anjan.’ She paused for a moment. ‘You know – Chaudhry. Anjan the Brain. I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard.’

  Birch could feel her mouth opening and closing, like a fish. She was too tired for play-acting, but she found that her anger from last night was still there. ‘Well, fuck,’ she said. They stood in silence for a few seconds, and she added, ‘Fuck that guy.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Amy was looking at the floor now, shaking her head. ‘I don’t like our chances quite so much now.’

  Birch looked down at the same spot Amy was fixating on. She let her eyes blur, and watched the shimmery negative shape the blue marl carpet made between the four pointed toes of their shoes.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, after what felt like a long time. ‘Okay.’

  Amy shook herself, and glanced at her watch. ‘I dare say he’ll be in first thing,’ she said.

  Birch dragged her gaze back up from the carpet, and zeroed in on Amy. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘just keep these worries to yourself, okay? The Glasgow guys might not know Anjan’s rep quite so well – let’s not unsettle them needlessly just yet.’

  Amy was nodding.

  ‘As far as you’re concerned, Anjan is just another lawyer.’ Birch realised she was saying the words for herself, too. ‘And . . . let’s stay positive, shall we? Maybe he only wins so much because he usually defends the good guys.’

  The effort required for this show of optimism was almost too much: Birch could feel herself sagging. But it worked: Amy smiled.

  ‘Fingers crossed,’ she said, ‘you’re right. And I’ll keep it on the downlow.’

  Birch smiled back: it was half-arsed, but genuine. ‘Good girl.’ She turned towards her office door. Just a few paces: she could make it in there, hole herself up and— ‘Oh, marm?’ Amy was twisted on one heel, ready to walk away, but sporting a grin Birch didn’t understand. ‘Who’s the lucky guy?’

  At this, a couple of heads nearest to Amy flicked up from the glow of their computer screens.

  Birch frowned. ‘Lucky guy?’

  Amy nodded towards the office door. ‘You’ve got a suitor,’ she said, in a put-on schoolgirl tone that Birch found grating. ‘There’s no hiding it now.’

  She felt blood draining from her face, pulled by the sudden, frenzied drumbeat of her own pulse. What? Did they know? Had Anjan – what the fuck?

  Birch turned on her heel and beelined for her office door. It was ajar. Behind her, Amy was giggling, following her. No, Birch thought. Just go away, Amy, please . . .

  Her desk was a paperwork landslide, the way she always left it. However, someone had levelled a little clearing amid the mess, and sitting on that square of desk was the most extravagant bouquet that she had ever seen. She felt her heartbeat speed up. White lilies: their blooms as big as hands held open, their peppery stamens daubing the air with scent. Fourteen of them.

  ‘They’re stunning, aren’t they?’

  Birch could find no words. Inside, the tide turned: the blood rushed back to her face, and her head began to pound. She elbowed Amy backward and loped away, ignoring her colleague’s splutter of confusion. When had Anjan done this? He must have arranged the delivery yesterday, before they’d fallen out, perhaps to cheer her up on Charlie’s anniversary. But they’d talked about this – they’d agreed. Take things slow. No going public. Now he’d had flowers delivered to her office? What had come over him? As she covered the bullpen’s gap once more, Birch dug her phone from her pocket and thumbed it into life. Five missed calls.

  ‘Oh, fuck off,’ she hissed.

  She scrolled her recent calls and speed-dialled Anjan. Three rings. Four. Five.

  ‘Anjan Chaudhry speaking.’

  His voice made Birch want to spit.

  ‘Are you in the building yet?’

  She felt his bafflement on the line.

  ‘Good morning, Helen,’ he said. ‘I’ve just parked. I’m on my way in as we speak.’

  His voice was like acid. Good, she thought. She could feel her adrenalin building, spoiling for the second round of the fight he’d conceded the night before.

  ‘I’ll meet you in reception,’ she said, and hung up.

  As she rode the lift down, her phone buzzed in her hand. Another fifteen minutes had passed. Her fear melted by rage, she picked up the call.

  ‘Hello again, fuckface,’ she said.

  Silence on the line. Or not quite silence. The sound of a person listening.

  ‘Is this really your life?’ she asked. ‘Is this literally the best hobby you can come up with, scumbag? Sitting by a clock counting down the minutes till you can phone me again? I pity you, to be honest. You hear me? It’s pitiful.’

  She waited. The sound on the line didn’t change.

  ‘Okay then,’ she said, as the lift doors slid open. ‘You have a great fucking day.’

  Even as she hung up, she could feel doubt sliding over her like cold rain. I shouldn’t have said that, she thought, let them get to me, whoever they are. But that particular anxiety could wait in line. Anjan was standing at the reception desk, pinning a pass on his suit lapel – presumably waiting for Amy to come down and do her lawyer liaison bit. His made-to-measure camel-hair coat was arranged in the crook of his arm, his cashmere scarf spilled over it like a splash of paint. Birch’s insides felt like boiling stew as she crossed to him.

  ‘What, precisely,’ she said, ‘are you playing at?’

  Birch tried to keep her voice low. She hooked him by the coat-slung elbow and steered him out of the receptionist’s earshot. Before she could move him as far as she’d have liked, he shook himself free.

  ‘Helen,’ he said, his voice a thin line. ‘I’d like you to calm down, please, and tell me what is happening.’

  Birch huffed air out through her nose, then regretted it: she sounded like a bratty teenager. ‘You tell me,’ she said. ‘What on earth is with this flower stunt? I mean . . . we talked about this! What were you thinking?’

  Anjan’s tone was quieter now. ‘I’ll ask you again,’ he said. ‘Please explain what is happening.’

  Birch blinked. He’d spoken as though she were a skittish horse he wanted to calm.

  ‘The flowers,’ sh
e said, that doubt beginning to settle upon her again. ‘The delivery of flowers, just now . . .’

  Anjan said nothing. He watched her, one eyebrow slightly raised.

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘It . . . wasn’t you?’

  He shifted his stance, squaring up to her. ‘Helen, I don’t know what you’re going through right now, but I really think you need to . . .’

  Too late. She was already running: past the lift this time, and through the double swing doors into the stairwell. It was instinct: she had to put as much distance between herself and Anjan as she possibly could. Her face burned with embarrassment, and questions had begun to course through her head. If not Anjan, who? Why? Has someone died? Have I forgotten something? She barrelled upwards, two stairs at a time, nearly colliding with DS Scott but swerving and carrying on.

  ‘Sorry, Scott!’ She heard her own shout echo into the stairwell, but she was out onto the landing of her floor before she could catch any reply he made. Back across the bullpen she went, this time at a clip and breathing hard, paying no attention to the raised eyes of her colleagues as she passed. Her office doorframe stopped her as she clattered against it, and yes – there they still were, the stinking lilies, dropping their smeary red pollen all over her files. In her head she heard her mother’s voice: They’re funeral flowers. I wouldn’t give them houseroom, myself.

  Birch swallowed hard. Her lungs were burning from the sprint. She edged into the room, placing her feet carefully as if the flowers might rear up and lunge at any sudden move. Her breath came ragged as she skirted the desk, the stench of the waxy white blooms almost solid in the air. She saw it now: behind the gathered greenish bulb of the vase, tucked half out of sight in the paper morass. A plain white card, embossed with the florist’s chic logo. With a twitchy hand she flinched it up from beneath the bouquet’s canopy and opened it. As she read the hand-penned message, she let out a short, involuntary sob.

  For Helen. May Charlie rest in peace.

  Birch’s hearing stuttered in and out. She flipped the card in her hand: no name, no initials, nothing on the back beyond the florist’s Instagram handle in a neat, serif font. She reached forward with one hand and scrabbled on the desk around the bouquet’s base, shoving papers aside. She knew there’d be no further clue, but oh how she wanted one. Just something else, she thought, looking back at the card in a kind of mad desperation. She was being targeted now, she was almost sure: this wasn’t just what Rab had warned her about, that Solomon liked to keep an eye on the police. This was about her, specifically. But why? She fumbled papers onto the floor. This makes no sense. There has to be something else.

  In her pocket, the phone rang. She fumbled it up to her ear. ‘Yes?’

  That silence again. That thick, listening silence. Into it, Birch breathed back, rasping.

  At last, a voice. ‘You like that better, DI Birch?’

  A man’s voice, with an accent. Birch sputtered for air, but no – the line had gone dead. What the hell? What the actual, living hell? Her head swam. Something was going on here, and she couldn’t fathom it out. She was tired, and confused, and scared. What was somebody playing at? And how dare they – how dare they – bring her brother into it?

  ‘Well, isn’t this a bag ae washin’?’

  Birch’s pulse made a scissor-kick. Standing in the office’s open door was Big Rab, a worried-looking Amy at his side. He glanced back at her, and added, ‘That was wan o’ my granny’s wee expressions.’

  Birch’s mouth was open: she could feel it, but she couldn’t seem to pull it shut. Between her fingers, the florist’s card had bent in her grip.

  ‘Now then, lassie.’ Big Rab crossed the room, passing the sinister blooms as though they weren’t even there. He laid one big bear-paw of a hand on her jittering shoulder. ‘Now then, lassie,’ he said again, ‘now then.’

  The fatherly gesture made Birch want to cry. She looked up, stricken, at his moonish red-white face.

  ‘I reckon,’ he said, with a hint of a smile, ‘that there’s some things you’d like to tell me, darlin’.’

  For a moment, Birch felt pinned under his gaze. She found she couldn’t speak, but she nodded: yes. The skull-masked man. The phone calls. I was going to report it, she thought. Yes.

  ‘Magic,’ he said, stepping back for her to stand. ‘Coffee and a bun it is, hen.’

  He glanced up then, and Birch saw him wink at Amy.

  ‘I’m buying,’ he added, ‘natch.’

  I’m not saying I didn’t know the kind of guys Toad was working with. I’m not going to tell you that I didn’t know he was into some serious shit. But I kept telling myself that it had nothing to do with me. I was helping some guy whose English wasn’t great to sort out his emails, and getting a bit of pocket money for it. Where was the crime in that? Loads of students did translation work or proofreading for money. At worst, I thought I was probably doing some tax evasion – okay, I was doing some tax evasion – but fucksake, I was strapped and it was cash in hand. No one declares cash in hand income, right? It’s like a law of the universe. This was the bullshit I fed myself.

  The guys at work thought Toad was my drug dealer, and I just kinda let them. I started bumming around in the flat like the stoner philosophy students. My classmates couldn’t understand how I was still passing, because I barely showed up any more – but of course, I was getting all this practice in with Toad, and in the verbals I was chucking in a bunch of niche slang and idiom I’d learned and getting brownie points. I thought I had it all worked out.

  Then one night Toad rocked up at Blockbuster.

  ‘Privet, Schenok!’ – this was his standard greeting. Schenok is basically pup, and for some reason he found it hilarious to call me that. I guess it just sort of stuck.

  I assumed he’d been drinking. He had this usual walk, that . . . well, he sidled everywhere, you know, walked like a man who doesn’t want to be noticed. But he was such a huge bear of a guy that it looked weird, drew more attention to him if anything. But that night he didn’t sidle in. He came over to the counter in big loping strides, shouting, ‘Schenok!’

  ‘Hey, zhabka.’ I was in a bad mood, so felt like snarking him off, and because he seemed to be in a good mood I thought I could get away with it. You see, zhaba is toad, and it’s a gross, mealy sort of a word in the mouth – I often wondered if that was why he picked it, to make him sound creepy and tough. That’s if he picked it at all . . . maybe it was foisted on him, the way he foisted my name on me. But yeah – zhabka is different. It means little toad. It’s like, aww, look at the cute ickle baby toad; it’s a fluffy sort of nickname. Emasculating. I’d been wanting to try it out on him for weeks.

  He looked at me for a second, then he said, ‘Davaite soobrazim na troikh!’

  This was a new idiom on me. He must have been able to see I was struggling; something about three guys? Russian is fucking weird. Anyway, he basically laughed in my face and then eventually translated himself.

  ‘Schenok, your shift is finished in an hour! Let’s go drinking, I said.’

  Now, a couple of things. First: when a guy who looks like Toad asks you to go drinking, you hesitate. I mean I knew he’d be able to drink me not only under the table but under the entire fucking bar, and probably still wake up fresh as a daisy next morning whereas I’d likely be in A&E having everything pumped out. And second: he’s a fucking Russian. This was a Monday night, I think. I sort of stood there opening my mouth without sound coming out. I’d never seen him laugh so much.

  ‘Vinograd,’ he said. ‘One hour.’ The Grapes: a die-hard Rangers bar out by Kinning Park, six subway stops away. I knew that was where Toad drank, he’d mentioned it to me before. It was a cash-only place, no doubt a bit rowdy. But cheap – I reasoned it had that going for it.

  Anyway, I get finished and I daunder over there. I’d no idea what he wanted, but in spite of the fact that he was clearly into some stuff – and almost certainly pure fucking mental into the bargain – I’d never been fright
ened of him. I liked him, in fact – kind of the way you like your oddball uncle. I guess I assumed he was just passing, fancied a few bevvies, whatever. I know, I was green as fuck. And that was about to change.

  I got over to the Grapes and you know, it was a Monday. So it was all their regular guys: been there since eleven in the morning, staring down into their pint glasses and occasionally staggering out to the pavement for a wee smoke. Basically dead to the world; at least, not a single one batted an eye when yours truly walked in, not even the barman. And I cast around for Toad and I saw him in the furthest corner, his back turned to me; and across the table from him was sitting the hardest cunt of a man I think I’ve ever seen in my entire life, then or since.

  I walked over and this guy looked up at me as if I’d killed his entire family. Knowing what I know now, I should have been shitting myself, but at the time I was actually just annoyed – if you can believe it – that Toad hadn’t told me it really would be three guys out drinking, like the idiom said. They weren’t talking, just sitting there. I got to the table and Toad sort of leapt out of his seat and for a second there, I thought he was going to hug me.

  ‘Schenok!’ he said.

  I stood and looked at him, and then at the other guy.

  ‘This is Tsezar,’ Toad said.

  I think I nodded to him. He just carried on looking at me, like I’d mortally offended him.

  Anyway, Toad shuffled round and offered me his seat. I didn’t desperately want to be sitting opposite Tsezar and his dead eyes, but when a guy the size of a grizzly bear has already got out of his seat for you, you take up the offer. Then Toad did the strangest thing – so I thought at the time, anyway. He walked up to the bar, smacked his hand down on the drip-mat, right in front of the barman, and yelled, ‘I am buying drinks for everyone in this bar!’

  Obviously I was baffled, but a cheer went up, and the regulars all started shambling over to get their free booze like they were worried Toad was going to change his mind. It’s a cheap place, and there weren’t that many in, so I guess the damage wasn’t crippling . . . but it wasn’t till later that I realised why he did it. He wanted everyone in that pub to forget they’d ever seen him. If the polis walked in the next day and asked, Did anyone see the unmistakable giant Russian dude, a man we consider armed and dangerous?, he wanted to make sure that the reply would be, Dunno what you’re talking about, officer. I was just here drinking with my pals like usual.