His mind had been made up from the start but just as a hand stretched to grasp Rab's shoulder, Grant planted his legs and drove up with his fist, twisting from the waist to get his whole weight behind it. The hand crunched into a jaw which rose with it before the legs supporting it folded under. Stepping over the instigator who now sat bow-legged on the concrete with his head hanging like a grotesque mannequin, he lunged wildly with an overhand right and felt it sink into a cheek before the knuckles jarred on some teeth. The group was dispersing quickly but he reached forward with his left hand and snatched a handful of the nearest collar to him. The blood had rushed to his head and he could only vaguely hear the protestations that were emitting from whoever's clothing he had a grasp of. It didn't matter who it was. With a viscous tug, he turned and threw him to the ground right in front of Rab's feet. Rab had his head up and was looking at Grant with unbridled rapture. Breathing heavily and slowly starting to feel the ache enter his hands he only managed to nod his head downwards to the prostrate figure that had scrambled to its knees and was looking pleadingly into Rab's eyes. Rab looked from the first victim who was now moaning and attempting to sit up, to the one in front of him, to Grant and then back to the kneeling figure. He wiped his snotty nose with the back of his right hand, sniffed hard, then threw a wild punch somewhere into the side of his former tormentor’s head. When he looked back at Grant, his eyes were no longer so watery and he was in serious danger of smiling. Grant gave a half smile of approval and jerked a thumb down the path.
'Come on pal, let's go eat eh?'
Rab nodded and planted a sickening toe poke kick right in the face of the first boy who was now almost ready to get to his feet and caught up with his friend. He pulled a silk monogrammed handkerchief out from his pocket and gave it to Grant to stem the blood that had begun to seep from his hand. He wiped his nose and eyes with the back of his blazer sleeve and walked on in companionable silence with his head up.
Grant thought often on this first day. Even now, more than 20 years later, as he was sitting in his flat with the sunlight streaming through the sliding glass doors from his second floor balcony, he thought of it. A lot of time had passed. There had been many times he had reflected on what would have happened if he had just shrugged his shoulders and walked on. Left little Rab to his fate. He was sprawled comfortably across his black leather sofa with a bottle of beer within easy reach on the coffee table in front of him and some show he wasn't really watching droning on the big screen TV on the far wall. His left arm rested on the sofa back, flopped back towards the kitchen. The counter tops and work surfaces were spotless and the fridge and cupboards were well stocked. There was a spice rack along the back wall and each jar had a varying level inside it; this was a kitchen that was used and used often despite the fact that Grant Ferguson did not look like a man who could even boil an egg.
As he burped and reached for his beer again, the tribal tattoo running from the back of his right hand all the way up to his neck caught the light. The vest he wore had seen a few too many sunrises and spillages. Muscles rippled up his arms and down his back and his shaved head was merely the last portion of the thug image he had chosen to embrace. Lifting his legs slowly and bringing them to the ground quick he levered himself upright and carried his beer to the other part of the living room/kitchen. The cooker was on an island and the TV was clearly visible to enable the non-viewing of the show to continue uninterrupted. The gas ignited on the hob and a metal skillet landed on top with a generous knob of butter. The extractor above was brought on, drowning out the TV that no one was watching. Two sirloin steaks that had been sitting out and were now room temperature were scored in an 'X' shape by a professional chef's knife. Some salt and seasoning rubbed in; he’d read somewhere that pepper burns if it's put in prior to cooking; and then they were seared for one minute each side on the red hot pan before being set aside to finish cooking, sizzling heartily over the drone of the TV.
There had been all different sorts of fallout from his first meeting with Rab. As expected, they had returned to the school with chippie sauce greasy around their mouths to find the head of year waiting. With hands clasped behind his back and his academic robes billowing out he had put Robert Reid in mind of Count Dracula that he had seen in one of the films his father had told him not to watch. In an uncharacteristic act of defiance, he had put it on in his bedroom when the Magistrate was sleeping and spent the whole night wide awake under the covers, quivering with fear for his troubles. His pace faltered as they approached the stern looking Mr. Ackroyd and Rab found his eyes being drawn downwards towards the ground. Grant dug an elbow gently into his ribs and nodded his head up and forward gently. Rab's head came back up and his feet remained steady.
Grant looked straight at Mr. Ackroyd and had no thoughts of Dracula. He remembered a drag queen that had come on late at a holiday resort in Magaluf with his parents, done a stellar Bonnie Tyler number in a flowing evening gown and sent the room into rapturous applause as his mother slowly turned beetroot. Rab fought back tears the same way Grant fought back the peals of laughter that were building inside of him. Mr. Ackroyd addressed them as they approached with a grave air.
'Now then boys.'
Grant muttered darkly out of the corner of his mouth to Rab. 'Here we go.' It was a conspiratorial voice that no one had ever used with him before now. He basked in its embrace and felt his fear dissipate. They were in it together. That was enough for him.
In the kitchen of his flat, the two steaks still had 4 and a half minutes before they'd be fully rested. Crossing over the living room, he stepped out onto the balcony and lit up from the packet that was waiting on the handrail. This had been a big factor in buying the flat; the two bedrooms were spacious, the built in wardrobes were a generous size and the en-suite was a nice bonus on top of the normal bathroom; but when Grant had seen the kitchen/living room with its open plan feel and the glass door to the balcony, he had been sold. Sure, if you were splitting hairs it was technically in Pilton but you wouldn't have guessed it from the price tag. Sitting on the chair out here of a morning with a mug full of coffee and an open schedule was worth every penny of it.
It wasn't even noon yet and the sun was already warm in the sky. There was steak ready to be eaten in a few short minutes, coffee still hot in the French press and everything was looking rosy. The phone vibrated in his pocket and he held the cigarette in his lips as he fumbled with both hands for it. Pulling it out and squinting through the smoke, the name and number calling caused him to groan. Taking a long drag deep into his lungs and exhaling hard, he flicked the whole thing off the second floor into the path below. Pressing the button to pick up, he looked at the ashtray sitting less than a foot away from him. Why had he done that?
'Good morning Magistrate Reid. What can I do for you?'
Chapter 7
Back in his flat in Victoria Street, Luke was reclined in the window seat with his notebook in front of him and the dull pressure of a headache building in his subconscious. It was now getting towards evening and all he had to show for his day's work were a few general insights into his man and a call history on his phone consisting of the Magistrate or his secretary checking in. The pubs and the people he had spoken to had filled his head with nonsense and his belly with booze. Still, he was on the job and not many people could have the afternoon he had on the clock, far less on expenses.
The impression he had been given of Robert from the people who knew him or knew of him was a world apart from what his own father had said. This was normal of course: - it was a very rare occasion indeed when someone's parents had a full impression of how their child was, but this was in the extreme. He was not well liked and the sort of respect he managed to garner was from people who thought it would get them a taste of his ready cash or an avenue to run up if they got themselves in trouble. Every bit as flash and arrogant as his father but without the gravitas to carry it off or any discernible justification for it. The most concrete thing that he had to go
on was that he was rarely out of the company of an old school friend called Grant. He might as well take a look at the information that he had received from the office about his man and see what he could find out about his companion while he was at it.
His laptop had seen better days but served him for what he needed. The fan ran too often and too loud as it resisted the constant urge to succumb to overheating and melt altogether into a pool of solder and despair. When he had left the service and first gotten into this line of work, he was given carte blanche (literally a blank piece of paper in this case) to list what he required to do his job effectively. The flat was sufficient and the furnishings to his taste so he felt no need to splash out in that respect. He didn't drive so asking for a car was not necessary. His wardrobe was basic but his own and he objected to the idea of being dressed by someone else, even by proxy, so that was out. The sheet had been handed straight back to the company representative without a jot on it.
Slim hands had taken it back carefully and turned it over. Green eyes scanned the nothingness on both sides before a smirk twitched the cheek of his sallow face. Black hair raked back over an offensively shiny forehead, the rep had seemed impressed. His off-the-rack suit fitted awkwardly and his trouser legs were just too short. White socks with a suit and black shoes? It was the first person from the company he had seen that hadn't been immaculate and Luke liked him for it. The name-tag reading “Andy” sat askew over his right breast as he pulled a cheap pen from his pocket and scribbled a few lines on the page before he handed him back the sheet. Luke read it and made a vague gesture of acceptance as he took the offered pen. Amending “One laptop” to read “One laptop (basic)” and “One firearm” to read “Glock side-arm, 9mm, 500 rounds of ammunition and official justification for such. Gun safe with highest levels of security.” It was Andy's turn to re-read the list and he laughed.
'You would be horrified by what some people ask for. And get.' He jabbed the pen towards his forehead and twisted it slowly. 'They think all their Christmases have come at once.'
This didn't surprise Luke at all. If you get used to the basics and are afforded a taste of the luxury you'd be a fool not to take it. Well then, he was a fool. His glance passed over his few possessions unpacked in the flat. They rested for a moment on his travel chess set, a folded box 20cm by 10cm, battered and bumped. Before the thought had even entered his head, Andy had started writing.
'I'm going to get you a better chess set. You’re the first guy in God knows how long that's not taken liberties.' His eyes met Luke's briefly. 'Besides, it'll make you seem cultured.'
They both laughed together. Luke was relieved to meet another human in his new job and Andy seemed like a reasonable guy, the sort of guy he'd have a drink with. He wore a suit but he wasn't a suit. That was like finding a unicorn. Andy interrupted his thoughts.
'And a cafetière or French press or something. Your instant coffee is bogging.'
What a prick. They were definitely going to get on.
Most of the information that he had received about his man was uninteresting. Bordering on dull. The school records didn't indicate anything other than academic passability and minimal behavioural issues. The University of Edinburgh had awarded him second class honours in Social Sciences. There were two speeding tickets on his record and nothing else. Now that had struck Luke as being very weird. From what he had gathered, the only 'A' grades that Rab had attained in his life were the drugs he snorted, swallowed or smoked. A man involved in the acquisition and consumption of narcotics, especially an enthusiast on the level Rab was, would normally end up with at least a solitary charge for possession. They'd shake you down and threaten you with “intent to supply” in order to leverage the source. A lot of people would crack in the face of the 5-year minimum sentence. A lot more would repeat their two-word mantra over and over and over (“no comment” or the more popular one which concluded with the word “off”) until they were bundled back into freedom with a court date and upcoming community service. The slap on the wrist that was the government's attempt at a war on drugs. Rab had none. Very surprising indeed, unless your father was heavily involved in the justice system. Speaking of which, it was high time that he finally returned the calls of Geoffrey Reid and his secretary. Was it Karen or something? Who knew.
On the table beside the window, his chessboard was sitting beside the phone and the coffee mug was beside the cigarettes. He often wondered why people seemed to attribute the love of chess to some form of higher intellect or why they saw it as being indicative of a greater power of deduction and a blatant symptom of an organised, systematic mind. As it happened, he fancied that he was pretty horrible at chess. The rote learning required for openings was not appealing to him. The intricate 30 move mate with bishop and knight vs lone king would take a level of interest and dedication that was well out of his grasp. He reasoned that part of it could be attributed to the many fictional characters that seemed to profess some level of proficiency in it.
Chandler's man Marlowe loved nothing more than playing through a tricky mate in four or a Capablanca 60 move epic. Sherlock emulated the Evergreen Game with Moriarty. If you ever saw a character in a movie with a chessboard in front of them, you were meant to think “this guy is smart.” His reality was what they never showed - two friends who think they remember the rules trying to decide which way round the board goes. Consulting each other on where the king goes if you castle long. Most people who came round to his flat and knew the rules would play a game or two. Sure, he usually won, but it was fun. That was meant to be the point. At various points, Luke had walked back from Waterstone's with some annotated chess tome under his arm. This time he was going to study it. He would get good. The enthusiasm never lasted. The pieces would move slowly around the board and the understanding would move with it. Then, on move 8, white would push his pawn with a3?? (denoting a blunder) and the author would state that this move is so bad that the game is instantly resign-able. Who even were these people? It was a quiet move. It had no meaningful impact on the position that he could see, but sure enough, white falls apart imperceptibly, piece by piece in the wake of it. Once he'd become tired of staring at the Judas pawn and not understanding, he'd fire up his laptop and play a few 3 minute games over the internet and be happy to win anywhere near half. If the chess author could see these games he'd probably run out of question marks before the opening was even concluded. Short games played with a mouse made for a mistake filled, fast and furious fiasco. But at least it was still fun.
The sun was making a concentrated effort to set now and the shadows were spreading wider out the window. The street lamps pooled orange light on the pavement and it was now high time to flip the script and pump the doting father for information. Picking up the phone and dialling the Magistrate’s office, he suddenly realised he had no idea of whether they'd even still be open at this time. It was answered quickly and the familiarly hostile voice came down the line.
'Offices of Geoffrey Reid, Claire speaking.'
Ah, Claire. Not Karen. How could he have forgotten? Such dulcet tones of thinly veiled frustration caressing his ears with all the delicacy of an ill-tempered hatchet man. The absolute minimum of candour required to maintain her position. No effort to mask the irritation at having to answer a phone, despite it being her job. Luke respected anyone who held their occupation in such a high level of contempt.
'Evening Claire, Luke Calvin returning your many calls.'
'Mr. Calvin, yes. The investigator.' - Sarcasm was clearly going to be a two-way street with her. - 'Would you like a line to Magistrate Reid or can I help you with something?'
Luke considered for a moment. In all the dealings with Reid senior up to this point, he had not been furnished with concrete assistance of any substance. If the truth had cause to embarrass or offend then it was not given. Maybe she could be the help he required at the moment: provide the morsels of truth around which he could build a real idea of what was going on.
; 'Actually, I think you'd be able to help me if that's OK.'
'What can I help you with?' Her tone was decidedly unhelpful. It would seemingly take a raging inferno to melt the ice queen, but he fancied the challenge.
'I've been asking around about Rab and one name seems to come up a fair bit...'
'Grant.' It was a statement, not a question.
'Yes, Grant Ferguson. Seems they went to school together or something?'
'Would you like his details?'
The chessboard in his darkening flat was sitting in front of him, the pieces having being moved through an opening he was barely conscious of having copied out of the book. The white pieces were his and his position was looking solid. The black pieces were of course also his. His position looked equally solid.
'Sure, I might drop in on him and have a chat.' The pen was in his hand and the pad rested on the table. A keyboard clicked rapidly down the line.
'OK. I have his mobile number, his address and a few other bits and pieces. What would you like?'
Luke was mindlessly overwriting and re-underlining 'GRANT FERGUSON' at the top of his page. 'All of it please.'
Shadow of the Castle Page 5