Peacock's Alibi

by Stuart David

  ‘I told him I’d decided to keep the information to myself,’ he said. ‘And then he told me he’d been offered a deal by the police – immunity for a crime he’d committed in exchange for the same piece of information he’d given me, and that he was going to take the deal. I asked him to reconsider, knowing it would mean the end of Wilma’s happiness if Vince got arrested. He said there was nothing he could do, and I asked him to at least hold off until I’d talked to him in person. So I went round . . . and the rest you know.’

  I suppose, when you look at it in a certain light, it’s quite a romantic story really – an ex-husband dedicated to the future happiness of his ex-wife. As long as you can manage to ignore the loss of a human life, that is.

  ‘Anyway,’ Brian said, rallying again after his earlier mini-breakdown, ‘it’s all water under the bridge now. What’s done is done. And I’ve got a more immediate crisis on my hands now, after slipping up and confessing the whole shambles to you.’

  He bent forwards and checked the integrity of my constraints, then he scratched his head. ‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘I daresay you’ve got a better idea of what I should do next than I have. What kind of thing would you do in a situation like this?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Methods,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’m looking for a bit of advice. How would you . . . eliminate . . . somebody like you in a situation like this.’

  I could hardly believe my ears.

  ‘You’re the fucking murderer, pal,’ I said. ‘What in the name of Christ are you talking about? You’re the one that’s fresh from killing wee Dougie Dowds. You’re just after admitting that.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘but that was an accident. I’ve already told you. This is the first time I’ve ever had to kill somebody deliberately. I’m an architect, for God’s sake. You’re the criminal. You’re the one with the expertise in this field.’

  I was really starting to believe that this whole thing might actually be a dream. A right corker of a dream, granted, but a dream all the same. Then I came to the conclusion that even my formidable unconscious mind could never come up with something on this scale. Plus, the outrageous pain caused by the ovenware served to assure me that the whole thing was real.

  ‘Tell me this, Brian,’ I said, ‘have you ever read any books by Ian Rankin – the Rebus stuff?’

  He thought about it for a minute. ‘Now that you mention it, I think I’ve read one or two. A while ago.’

  ‘How about one called A Question of Blood?’ I said. ‘The one with me in it? Have you read that? Cause I think you’re maybe labouring under a false impression of who I actually am, pal. In real life, I’ve never been done for so much as light GBH, Brian, never mind killed a guy. I’m an ideas man, with a part-time sideline in petty theft to pay the bills. You’re the one that should be in a fucking Rankin book, instead of hiding behind this “I’m an architect” bullshit. I’ve got news for you, pal. You’re no longer an architect – you’re a fucking murderer and you’d better fucking get used to it.’

  But my rant appeared to have been lost on him. He was off in a wee world of his own, pontificating. And then he came to, with a bright smile on his face, looking as pleased as punch.

  ‘I think you might be on to something,’ he said, and wandered off and started opening and closing drawers, looking for God knows what. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Ian Rankin, that’s a good idea. I’m glad I read those books now. Never really enjoyed them at the time, but there was a wheen of stuff in there I could use for guidance.’

  ‘That’s not what I was meaning.’

  ‘Either way, I think you’re on to something. Ah, here we are now.’

  Now, personally I don’t spend all that much time in the kitchen. I can put a passable fry-up together, heat up a tin of soup and what have you, but I’m not particularly au fait with the correct terms and uses for the barrage of utensils you’d find strewn about the average kitchen. Nevertheless, I feel pretty confident in stating that what Brian had pulled from the drawer, and found very much to his liking, was a dirty great meat cleaver. The blade was almost square, a beast of a thing, and the edge looked as sharp as a razor blade.

  ‘Now wait a minute there . . .’ I said as he came stoating across the room towards me, brandishing it proudly. He might very well have been telling the truth when he claimed that hurling Dougie Dowds over that balcony rail had been entirely accidental, but now that he’d stumbled upon a new vocation he seemed determined to dedicate himself to it with gusto. It was hard to ignore the fact that what he’d most likely done was discover his true calling on the twenty-third of June, after a barrage of wasted years mistakenly thinking he’d been put on God’s green earth to design low-cost housing and multi-storey car parks.

  ‘Easy does it,’ he said as he dropped down to his knees in front of me and moved the butcher’s blade about in a worrying manner. ‘If you try anything funny here, I’ll have your leg off at the knee. All right?’

  Then he ran the cleaver down through the tape that was securing my left ankle to the leg of the chair and pulled my foot midway between the two chair legs. He looked up at me for my response and I nodded, then he did the same thing to the tape round my right leg and pulled that in towards the other one.

  He’d the roll of duct tape down there on the floor beside him, and as he ripped off a strip I considered my chances of kicking him quickly in the face before he’d time to lash out at me with his weapon. It was no doubt doable, but the odds of me getting enough force into it to be certain I’d avoid a chibbing seemed low, especially when you took into account the size of the guy and the fact that I’d still be strapped to the chair afterwards, with my hands tied behind my back. So I sat there like a tadger while he taped my ankles together, then he stood up and jabbed the cleaver at the left-hand side of my chest, cutting the tape that was there, and going round to the other side to do the same.

  ‘Right,’ he said then. ‘That’s you. Stand up.’

  I frowned at him. ‘What for?’

  ‘Cause we’re going for a drive,’ he said. ‘You were spot on with that Ian Rankin idea. Cheers for that. Stand up!’

  He punctuated the suggestion by pushing the front edge of the knife against my arm, which was actually quite persuasive, so I gave it a go.

  I’m sure you know what it’s like trying to raise yourself from a sitting position with your ankles bound together and your arms tied behind your back. Not easy. Especially when your sense of balance has been adversely affected by a severe blow to the head. But I got there. I got there, and then I wondered what next – my options seemed somewhat limited.

  ‘The garage is just through that door there,’ Brian said. ‘Let’s go. Nice and easy.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ I asked him. ‘Look at me! I can’t fucking move. Are you taking the piss, Brian?’

  ‘Bounce,’ he told me. ‘Just jump. Come on.’

  ‘Cut the tape,’ I told him. ‘I’ll walk there. Stop acting like a prick.’

  ‘I can’t risk it,’ he said. ‘I don’t trust you.’ He turned the sharp end of the blade towards me and laid it against my chest. ‘Start bouncing,’ he said. ‘Now!’

  So I gave it a shot, and like I’d imagined, it was a nonstarter. I got about three feet and then I couped backwards. And I landed on the kitchen floor with a bang. I felt as if I’d burst my fucking lungs.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Brian said, standing over me.

  I lay there looking up at him. ‘What the fuck were you expecting?’ I said.

  He shook his head. ‘Don’t move,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an idea. Give me a minute. You’re a fucking liability, Peacock.’

  And then it was just me lying there. Wondering exactly what he had in mind. And wishing I’d gone straight to Stewart Street when I’d had the chance, rather than taking John Jack’s daft advice and coming here first.

  13

  It’s funny the things that go through your mind when you’re lying trussed up in
the boot of a BMW, being driven at speed to what you can only assume will be your final resting place. I’m sure you’ve had a similar experience yourself at some point, and that you’ve found yourself focusing on your biggest regrets in life, the things you wished you’d done but that you never quite got round to. That’s what was going on in my case anyway, and what I found myself honing in on was the idea that if I could have my time again, I’d have done a bit more reading. I’d have used my days a bit more wisely in that regard.

  Now – don’t get me wrong – it’s not the highbrow stuff I would’ve gone for. I was untroubled regarding my ignorance of Shakespeare or Wordsworth, Dostoevsky or Stephen King. I was quite content to go to my grave never having suffered the indignity of trudging my way through any of that mince. But if I could have gone back in time by even a month or two, what I would have done was applied myself assiduously to the works of the boy Rankin. That’s where I felt I’d made my greatest mistake. If I’d ploughed through his back catalogue when I’d had the chance, I’d no doubt have been able to work out what plotline Brian was in the process of plagiarising – and could have come up with a plan to get myself out of it in some way.

  As things stood, though, I’d only ever read the book Rankin had papped me in, and even getting through that one had been a bit of a chore. It was somewhat light on the joie de vivre, if you know what I mean. So I couldn’t even begin to fathom what Brian’s plans might be, which put me at a distinct disadvantage when it came to thinking of a way of trying to counteract them.

  I’d had one brainwave back at his abode while the two of us were struggling to fold me up into the boot, hampered somewhat in our efforts by my inability to do much manoeuvring myself and Brian’s general sense of impatience at getting me in there.

  The idea had struck me while he was dragging me across the kitchen floor on a blanket he’d encouraged me to roll on to, and I’d felt certain I’d come up with a robust plan that was fully capable of doing the business.

  ‘Are you sure all this fucking about is absolutely necessary, Brian?’ I’d said, when he had me standing up in the internal garage and he was unlocking the boot of the car.

  ‘I wish it wasn’t,’ he said. ‘We’ve always been good pals, Peacock, but you can see the fix I’m in. This is the only solution.’

  ‘Maybe there’s another one, though,’ I said. ‘You know what I’m like, eh? I’m an ideas man, Brian. All that matters to me are my ideas. Everything else is purely secondary. Background noise.’

  He pushed down on my shoulders, forcing me to sit on the edge of the boot, then he bent down and lifted my feet. ‘Lean back and spin round,’ he said, and he pushed my feet, bending me further at the knees.

  I did what he told me and crowned myself on the underside of the boot lid.

  ‘This fingerprint idea means everything to me, Brian,’ I said. ‘Seriously. And your private life’s your own affair, as far as I’m concerned. As long as you’re still willing to invest in my future, that’s good enough for me. Your financial backing buys my silence, permanently. Why the fuck would I want to see you in jail when it would mean the end of my business?’

  He gave it some welly with the pushing, and I wriggled about this way and that, and finally I was lying flat on my back in the boot of the car, looking up at him imploringly.

  For a minute it even seemed like he might be buying it, then the possibility passed. ‘It’s too big a risk,’ he said.

  ‘How?’ I asked him. ‘Where’s the risk? If I ever breathed a word of it to anybody, my funding would be gone. The business would go tits up. It’s airtight, Brian – rock solid.’

  He shook his head. ‘The business might succeed,’ he said, ‘in a big way. Then you’d be financially secure, and the day might come when we’d have a disagreement about something.’

  He ripped a generous strip off the roll of duct tape and slapped it across my gub, putting paid to any further communication on my part. I’d been wanting to ask him, if all else failed, just exactly what it was he had in mind for me, where it was we were going, but even that was out of the question now.

  He started battering tape across my body, pinning me to the floor of the boot, and attaching my feet so I couldn’t lift them either. It struck me as overkill, but it seemed to keep him happy. And once he’d given it all a good hard tug to make sure it was nice and solid, he stood looking down at me and gave me a friendly wee nod. Then he reached up for the boot lid and thumped it shut authoritatively.

  And I was in total darkness.

  From the time the car started moving, as well as being consumed by regrets about my reading habits, I was also following every turn we made and estimating how far we travelled between each turn, trying to work out exactly where we were going. I knew for certain we’d turned left at the end of Brian’s driveway, and then right when we’d reached the main road, but everything after that had the air of speculation about it. I felt pretty certain we’d gone into the centre of town, and from there headed for the Expressway, but I was well aware I could easily have made some fundamental error along the way, and the truth of the matter might be that we were in a totally different part of the city from the one I was picturing.

  Nevertheless, the fact that I was strapped up like Houdini, and the general direction I imagined we were travelling in, made it seem odds-on favourite that what Brian was planning to do was dump me in the Clyde, in a state that would make swimming something of a nonstarter.

  I imagined them fishing my body out of the Firth in a couple of weeks’ time, bloated beyond all recognition, so that they’d have to identify me by the state of my teeth. Then some genius at police headquarters would conclude that it had been bound to come to me sooner or later, if what he’d read about my gun-running and drug-dealing in Rankin’s book was anything to go by. The police would no doubt make one or two idle inquiries here and there and draw a blank, concluding that this kind of thing happens all the time amongst gangsters – nothing really for them to get involved in – and Brian would be off scot-free. Utterly unsuspected. McFadgen would be delighted I was off the streets, the mother-in-law would start trying to coax the wife out onto the dating scene at the earliest possible opportunity, and it would probably only be Bev herself who would be in any way bothered I was gone.

  Then I had a happier thought. It occurred to me that if this scenario was something Brian had ripped off from a Rankin novel, it was very unlikely the killer in that book had used something as pishy as duct tape to tie his victim up before plunging them into the cold dark depths. More likely it had been rope, or chains. There was a right good chance, in my opinion, that duct tape might fail to keep its consistency in water – especially water as chemically toxic as the Clyde. The stuff was bound to expand, weaken – melt even. As long as I could keep myself afloat long enough maybe I’d make it. Brian was a rank amateur, I had that on my side. I’d no doubt catch some pretty manky disease from the river, but I’d recover from that – in time. Maybe things weren’t quite as bleak as I’d been painting them after all.

  The car stopped. If this was our final destination, my calculations were way off. I was aware of the driver’s door opening, and slamming shut again, then the soft thud of the central-locking system sparking up. That, in itself, was unexpected. If he was coming to get me out of the boot, what the fuck was he locking it for? He must be having a scout around first, making sure nobody else was about – wherever the hell we were.

  Then a second possibility occurred to me: maybe this was just a quick stop-off on the way to our journey’s end. My navigating had been good enough, and he was just nipping into a shop for something he’d need as part of his plan. My heart sank at that, cause it meant he’d more than likely had the same insight I’d had myself – that the tape would loosen up in the water. He was no doubt off on a jaunt to acquire some rope, or even just something nice and heavy he could attach me to, to make sure I went down like a bad joke and didn’t come back up again.

  I tried wriggling
about. If we were in the vicinity of a shop there might be some folk about, and if I could manage to bash at the underside of the boot maybe one of them would hear me. I pushed myself one way and then the other. Nothing. He’d fixed me in good and proper. I tried pushing my tongue against the strip of tape across my mouth, but there was nothing doing there, either. A couple of go’s and the gag reflex kicked in, which definitely didn’t seem desirable, given the chances of me choking to death on my own vomit.

  I calmed my beans. ‘Patience, Peacock,’ I told myself. ‘Patience, son. Save your energy for when you’ll need it.’

  Here’s the thing, though – I’m pretty sure a good hour must have passed without there being any sign of Brian returning to the scene of the crime. It’s probably even harder to estimate how long you’ve spent lying in a darkened boot than it is to try and follow where you’re being taken when you can’t see the road, especially when a quick glance at your watch is totally out of the question. But it certainly felt like a hell of a long time. And then I started to think that maybe this was just it. Maybe at some point he’d come back and slip a hose into the boot and attach it to the exhaust, and leave the car running till I was done. Or maybe he just wouldn’t come back. Maybe I’d just be lying here till I croaked from lack of water, and that would be it. How long does that take? Forty-eight hours? Something like that?

  I think I started to have a panic attack then. Maybe dehydration wasn’t even necessary. Maybe he knew the boot was airtight enough that I’d soon have used up all the oxygen, and then I’d just peg out. I could feel it happening. My head was light, each breath seemed harder and harder to take. My life started flashing before my eyes.

  And the worst of it was, it wasn’t even my whole life that was doing the flashing – it was really just a concentrated chunk of it, the past week or so, in every excruciatingly arsed-up detail. My excitement about getting the fingerprint business off the ground. McFadgen crashing in on my plans with his mad theory that I’d whacked Dougie Dowds. My idiot idea of finding out from John Jack who was really responsible for stealing the painting. My bampot attempt to keep McFadgen from finding out it was Vince Cowie that had taken it. My moronic decision to go and fill Brian in on what was happening rather than going straight to Stewart Street and getting myself locked up there and then. I could be sitting pretty in a cell right now, instead of lying in here replaying all of this shite against my will, slowly suffocating – or waiting to be drowned – or waiting for a pipe to slide in through the back seat and start pumping carbon monoxide into my lungs.