Two-Way Split

by Guthrie, Allan

  TWO-WAY SPLIT

  by

  Allan Guthrie

  This edition copyright 2011 Allan Guthrie

  Original edition copyright 2004, Allan Guthrie.

  First published by PointBlank Press, 2004

  Published in the UK by Polygon, 2005

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by JT Lindroos

  Cover photograph by Lukasz Kryger

  www.flickr.com/photos/_kryger/3175366848

  Visit the author's website at:

  http://www.allanguthrie.co.uk

  Visit Criminal-E, Allan Guthrie's ebook crime fiction blog, at:

  http://criminal-e.blogspot.com

  Visit the print publisher's website at:

  http://www.birlinn.co.uk

  Version 3-2-4

  Also available on Kindle by Allan Guthrie

  Bye Bye Baby, a novella

  Amazon UK, Amazon US

  A Top Ten Kindle Bestseller

  When a seven-year-old boy disappears after school, the case is handed to Detective Frank Collins. He's been looking to lead a high-profile case for a while, and sets out determined to prove his worth. But the missing schoolboy is only a trigger for another crime. Someone is intent on exploiting the boy's grief-stricken mother. And they have plans for Frank Collins too.

  " a police procedural filled with incident … and man, what an ending." Detectives Beyond Borders

  Killing Mum, a novella

  Amazon UK, Amazon US

  Receiving ten grand as down payment on a hit isn't that much of a surprise to Carlos Morales. After all, arranging contract killings is his business. But he never expected that someone might want his mother dead!

  What's equally troubling is the fact that the anonymous package arrived addressed to 'Charlie'. Only two people call him by that name: his wife and his mother. Has his wife just hired him to whack her mother-in-law? Or is his mother just looking for some help to put an end to her misery? Or maybe there's another answer entirely.

  One thing's for sure: Carlos is about to find out.

  "… another fantastic whirlwind of violence and intrigue from Allan Guthrie, who is fast becoming a master in his genre." Euro Crime

  For my wife, Donna

  PART ONE

  11th JANUARY, 2001

  10:23 am

  Four months and twenty-two days after he stopped taking his medication, Robin Greaves dragged the chair out from under the desk and sat down opposite the private investigator.

  After all this time, everything still seemed normal.

  As the PI shuffled through a stack of papers he'd scooped out of a plastic tray, Robin glanced round the office. It didn't take long. A desk, the chairs they were sitting on, a filing cabinet, a plain grey carpet with a rectangular indentation to the left of the doorway (a heavy piece of furniture had once stood there, he guessed) – that was it. Behind the PI, a framed certificate hung at an angle on the wall and, above his head, a bare bulb dangled from the ceiling. The only natural light came from a single tiny window on the right.

  Well, Robin thought, here he was. About to find out, at last. That's what he wanted, wasn't it?

  Hands hidden beneath the desk, he started to tap out Bach's Italian Concerto on his thighs, fingers making little slapping sounds against his trousers. The PI glared at him for a second or two, then returned to the serious business of scrutinising his papers.

  Robin winced as a twinge in his wrist momentarily paralysed his fingers. When the stabbing pain passed, he locked his hands together and squeezed them between his knees. He took a deep breath. As much as he wanted to know the truth, part of him would have preferred to remain ignorant.

  The PI coughed. After a while he coughed again and began placing each sheet of paper, individually, back in the tray from which, only moments before, he'd removed it. When he'd finished, he stood slowly, as if his knees needed oiling, and approached the grey, three-drawer filing cabinet crammed in the corner of the room. He tugged at the middle drawer. It didn't budge. He opened the top drawer, fiddled with a catch on the side, shut it and tried the middle drawer again. This time it slid open.

  He started flicking through dozens of green suspension files, tongue darting in and out of his puckered mouth as he sought the information Robin had requested.

  Robin stood. "Mind if I smoke?"

  "Yes."

  Robin shrugged and walked towards the window. A fire escape fragmented his view of a pebble-dashed brick wall four feet away. Hardly the finest vista in Edinburgh. He tapped his fingers against the windowpane, listening to the deep drumming sound, wondering why it was so unlike the tinkle glass makes when it breaks. "You going to be long?" he said.

  "Be with you in just a second."

  Robin wedged his hands in his trouser pockets and bent his knees. With his head craned back just far enough to be uncomfortable, he could see a sliver of grey sky. He ambled back to his chair, took his hands out of his pockets and rubbed his left eye with the back of his wrist. For a while he sat motionless, observing the PI. Then a muffled cry came from outside, where a crow was perched on the far railing of the fire escape. It shuffled to the left, stopped. Another two steps, stopped again. It looked straight at Robin, opened its beak and squawked.

  If it was trying to tell him something, it was wasting its time.

  The PI slammed the drawer shut and turned, gripping a white envelope between his finger and thumb as if it was a soiled tissue. He lobbed the envelope onto the desk.

  Robin trapped it beneath his palm and let his hand rest there as he gazed out the window, watching the crow fly away.

  "Go ahead," the PI said. "Open it."

  The envelope was unsealed. Robin reached inside and removed a handful of photographs.

  "You wanted proof." The PI sat down.

  Robin said nothing. Did he really want proof? Did he really want to know? The skin over his cheekbones prickled as if he'd been out in the sun too long.

  Proof. Photographs. He couldn't look. Didn't want to see them.

  Don't look. Don't do it. Don't. Oh, shit, you've done it now.

  The first photo. A couple getting into a taxi. By itself, proof of nothing. He let out a long breath. They could be going out for a friendly drink. The fact that his hand was on her elbow was, well…you could easily read too much into something perfectly innocent.

  This was Robin's first visit to Eye Witness Investigations. He didn't know the private detective's name and he'd never asked. He didn't care. His solitary prior contact with the PI had been over the phone.

  Robin had said, "I need you to watch someone."

  The PI replied, "May I ask why?"

  "I want to find out if she's…seeing anybody." Robin hesitated. "Can you do that?"

  "I can do that."

  "How much?"

  "Three hundred a day."

  "Give me proof within seventy-two hours and you get fifteen hundred. You need a deposit?"

  The PI said, "That won't be necessary. Just give me your name and a contact number."

  "The name's Robin Greaves. I'd rather you didn't phone me, though. I'll get in touch with you."

  "Let me write this down." The PI broke off for a second, then said, "What's her name?"

  The sound of gunfire blasted through the paper-thin walls of Robin's sitting room. He would have jumped if it weren't for the fact that by now he was used to his elderly neighbour watching Westerns on his TV with the volume cranked up. God, this was hard. Finally, he spoke. "Carol," he said. "My wife." He
gave the PI their address.

  Within seventy-two hours, he'd said. He couldn't complain. He was getting the service he'd asked for.

  He slapped the picture face down on the desk. His palms were sweaty. In the next picture the photographer had snapped them from behind, catching them holding hands.

  "I'm sorry," the PI said.

  Who did he think he was? Who was he to be sorry? When Robin looked at the third photo he noticed his hand was shaking. The picture showed the couple entering a nightclub. The next shot, in which they were laughing, had been taken as they left. In the fifth, Eddie had his arm around her. In the sixth, Carol had her fingers tucked in his back pocket. There were ten photographs in all. The remaining four showed the same scene: his wife and her good friend Eddie in the doorway to his flat, joined at the neck, the chest, hips, his arms twisted around her, her eyes closed.

  He tucked the photos back in the envelope.

  "Happy?" The PI coughed again. "Or maybe that's not the right word. Satisfied?"

  Happy? Satisfied? Who was this joker? Patches of black spotted the edges of Robin's vision.

  The PI stared at him, grinning.

  Robin imagined leaping across the desk, ramming the heel of his hand into the bastard's nose, then standing back and watching the blood stream out of it. He imagined the injured man staggering to his feet, groaning behind the hand cupped over his very probably broken nose, shirt collar a red band around his throat. Robin took out his wallet and counted fifteen hundred pounds in fifties, the last of his money, withdrawn from the bank less than an hour ago. He bent forward.

  The PI leaped backwards with a yell. His hand fell from his face, tracing a dark red curve on the pale wallpaper behind him. He leaned against the wall, snorted, spat into his hand. His mouth sprang open and his stained teeth chattered. He blinked several times, then said, in a thin, sticky voice, "What was that for?"

  Robin took shallow breaths. He dropped the money into the plastic tray on the desk. His lungs were full of pebbles. He ferreted in his jacket pocket and found his cigarettes and disposable lighter. He stuck a cigarette to his bottom lip. Had he hit the poor man? Surely not. But there was no one else in the room and the PI hadn't assaulted himself, had he? Robin lit the cigarette. "I'm sorry," he told the cowering figure, stuffing his cigarettes and lighter back in his pocket and picking up the envelope. "I don't know what—"

  He had to leave right this minute. Who knew what would happen if he stayed?

  10:25 am

  Winter in Scotland was far too cold to walk around bare-chested. That's why Pearce wore a t-shirt. His fists clenched, relaxed and clenched again. His forearm muscles writhed under his goose-pimpled skin. He smacked his hands together.

  Who wanted to live in a tower block? Last time he ventured into this area was over ten years ago. A housing scheme roughly six miles west of the city, Wester Hailes was known as the dumping ground for single mothers, the elderly, the unemployed, winos, whores, students, foreigners, crazies, ex-cons, junkies, and dyke social workers. The properties were damp. The heating didn't work. There were problems with the plumbing. The lifts kept breaking down.

  Ten years ago Wester Hailes was Edinburgh's drug centre. Junkies congregated from all over the city to share needles in the dozens of abandoned flats.

  As Pearce's sister had said, "The views from the top are pretty cool. Get high to get high, you know. You got the Pentlands to the south. You ever seen snow-capped mountains through a heroin haze? And on the other side, sometimes I see the struts of the Railway Bridge wriggle just like my veins after I've jacked up."

  Last time Pearce was here he arrived too late. Dislodged from his sister's arm, a syringe nestled against the skirting board. She lay on her back, naked, her only view a web of cracks in the ceiling. She'd been dead for two days.

  Maybe things had changed, like they said, although it needed more than a bit of re-cladding to convince him. At street level the multi-storey blocks shortened his horizon. He felt hemmed in, imprisoned. He rubbed his palms on his jeans.

  An upturned shopping trolley blocked the doorway of the building he was looking for.

  "Hey!"

  He craned his neck. On the top floor a teenage boy in a grey hooded top was leaning over the balcony, waving. He held something in his hand. Without warning, he let go. Pearce stepped to the side. The object struck the ground a couple of feet from where he'd been standing, bounced once and rolled to a stop. A syringe. Clear plastic split down the centre, plunger depressed, needle snapped off in the fall. He tossed the trolley out of the way and ducked through the doorway. So much for change.

  Staircase to the left. Sprinting up the stairs. Out of breath. "Muriel!" Lift straight ahead, door yawning at him. Chest tight, he stepped inside the lift and its scarred, steel-grey mouth swallowed him. The door shut with a clang that made sweat break out on his forehead. Stale air filled his nostrils. His hand shook as he pressed the button for the eighth floor.

  He had arrived too late. Stop it. He had failed to protect her. Forget it. She's dead. I wasn't looking out for her. Stop it. Think about something else. Do what you're here to do. Focus on the job.

  The old man was called Willie Cant and his mother had gone to school with him. They'd even kissed once, she told Pearce. She asked him not to be too hard on the old guy. Pearce looked down at the steel toecaps of his light-brown boots. They could cause a bit of damage. He wouldn't use his feet, then. The lift grumbled to a halt and the door struggled open.

  Two teenage boys blocked Pearce's path. Fifteen, sixteen years old. The one wearing the grey hooded top pointed a knife at him.

  Pearce said, "Move."

  The teenager's hand was unsteady. He glanced at his pal, and grinned. His teeth were yellow.

  Pearce took a step to the side and the youth mirrored his movement. "Out of my way," Pearce said.

  "Where's the party? We invited?"

  Pearce's eyes probed the boy's. Dull brown. No sparkle. Lots of movement. The silence lengthened. In a little while, the one without the knife spoke and the voice startled Pearce. It belonged to a girl.

  "Let's piss off, Ross," she said. "This guy's weird."

  Pearce's eyes darted over the contours of her light brown jumper, then back to Ross. "Listen to your girlfriend," he said.

  She had started to move. She was tugging Ross's sleeve. Her hair was as short as Pearce's.

  Ross licked his bottom lip slowly, carefully, as if his tongue was an expensive lipstick. Somewhere below, a dog started to bark. Ross lowered his hand and his tongue shot back into his mouth. "Next time," he said, faking confidence, and wheeled around.

  Pearce watched them disappear up the stone staircase. The girl shouted something he didn't quite catch and forced laughter ricocheted off the walls. Cant's handwritten name was taped on top of the garish pink paintwork of his front door. The letter a had been scored out and replaced with a u. Pearce slipped a fingernail under a burst paint blister, which peeled off like boiled skin.

  He slammed on the door with the heel of his hand. "Open up." He waited a minute, watching the second hand of his watch complete a full circle, before hammering on the door again. Then he waited another minute, precisely. "Last chance, Cant."

  From the other side of the door a quiet voice said, "What do you want?"

  Okay, let's see. I want to pay off the grand I owe Cooper. And I want Mum to get another job. It's not safe working there these days. To Cant he said, "I think you know."

  The old man whined, "I don't."

  "Open up."

  After a moment, Cant whispered, "I don't want to have to hurt you."

  "That's very thoughtful," Pearce said. "Now open the door."

  Silence.

  Following Joe Hope's advice, Pearce tried a different approach. "My mum remembers you," he said. "Hilda Pearce. When she knew you she was Hilda Larbert. You were at school together. Ring any bells?"

  A slight pause. Then, "What are you going to do to me?"

  "You're
making me angry. Open the door, Mr Cant." He waited. "Go on. You can do it."

  "Tell him he can have his money tomorrow."

  Pearce took a deep breath. Fuck Joe Hope's advice. What did he know? He was nothing more than one of Cooper's hired thugs. Pearce flicked a switch in his head and instantly words rattled out of his mouth like bullets out of a machine-gun. "If you don't open the door right now you piece of shit there's no way I'm going to be accountable for what happens to you, you with me on this, you understand or do I have to explain it all again?" He waited a moment, took a step back, aimed to the right of the handle and kicked the door with his heel. His boot went straight through the wood and stuck there. He hopped a couple of times until he regained his balance. Splinters scuffed his boot as he dragged his foot back out.

  He dug his hand in his pocket and pulled out a pair of surgical gloves. They fitted like an extra layer of skin. He wriggled his gloved hand through the hole and fumbled for the key. His fingers caressed the empty keyhole, slid up the door and turned the knob on the Yale. Locked. He flicked the snib downwards and tried again. The door opened, but only as far as the length of chain allowed. He leaned against the door, tearing the chain out of the wall.

  Cant's flat smelled of dried vomit. A puff of dust rose from the carpeted hallway as Pearce stepped into the old man's home. Coffee-brown stains flecked the left hand wall. The right was shelved. Two shelves. A dead plant on each.

  The old man had fled.

  But he had to be here somewhere. Pearce walked to the end of the hallway. The door facing him was shut. There was another door to his left, open a crack. He kicked it.

  A single bed was jammed against the wall. He lifted the quilt and glanced underneath. Dozens of identical socks – grey with parallel strips of red diamonds – littered the floor. He lowered the quilt and reached the wardrobe in two small steps. Brass handles. Dark wood scarred in a dozen places. He opened both doors. Empty, except for a solitary coat hanger and more socks. The right hand door squeaked when he closed it.