His eyes swept the room one last time. Turning, he stepped into the hallway and grabbed the handle of the other door. It clicked and swung open with a groan.
Cant was pressed into the far corner of his living room, upper body gently rocking. He didn't look up. Pearce traced the grain of an unvarnished floorboard with a critical eye. Living room segued into kitchen with only a tattered patch of linoleum indicating the change. Grime coated the kitchen surfaces. A tower of dirty dishes sat next to the sink and more dishes swam in a basin of filthy water. The open drawer by the sink was where, presumably, the old man had found the bread knife he was cradling against his chest.
Pearce would never live like this. He'd die first. He found himself wondering what his mum had seen in Cant. Well, who could tell with kids? Would she still have kissed him at school had she known he would end up in this pitiful state? Probably. Mum was all heart. Always had been. She understood why he'd had to kill Priestley.
"Fifty quid." He fixed his eyes on the old man.
Cant's lips were moving. He was mumbling. Praying, maybe. For all the good it would do.
"Due yesterday," Pearce continued.
Cant stilled for a moment, then started rocking and mumbling again.
Pearce moved towards him.
"No closer," Cant cried out. His bony fingers squeezed the handle of the knife, his knuckles pale, the skin stretched across the back of his hand. His shoulders heaved as he gulped air in desperate mouthfuls. "No closer, you bastard." He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. His eyes met Pearce's briefly, then lowered to gaze at the floor.
"The way I look at it," Pearce said, "I'm doing you a favour. You'll be looked after in hospital. Free meals. No bills. And by the time you get out you'll have saved enough to pay back Mr Cooper."
The old man fell to his knees. "Go away." He dropped the knife. "Please." Eyes shut, he rolled over onto his side and drew his knees to his chest.
Pearce picked up the knife. He carried it into the kitchen, returned it to the open drawer and slammed the drawer shut. He yawned and said, "Excuse me," into his cupped hand as he ambled back over to Cant. He prodded Cant's scrawny arm with his toe.
The old man's eyes snapped open. His arm recoiled and he tucked it between his legs. His dark eyelashes fluttered. A thick thread of drool joined the side of his mouth to the floor.
"I'll give you another twenty-four hours," Pearce said. "But fifty pounds won't be enough." He rubbed a thick finger across his chin, enjoying the rasping sound it made. "You've defaulted on a payment. That's a ten pound fixed penalty. My time's another ten. Interest, that's another ten. And another twenty, say, for not breaking anything. What's that? A hundred?"
Cant looked up. He sniffed, propped himself on an elbow. "You're a nice guy," he said.
Pearce nodded, eying Cant's socks. They were grey, with red diamonds.
10:44 am
"Pish." Kennedy was holding a cup of coffee in each hand and his phone was ringing. Directly ahead of him, residue of Edinburgh's volcanic past, Salisbury Crags formed a jagged wall high enough to obscure the massive mound of Arthur's Seat. Just looking at it made him dizzy. He tried to find somewhere to deposit the paper cups. "Pish," he said again. If only the drinks dispenser hadn't been repossessed. He bent down and set the cups on the ground.
Expecting the caller to hang up just as he answered, he dug his mobile out of his pocket. "Kennedy," he said.
He was wrong. The caller said, "Where are you?"
The voice sounded familiar, even if it was strangely nasal. He asked, "That you, boss?"
"Course it's me. Where are you?"
"Across from the office."
"He should be leaving the building now."
"Who should? You developed a heavy cold since I went to get the coffee? Either that or you're wearing a nose-plug. Oh, God. You haven't taken up synchronised swimming, have you?"
"Shut up and listen."
"Since you asked so politely."
"About five ten, five eleven. Short dark-brown hair. Padded black jacket. See him?"
The grocers beneath the office had spawned a canopy when it changed owners a couple of months ago. Two wall-mounted heaters kept the crates of vegetables that littered the pavement from freezing. Today's special deal was on cabbages: two for the price of one. Kennedy couldn't manage to eat a single cabbage before it went off, let alone two. He had the same problem with bread. Even small sliced loaves were too big. In fact, half the food he bought went stale or rotted and ended up in the bin. If only you could buy individual bread slices. Or pairs, in case you wanted a sandwich. Maybe it was time he bought a freezer.
He'd have to get paid first, though. Or get a new job. He'd just about had enough of this one. God, he was bored.
His boss's voice again: "Do you see him?"
To the left of the grocers, six narrow steps led to a salmon pink door. It was shut. "No." As he spoke, the door opened. "Wait. Got him, I think. Dark green trousers?"
"Yeah. Don't hang up. Get in the car and follow him."
"What about your coffee?"
"Screw the coffee."
"I would, but I don't fancy the blisters."
"Not funny. Now move."
Kennedy left the coffee on the pavement and crossed the road. "He's getting in his car. Want the registration?"
"Read it out."
He read it out. "Who is he?"
"Robin Greaves."
"Isn't he a client?"
"He was."
Robin Greaves's metallic green Renault Clio squealed away from the kerb.
"He's off. Speak to you in a minute." Kennedy dropped the phone onto the passenger seat. He let a couple of cars pass, then tucked in behind a silver Nissan Micra. Driving one-handed, he picked up the phone again and said, "Wasn't Greaves's wife involved in a bit of extra-marital?"
"Yeah." His boss sniffed. "I showed him the pictures."
"How did he take it?"
"He broke my nose."
"No shit?" Kennedy bit his lip and rocked with silent laughter. After a while he cleared his throat and said, "Broke it, eh?"
"No shit." After a pause, his boss said, "And your sympathy is duly noted."
He wanted sympathy? Kennedy said, "I'm very bloody sorry. Sir."
"Don't be an arsehole, Kennedy."
Neither man spoke for a while.
Kennedy's boss finally broke the silence. "When he gets where he's going, phone me."
"Shouldn't you go to the hospital and get your nose fixed?"
"I'm staying right here. And, Kennedy? I don't need your bloody advice."
The line went dead.
Robin Greaves led Kennedy through light traffic towards town, then headed east down Leith Street. Construction work was underway at Greenside. The shell was now in place and already it was brown with rust. In yesterday's paper some journalist had suggested that the sixty screens offered by Edinburgh's eight existing cinemas ought to be enough for a city with a population of less than half-a-million. Building a new multiplex at Greenside, so claimed the writer, was a scandalous waste of money. Kennedy wouldn't have worded it quite as strongly, but he agreed that it did seem excessive. Bizarrely, though, the dickhead had gone on to complain about Edinburgh having twice as many bookshops as Glasgow. Which gave a new slant to the whole article. Kennedy chucked the paper in the bin, since the journalist was obviously from the west coast and therefore everything he said was unadulterated pish.
Greaves turned off Leith Walk, Kennedy following two cars behind. Greaves parked in Iona Street, got out of his car and entered a block of flats in a tenement where scaffolding had spread in rectangles like ivy with an instinct for geometry. Kennedy was impressed. The scaffolders had done a hell of a job. Kennedy had no head for heights. When he painted his ceiling last month, he'd almost fallen off the stepladder.
He found a place to park and called his boss. "How's the nose?"
"Where is he?"
Kennedy peered through the scaffolding
and read the number off the door.
"Ah, he's returned to the nest," his boss said.
"Probably could have worked that out for myself. The set of keys gave it away." There was no reply. "What do you want me to do?"
His boss said, "I'm thinking."
With the phone still held to his ear Kennedy got out of the car and crossed to the doorway where Greaves had disappeared. "You still there?" he said into the phone.
"Yeah."
On the left of the doorway a row of buzzers ran down the wall, and opposite each buzzer, protected by a clear plastic cover, was a name. Sixth from the top, beneath Hewitt and above Law, was Greaves. Kennedy said, "Looks like our man lives on the second floor. Want me to pop up and say hello?"
"Keep out of sight for the moment. And keep an eye on him until I tell you otherwise."
"If he leaves his flat?"
"Follow him."
10:57 am
Pearce had been living in his mum's spare room for the last two months. It didn't amount to much, but it was home, and it was a big improvement on what he'd been used to for the last ten years.
One night, relaxing with a can of Tennants, listening to his mum's Burt Bacharach CD, he'd told her about Julie. It took a lot of nerve.
She said, "How can you have been so stupid?"
"Stop it, Mum." He looked at her and his shoulders slumped and he said no more.
She released a big fat sigh. She said, "Come here, you great pillock. It's so good to have you back."
He had known Julie for two weeks. Retrospectively, it might have been too soon to get engaged and, certainly, his mum thought so. But, at the time, it seemed like a good idea. How gullible could you get? He had never had any luck with women. You want to get engaged, Pearce? Nothing better to do on a Saturday morning. Yeah, Julie, but what's the catch? Julie wanted a diamond ring and she'd seen one she liked in Jenners. If he could put up the money she'd pay him back when the banks opened on Monday.
"I won't let you pay for your own ring," he said.
"I want to. In fact, I insist. Besides, you can't afford it."
He thought about it for no time at all. "You're right," he said. "I don't have that kind of money."
"What about your friend, Cooper?"
"Cooper isn't a friend. I don't want any favours from him."
"You scared of him?" She touched his bare arm.
Pearce went to see Cooper, borrowed a grand and bought Julie's ring. They parted after lunch, at one thirteen, and that was the last time he saw her. They'd arranged to meet later that evening but she didn't show up. When he dialled her mobile it was switched off. He left a message. Soon afterwards, he visited the address she'd given him, a semi-detached in Gilmerton. When he got there the owner claimed he'd never heard of her. Pearce described her: tiny, slim, fragile, dark-haired, pale. The owner shook his head. Pearce checked he had the correct address and the owner said yes and closed the door. Pearce tried her mobile again and left another message.
On Sunday he went back. This time the owner wasn't so helpful. He refused Pearce's request to have a look around, so Pearce shoved him out of the way and started hunting for Julie. The television blared in the sitting room. Otherwise it was empty. In the kitchen, a pot of soup simmered on the cooker. Upstairs, he glanced inside both bedrooms. No Julie. He already felt foolish enough, otherwise he'd have checked under the beds. One last place to look. He knocked on the bathroom door and, when no one answered, he walked in. He pulled back the shower curtain, just in case she was hiding in the bath. She wasn't.
He apologised to the owner for his intrusion and promised he wouldn't be back again.
He postponed seeing Cooper for a week. By that time any last hopes of his fiancé's miraculous reappearance had vanished as surely as the thousand pound engagement ring. If he waited any longer he knew Cooper would send someone to look for him, so he went to Cooper's house and told him what had happened.
"Stitched up," Cooper said. "By a wee girl, eh?" He shook his head. "Lost it, did you, Pearce? Inside?" He pursed his lips. "What did you have in mind?"
"I thought, maybe, I could work off the debt."
"Let me think about it." Cooper showed him the door.
Two days later Pearce got a call. Cooper said, "Here's the deal. Your debt currently stands at two grand."
"Twelve hundred's what we agreed."
"We're discussing a compromise here. You want to argue with me or do you want to hear how you might be able to keep your legs?"
Pearce said, "Go on."
"You've already missed your deadline and you're telling me the girl, your security, has done a bunk with the ring, which was your sole asset. Therefore, your financial situation has changed. Accordingly I have reviewed our initial arrangement, the consequence of which is that you now owe me two grand. However, I'm prepared to let you work it off. Isn't that good of me?"
"How much are you going to pay?"
"What?"
"I want to know how long it's going to take me to pay it all back."
"That's up to you. This isn't Burger King. You don't get paid an hourly rate, same as I don't pay your national insurance and neither of us pay any tax."
"So how do I pay you back?"
"Commission. You earn twenty percent of what you recover. I'll deduct that amount from your debt. So the more you get out of my clients the happier, and richer, we'll both be."
"None of these people, your clients, have any money, Mr Cooper."
"It's surprising how often they can find money."
"Shit."
"You think so? We must use different dictionaries. Tommy Gregg, now he was a shit."
Everyone knew about Tommy. He'd mouthed off about how he wasn't scared of Cooper. One night, Cooper and one of his thugs visited Tommy's flat armed with a coffee grinder. These days, Tommy walked with a limp.
"This is the only offer you're going to get," Cooper said. "It's generous and it's non-negotiable. Difficult to believe, but Tommy used to fancy himself as a hardman." He laughed. "See him now, Pearce. If I told him to suck my dick, the dirty toeless cripple would be down on his knees with his tongue hanging out like a hundred-quid-an-hour whore before I got my zip down. You wouldn't want to end up like that, would you?" He paused for a moment. "So what's your answer?"
Pearce said, "Okay," and Cooper said he'd see him tomorrow. One of his lads would show him the ropes.
When Pearce told his mum she said, "Don't do it. I'll lend you the money."
"And where are you going to find two grand?" he asked her.
"I suppose I could borrow it from Cooper."
"Right, Mum."
Pearce dug in his pocket and pulled out the list Cooper had given him. Four names, four addresses, four debts. The first on the list wasn't at home. Cant had been second. The woman, Ailsa Lillie, was number three. She owed Cooper three hundred quid. Pearce wondered how much she'd borrowed. Hating this job already, he checked the street number, folded the paper and put it back in his pocket.
Cars slalomed down Easter Road, weaving between lay-bys and traffic islands. Buses stuttered along, threading through gaps in the oncoming traffic towards the next stop or pedestrian crossing. He squeezed through a gap in the queue at a cash machine, nearly treading on the tail of a dog tied up outside the neighbouring newsagents as he did so. At the first break in traffic, he crossed the road.
Ailsa Lillie's building was next to a bookies. The exterior wall was black with soot and traffic grime. The outside door was open, but he pressed the buzzer and waited. No harm in being polite.
10:58 am
There they go again. Bang. Bang. Bang, bang, bang.
Robin couldn't sit in his flat doing nothing, not with that racket driving him mad. For at least a week now his almost totally deaf neighbour had been watching back-to-back John Wayne movies with the volume turned all the way up. Robin usually retaliated with a CD of a late Beethoven string quartet, or something with a prominent brass section – Janacek was good – or a
Baroque opera played so loud the windows rattled. Often he'd sing along at the top of his voice. But not today. Today was different.
Two hours to go. He was tense. Couldn't stay cooped up. Had to get out.
As if being a tenant again wasn't depressing enough, their flat wasn't as nice as the old one. They no longer had a separate kitchen, for instance, and on the rare occasions either he or Carol cooked, the smell permeated the furniture in the sitting room. The couch would stink of fish or steak or bacon or whatever for days. A granny carpet – flowers, in pinks and purples – covered the floor. The piano had been moved once too often and badly needed tuning. Didn't matter, though, since he hardly ever played it. Five minutes now and then, maybe once a week, if the pain wasn't too severe. Once his Robinson upright might have been a musical instrument, but these days, it functioned primarily as a piece of furniture.
If he was going out, he'd better fetch the bag.
Maddening striped wallpaper covered three of the bedroom walls. Despite the illusion of depth created by the mirrored wardrobes running along the remaining wall, the room looked crammed. On the dresser squeezed in the space between bed and door, stood twelve framed photos of Carol. Watching himself in the mirror, he knocked them onto the floor with a sweep of his arm.
How could she do this to him? He couldn't believe she'd let Eddie touch her.
Observing his movements in the mirror as he shuffled forwards, he moved his right hand slowly, as if waving underwater. Conducting, of course. Who was asking? Yeah, he'd carry on as normal. An orchestra. What else? Pretend he didn't know. Raising himself on his toes for an imagined upbeat, he adopted a faster tempo. His hand sliced through the air. After a few bars, he stabbed the circled finger and thumb of his left hand at the brass section. His hands dropped to his side and he shook his head. "Late again," he said. "Just not good enough."
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