Two-Way Split

by Guthrie, Allan

  "How did you find me?"

  "I spoke to Robin yesterday. He said you'd both be here."

  Eddie was chewing his lower lip. He stopped for a moment to ask, "What pharmaceuticals?"

  Don tried to remember their names. He saw the bottles in his hand, clearly enough to read the labels. "Sulpiride. Mellaril. We're studying what we call paradoxical side effects."

  Eddie said, "What's that?"

  "It's what we call it when a drug does the opposite of what it's designed for."

  Carol said, "I don't think this is leading anywhere."

  Eddie lowered his gun-arm. "Fear might snap him out of it." He raised the gun again and said, "Talk."

  "I don't know what you want me to say," Don said. "I've already explained."

  Carol said, "Please tell us."

  Don looked at her. "I know nothing about any bloody money." He started to hunt for his wallet. "Let me show you my business card."

  Eddie rolled his head back and said, "Christ, you'd swear he was genuine, Carol."

  "He is," Carol said. "Absolutely."

  Eddie tried again. "Is the money in your car?"

  The persistent bastard wasn't going to give up. "You think I'm stupid, Eddie?" Don was fed up with this. He decided to give Eddie something to think about. "I left the money at home."

  "I told you you should have brought it, Carol." Eddie took a step towards Don and offered him the gun. "You shouldn't have let it out of your sight."

  "He was fine earlier."

  Don stopped fiddling in his pockets. Was the gun some kind of peace offering? Maybe Eddie was letting Don see that the gun wasn't loaded, his way of indicating that Don was never in any real danger. It was all a game. Eddie rotated the weapon one hundred and eighty degrees and held it by the barrel. Eddie raised his arm. Don shivered as a more realistic interpretation of his plight flashed into his mind. Eddie wasn't offering him the gun after all. He groped for the gun with his outstretched hand, but he was too late. The butt struck his skull half-an-inch to the left of his crown. His vision turned red, then purple. His ears roared and he grunted. The second blow hit him further forward. The front of his head exploded with white light. He fell forward and the last thing he remembered was the salt taste of the floor.

  10:40 am

  Rows of elegant Georgian town houses, or tenements masquerading as town houses, built to a gridiron plan, the New Town lay in the shade of the Old Town to the north of Princes Street Gardens. You'd think you couldn't get lost, but the first time Pearce had tried to find South Broughton Place he ended up having to phone Cooper for directions. The street was missing from his city centre map.

  "It's kind of an extension of Union Street," he remembered Cooper saying. "Should rename it Cooper Street, really. I own three-fifths of it. Not a big street, I suppose. But still. Sixty percent of even a small street, property prices in the New Town being what they are, that's a fair wee whack of dosh." He paused, waiting for Pearce to request specifics. Since Pearce had no interest in the loan shark's personal fortune, he said nothing. Undaunted, Cooper said, "Millions, if you must know, son. Millions."

  Pearce came to the bottom of the hill. It levelled out and the road widened. South Broughton Place was on the left. The doors were numbered one to five.

  An elderly man, armed with a pair of shears, stood at the end of his garden and nodded as Pearce walked by. Two doors along, Pearce opened the gate, strolled past a weed-choked flowerbed and approached a silver-grey sandstone building. He checked Thompson's cash was still in his pocket before pressing the buzzer.

  The money was an excuse. What he'd really come for was information.

  Cooper's voice said, "What?"

  "Pearce."

  A pause. "Can't say I expected to see you. But come on up."

  The door buzzed. Pearce shoved it open and walked inside.

  Cooper lived at the rear of the ground floor. The silver nameplate on his door was the size of a laptop computer. Pearce was about to knock when he noticed the door was slightly ajar. He pushed it fully open, poked his head inside and said, "Hello." When nobody answered, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He looked along the corridor. Somewhere in the flat someone was singing. A kid's song. Tuneful enough, if a bit throaty. He said, "Mr Cooper." No reply. He headed towards the singing and found the loan shark in a child's bedroom. Pearce tapped on the door.

  Cooper looked up and his mouth snapped shut.

  "The door was open," Pearce said.

  "Left it for you." Cooper's hair was tousled and stubble peppered his chin. A baby nestled in the crook of his arm, its eyes closed. He saw Pearce looking at the baby and said, "Sally's out."

  Pearce had never heard of Sally. "Sorry I missed her."

  "You know her?"

  "Never had the pleasure."

  "Probably the only bloke who hasn't." Cooper muttered something that Pearce didn't catch.

  "What was that?"

  "Sixteen." Cooper dragged his slippered feet across the carpet. "Wee slag." He sat down on the end of the bed. "Thinks she knows it all." His eyes lit up. "Suppose we all do at that age, eh?"

  Pearce leaned his shoulder against a mahogany wardrobe. "I never realised you had a daughter."

  "I don't." Cooper scowled. "Sally is this little bastard's mother." He inclined the baby slightly towards Pearce. "My son." He rocked his son in his arms. "Gary."

  "I kind of put my foot in it there."

  Cooper screwed his face up and made a dismissive gesture with one of his hands. "Who gives a shit? You ever feel old, Pearce?"

  Pearce rubbed the back of his hand over his cheek. "Sometimes."

  "You ever banged a sixteen year old?"

  "Not since I was fifteen."

  "Skin's tight as a drum. Amazing. And that's not all that's tight. Different now she's had him, though."

  "Is that right?"

  "You want my advice? It isn't worth it. Makes you feel ancient."

  "Thanks for the tip."

  "Skin's like—"

  "How old's Gary?"

  "Huh?" Cooper's forehead creased. "Nearly four months."

  "He's quiet." Pearce shifted his weight from one foot to the other, moved his shoulder away from the wardrobe and leaned back against the wall.

  "He's asleep now." Cooper shuffled towards the crib snuggled in the corner of the room. He pulled the blanket over his son and tucked in the baby's arms. "I want the best for him. That's why I gave him a famous name." He kissed Gary's forehead. "Gary Cooper. Give him a head start, eh?"

  Pearce said, "You never mentioned him before."

  "Don't like to publicise it." Cooper moved towards the door. "Fatherhood's for pansies, isn't it?"

  Pearce didn't comment. You couldn't argue with that kind of reasoning. He followed Cooper down the corridor and into the sitting room.

  Cooper said, "Drink?"

  Pearce shook his head.

  "What can I do for you?" Cooper pointed to a huge settee wrapped in several lurid throws.

  Pearce assumed the extended finger was an invitation to sit down. He took the roll of notes out of his back pocket and sat down. "Got some money for you."

  "You astonish me."

  Pearce fanned the money. "Why?"

  "Your mother passed away last night and yet here you are with my money," Cooper said. "That's professionalism. I admire that."

  "You heard, then?"

  "I hear everything. You know that." The olive-green leather chair hissed when he sat down. "Get much?"

  "It's not all for you."

  "Never is. Sad fact of life, that."

  Pearce counted three hundred and laid the bills on the glass coffee table in front of him. "Ailsa Lillie. Paid in full." He thought of the old man with the socks. The old man his mum had once fancied. "Cant," he said. He counted out Cant's debt. "Paid in full." He still had plenty left to pay Joe-Bob for the ammo. Cooper hadn't moved. Pearce said, "You want to count it?"

  "You think I don't trust you?"
Cooper arched his leg over the arm of the chair. His slipper dangled from his foot. "You did a good day's work."

  "Don't forget my commission."

  "What's that? A hundred and sixty? You've still got a way to go."

  "I'll pay it all back." Pearce slid what was left of the money back in his pocket.

  "I don't doubt it."

  "Mr Cooper." Pearce made a fist with his right hand and squeezed. "I need to ask a favour."

  Cooper grinned. "You want to borrow some more?"

  "Nothing like that."

  "Well, what?"

  "I know you keep your ear to the ground." Pearce swallowed. "Nothing much happens that you don't know about." He squeezed his fist tighter. "Have you heard anything, anything at all, about who might have killed my mum?"

  "I wish." Cooper looked at the ceiling. "I really wish I could help. But you might as well ask me for the Queen's bra size." Cooper lowered his gaze again. "Tell you what I think?"

  Pearce didn't trust himself to speak. He nodded.

  "It's a new outfit. This gang hasn't worked in Edinburgh before. At least, not before the current pair of robberies." His foot made circling motions, then started bobbing up and down. "It hasn't worked in Glasgow, Liverpool, Manchester or Newcastle either. If it had, I'd know. None of the gang socialises with any of my acquaintances." His foot stopped moving. "Even the police don't have a clue where to start looking."

  Pearce plucked some red fluff off one of the throws. "What are you saying?"

  "You won't find him."

  Pearce rolled the fluff between his fingers. "Will you at least let me know if you hear anything?"

  "Of course," Cooper said. "Tell you what, why don't you take a few days off, eh?" He moved his leg from the arm of the chair and planted it on the carpet. "You're probably a bit upset. And there'll be the funeral and all that." He stood. "What do you say, son?"

  For a moment Pearce studied the ball of fluff balanced on his index finger. He flicked it into the air with his thumb. It landed on the other side of the table. "That's kind of you." He got to his feet.

  "Sure you won't stay for a quick drink?"

  Pearce said, "I have an appointment at a massage parlour."

  10:42 am

  "He's inside." From his car, Kennedy had watched Robin Greaves cross the road and walk up the path to the red door. Edward Soutar had left through the same door a couple of minutes ago. "Want me to wait?"

  "Yeah. Phone me again when he—"

  "Hang on. We need to talk."

  Kennedy could hear his boss clearing his throat. "What about?"

  "You know."

  "If I knew I wouldn't ask."

  "Pish." Kennedy made a smacking sound with his lips. "Right. I'll start. Why haven't we contacted the police?"

  Kennedy's boss said nothing for a while. "Should we be having this conversation over the phone?"

  Kennedy tapped the fingers of his left hand on the steering wheel. "Want me to return to the office?"

  "Stay where you are."

  "Answer my question."

  "Look, it's none of your business."

  "You've made it yours, though."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You gave that bloke – what's his name? – the one whose mother got knifed?"

  "How would I know?"

  "It was in the paper. Pears? Preece?"

  "Pearce."

  "That's right. Gordon Pearce. Coming back to you now?"

  "I'm busy, Kennedy. Where are you going with this?"

  "You gave him your card."

  "So what?"

  "What reason could you possibly have for giving him your card?"

  "I don't have to answer this."

  "So it's okay with you if I call the police and tell them that we have some excellent information on the post office robbery gang?"

  "They won't thank you. Anyway, it has nothing to do with you."

  "Then what am I doing tailing Robin Greaves? Why am I watching Soutar's flat? And why did you give Pearce your card?"

  "I don't pay you to ask questions."

  "You don't pay me at all. When was the last time? Let's see. Two months ago."

  "I pay you to follow orders."

  "You can take your orders, wrap them in shiny reindeer Christmas paper and shove them up your hairy—"

  "You're so close to getting fired. You don't know how close, Kennedy, but if you were any closer you'd be—"

  "Fine." Kennedy's heart was thumping. He hung up. He let out a long breath and waited. When the phone rang a few seconds later, he said, "I find what you're proposing morally repugnant and I feel it's my civic duty to inform the authorities of your intentions."

  "You wouldn't."

  "Try me."

  "Tell them. You don't know what I'm proposing."

  Kennedy said, "Pearce is going to get in touch with you. If he doesn't, I guess you'll get in touch with him. Shouldn't be too hard for someone in our line of work." His boss was silent at the other end of the phone. "Either way, you're going to let Pearce know that you have the name of his mother's killer. How am I doing so far?"

  "You can't prove anything."

  "I don't need to. Just by telling the police, I'll ruin your plan."

  "Go on. What's my plan?"

  "To sell Pearce the information."

  "The man's fresh out of prison. It says so in today's Scotsman, even if it doesn't mention what he was in for. He doesn't have a job. He doesn't have any money."

  "Interesting you remembered that snippet of useless information but you couldn't remember his name."

  "Some things stick."

  "They do, don't they?"

  "Don't say it."

  "Will I carry on, then?"

  "This is ridiculous. Okay, I'll play. How's Pearce going to pay?"

  "Setting aside the fact that Mr Pearce might have come into an inheritance, there's also the issue of the stolen money."

  "Are you suggesting—"

  "Absolutely." Kennedy's throat tightened but he managed to keep his tone level. "In return for Greaves's name and address Mr Pearce is going to locate the loot and hand it over to you."

  His boss laughed. It sounded forced. "Supposing – for argument's sake – supposing he agreed. Why would I do this? I don't need the money."

  "On the contrary. You desperately need the money."

  "The business is doing well."

  "The business is bollocksed and you know it. If the business is doing well, why didn't you pay me last month?"

  "A temporary cash flow problem. I told you."

  "Temporary, my arse. What about the drinks machine? Why's that gone? Suppose that's temporary, too?"

  "You wouldn't go to the police, would you?"

  Kennedy didn't reply.

  "Okay. Shit. How deep is your moral repugnance?"

  "Make me an offer."

  "Twenty percent."

  "Deeper than that."

  "Thirty."

  "Still wracked with guilt."

  "Forty?"

  "Keep going."

  "Forty-five?"

  "Come on, you can do it."

  "Fifty, you bastard."

  "Now I feel a wave of peace washing over me. Fifty percent, I can live with."

  "You bastard."

  "You told me that already. One more thing."

  "You bastard."

  "I want to be there when you meet him."

  "What for?"

  "We've agreed on a fifty-fifty split, yeah?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, I'd like to know how much I'm getting fifty percent of."

  10:44 am

  "You're back." Carol moved away from the window. Faint birdsong drifted up from the garden below.

  Robin was disorientated. He had fallen asleep and woken up with a terrible headache. "Where's Eddie?"

  She described the sequence of events from the moment Don had arrived to the point where Eddie struck Don with his gun butt.

  Robin put hi
s hand to his head and wished he hadn't.

  "Eddie took your keys. Went to see if you'd left the money at home." She sat down on the couch and took out her cigarettes. She offered one to Robin and he accepted. She lit it, then lit her own.

  Robin said, "So Eddie just left you here on your own?"

  "Technically, he left me here with Don."

  "You felt safe with Don?"

  "Don was out cold."

  "Not for too long."

  "Eddie left me the gun."

  "Where is it?"

  "Secret." She formed a gun with her fingers and aimed it at Robin. "I promised Eddie I wouldn't play with it. Unless I had to. Bang, bang." She blew on her fingertips. "'Bye, 'bye, Don."

  Robin muttered, "I can't believe Eddie left you on your own. Does he know how dangerous Don is?"

  "He didn't want to." She put her hand on Robin's leg. "I had to persuade him."

  "Excuse me," Robin said, tapping his fingers on the back of her hand. "I need you to let me go to the loo."

  "Robin." She fetched an ashtray and sat down again, putting her hand back on his leg. "Do you have any idea what's happening to you?"

  His resolve almost disappeared. His thigh glowed under the warmth of her hand. She is on top of him, lust contorting her flushed face. Sweat trickles between her naked breasts. She moans as he slides inside her. Her mouth twists in a sneer and she cries, "Eddie."

  "Got to go," he said, getting to his feet. She didn't stop him.

  He closed the sitting room door, walked to the bathroom, opened the door, gently closed it again and crept to the bedroom. He eased the door open. Some of Eddie's clothes hung over the back of a chair. A pair of black trousers, a white shirt, a sock. He tiptoed over to the bed. A nightdress lay on top of the quilt. Robin picked it up. He didn't recognize it. It smelled freshly laundered, but it didn't smell of Carol at all. He pulled back the quilt and looked for stains. White sheets. It was hard to tell. He let the quilt fall back. Only one pillow was indented. Over by the little sink a glass propped up two toothbrushes. One blue, one purple.

  He bent over and sniffed each pillow in turn. He folded the nightdress and placed it on top of the pillow on the left. He thought he detected the slightest trace of White Musk. His face was wet. He moved to the dresser. On top of it, in a bowl cluttered with feminine paraphernalia, was a photo of Carol in her late teens, wearing a low-cut black dress, black sunglasses, large gold hoops in her ears, short unpainted fingernails, unsmiling. He wondered who had taken the picture. He turned it face down on the dresser. An adjustable oval mirror on a wooden base reflected part of the bed, a night table, Eddie's trousers, Eddie's jacket, Eddie's sock, a chair with the sleeve of Eddie's shirt dangling over its back.