Two-Way Split

by Guthrie, Allan

  At least he could do this. He placed the knife over the first of Robin's marks. The blade sank into her stomach as he pressed down on the handle with both hands. He dragged the knife about three inches towards him. When he pulled the blade out, the skin instantly closed around the cut. He shoved the knife in once more and jiggled it from side to side as he slid it along the length of the incision. This time, when he removed the blade, the clean edges of the cut remained a millimetre or so apart. Satisfied, he started on the foot of the L, his mouth hanging open as he concentrated.

  10:55 am

  Pearce dialled the number on the business card as he strode along the pavement.

  "Eye Witness Investigations." The voice sounded familiar. "How may I help?"

  Pearce joined the queue at the bus stop. "Who is this?"

  "Eye Witness Investigations. I already said."

  "You the guy with the busted nose?"

  There was a slight delay before the man replied, "Who am I speaking to?"

  "The card," Pearce said. "You wrote on the card." Instinctively he turned it over. "You said you knew his name."

  "Ah."

  "Who is it?"

  "Ah. Well."

  "You going to tell me?"

  "Well, maybe not over the phone."

  Pearce glanced at the half-a-dozen bodies crowded inside the bus shelter. No one was showing an interest in his conversation and, in any case, the almost constant traffic noise at the nearby crossroads prevented him from being overheard. Still, the PI was probably right. You never knew who might be monitoring your calls.

  "I'll come to your office," Pearce said. He flicked the card over and studied the address. Not far. Half an hour's walk, maybe. "Should be with you in ten, fifteen minutes." He hung up without waiting for a reply. If the appointment wasn't convenient, too bad. He'd make it convenient when he got there.

  Looking along the long stretch of road leading towards Meadowbank, he saw no sign of an approaching bus. If he had to wait too long, he'd hail a taxi. No sign of a taxi either, mind you. He could always steal a car. Or a bike. He'd have to be careful not to get caught nicking it and landing back in jail, though. Jesus, what was he thinking? He couldn't take risks like that. He was tired and his thoughts were jumbled. He kept thinking of his mum, feeling her in his arms, seeing the blood leech from her body, her face pale, lips dry, her breathing shallow.

  Pearce didn't believe in God. He didn't believe in eternal life. He didn't believe in immortal souls. He had nothing to help him deal with this. She was dead, like Muriel. Whatever that meant. He had no idea. Death happened to other people. He couldn't afford to dwell on this, so he flicked the switch in his head and annihilated his thoughts. He closed his eyes and saw his mother in the ambulance, a look on her face he'd never seen before and never wanted to see again, not even in his head. He opened his eyes. He'd learned enough on the inside to know that impatience only led to mistakes and regrets. Impulse criminals were the ones most easily caught and he really didn't want to get caught because if he got caught there would be nobody to avenge his mum's death and then where would he be? Nick a car? Sod that idea.

  Another flash of her face in the ambulance. He felt ice in his bones. Do something.

  A quick check of the bus timetable told him that the number five was due in four minutes. He could wait that long. Plan. Think ahead.

  The business card. The fact that it belonged to a private investigator gave the claim on the reverse some kind of credence. You might expect a private detective to know something other people, including the police, might not know. Yeah? Okay, you wouldn't necessarily expect it, but you would concede that it might be possible. Shit. He wanted the PI to give him a name. He wanted the name to be the name of his mother's killer. He wanted it badly. But how could the PI possibly have come across that information? And if he had, where had it come from? How reliable was the source? How was the PI going to convince Pearce that the name he supplied was the right one?

  Well, Pearce thought as he stepped onto the bus, he'd find out soon enough.

  He sat upstairs, looking out onto the wedge-shaped incline on the left that spanned the length of Royal Terrace. A scattering of wooden benches, one of which had been tipped on its back, helped it pose as a park. A tall man, suit trousers tucked into green rubber boots, weaved around a couple of muddy patches, even though his boots were already filthy. Ahead of him, ears pinned back, tail up, a collie paused for a moment before disappearing into the trees.

  As the bus turned onto Leith Walk, Pearce's phone rang. He answered it, thinking it might be the PI. It wasn't.

  Ailsa said, "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Tell you what?" She didn't reply, so he repeated the question.

  "You know," she said.

  "Know what? What are you talking about?"

  "Christ." She paused. "That you'd been in prison. Why didn't you tell me?"

  He said, "Not something I want to brag about." The bell rang and the "stopping" sign lit up at the front of the bus. A tall, bald man in a shabby brown suit shuffled towards the stairs, arms pinned to his sides as if he was wrapped in tight bandages.

  "You think I want to read about it in the papers?"

  "What have they said?"

  "That you just got out of prison."

  "That's it?"

  "After ten years."

  "They say why?"

  "Not a peep. Left me guessing. What did you do, Pearce?"

  "Now's not the time."

  "Want me to guess? Let's see. Ten years." The tall man's bald head disappeared down the stairs. "That's a long time. So, something serious. From what I know of you I'd say it isn't corporate fraud, so I'll plump for either armed robbery or murder." She waited. He didn't say anything, so she said, "Well?"

  "It's not that simple."

  "I'm sure it's not."

  "Stop it, Ailsa. Don't be sarcastic."

  "Don't be – Jesus." She hung up.

  He sat for a moment, stroking his chin with his knuckles, noticing that the bus had stopped outside a shop that sold wedding dresses. A fat woman wheezed up the stairs, her conical head poking out of a pink coat, the thick lenses of her glasses magnifying her hazel eyes. As the bus stuttered into life again she reeled forward, the hems of her red trousers brushing the toes of her bright orange trainers, and staggered into an empty seat. She turned, a dusty yellow handbag clutched to her stomach, and looked at Pearce. He stared at her until she muttered and looked away.

  He dialled Ailsa's number. She didn't reply. He tried again. Still no reply. He left a short message to say he'd try again later.

  The bus was crossing the South Bridge when his phone rang again.

  She said, "I'm pissed off. Really pissed off. I can't—"

  Pearce said, "I killed somebody."

  Her voice changed. "What? How? Who? I mean, why?"

  "Can it wait? I'll explain when I see you."

  She was silent for a while. Finally she said, "I don't know about that. This kind of changes things a bit." She blew hard into the mouthpiece. "I felt safe with you until I heard about this. Now, I don't know. Was it an accident?"

  "You don't get ten years for an accident."

  "Didn't think so." Her breath rattled down the phone. "He must have done something terrible for you to have killed him."

  Pearce said nothing.

  "Well?"

  "He was responsible for my sister's death." The garishly clad fat woman turned to stare at him again. "I'm on the bus," he said into the phone. "I can't talk now. Tell you later, okay?"

  The silence that followed seemed to last forever. At last Ailsa said, "Just one thing. Are you dangerous?"

  He considered the question for a moment and said, "I like to think so."

  "I mean, should I be scared of you?"

  "Either you're scared or you're not."

  "I'm not. But maybe I should be."

  "That's for you to decide." It was his turn to hang up.

  The fat woman puffed her
cheeks. She looked like an overgrown baby. Her cheeks deflated and she said, "You'll catch cold. You should put on a jacket." She turned round and looked out the window.

  The bus crossed over the High Street and rolled up the shop-lined South Bridge. As it approached Nicholson Street one of the many constructions to have taken place during Pearce's incarceration appeared on the right. Years ago his mum had sent him a postcard of the new theatre. While he was in prison she took it upon herself to keep him in touch with the outside world (which, to her, meant Edinburgh). The distinctive glazed façade of the Festival Theatre was hard to forget. It looked insubstantial, fragile. Behind the glass small groups sat around tables in the ground floor café. Eating and drinking, chatting and laughing. Untroubled, carefree, contented. Ignorant of the pain of losing a sister, of losing a mother, of having failed to protect either of them. Pearce wanted to jump off the bus and lob bricks through the glass at the smiling wankers, smash some horror into their cosy lives, shatter the brittle membrane that divided joy and pain.

  He gritted his teeth, squeezed his fists. When he closed his eyes, bars of orange flashed behind his lids. Maybe Ailsa was right. Maybe she should be scared of him. Women who were close to him seemed to have a habit of dying.

  His eyes opened, slowly adjusting to the harsh winter light. The fat woman had gone and a couple of teenage schoolboys had taken her place. Loudly, they were discussing a classmate called Suzie, who, apparently, had a right-sized pair on her and wasn't half bad-looking. Pearce learned that Suzie was in serious need of a good mining, an expression he'd never heard before but the meaning of which was clear enough. The slightly smaller of the two boys wondered if they might not catch AIDS or something, but agreed when his mate suggested it would be worth it.

  Pearce got to his feet and clambered down the steps. A mother and daughter stood in front of the double doors, the daughter kicking the heels of her red boots against the step. Pearce waited behind them with his arms folded. As the bus slowed he swayed to the right and was forced to step forward. He grabbed the support rail above the little girl's head. She looked over her shoulder and grinned at him. She jumped up and down on the spot and clapped her gloved hands. Over the hissing of the brakes he heard her say, "We're going to Daddy's."

  Her mother looked across at Pearce. As she turned her head he noticed how thin her hair was. Deep lines scored her forehead. When she smiled her lips sank into her face and her dark blue eyes glistened. She said, "I just hope he remembers, Sweetheart."

  The doors opened and mother followed daughter off the bus. Pearce joined them on the pavement and watched them walk away hand in hand, the girl skipping along the pavement, dragging her mother after her. They turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

  He strode off in the other direction.

  The pink door reminded him of yesterday's visit to Cant. Like the PI, his mum's old school mate also had a pink door. Pearce felt inexplicably sad. Pressure built behind his eyes and for a moment he thought he might burst into tears. He flicked the switch in his head. It took a while, but the sadness gradually passed.

  He rang the bell and the door promptly clicked open.

  The office was upstairs. On a white door a brass nameplate bore the legend Eye Witness Investigations. He knocked once, turned the handle and walked in. A filing cabinet and a desk took up half the floor space. The man he'd met yesterday sat behind the desk, a bandage still protecting his nose. Dark bruises circled his eyes. A much younger man sat on a small window ledge, cushioning his buttocks with his hands.

  The man with the bandage stood and held out his hand. "Gray." He smiled, pointed to the floor and said, "Same as the carpet."

  "You know who I am." Pearce strolled towards him and took his hand. "I hope your information is better than your banter."

  Gray removed his hand, his grin fading.

  The other man unstuck himself from the window and introduced himself. "Kennedy."

  Pearce said, "Which one of you dicks is going to tell me who killed my mother?"

  "It's a little more complicated than that," Gray said. "Why don't you take a seat?"

  Pearce remained standing. "You said you knew."

  Gray's gaze switched from Pearce to Kennedy, then back to Pearce. "Please sit down."

  "Give me the name."

  "What's it worth?" A slight smile crept over Gray's face.

  Pearce stared at him. "You want to take care somebody doesn't take a proper swipe at that nose of yours."

  The smile vanished. Gray said, "We'll sell you the information."

  "At a fair price," Kennedy chipped in. During Pearce's exchange with Gray, Kennedy had retreated to the window. His hands were stuffed under his arse again.

  Pearce said, "I'm skint."

  Gray said, "We can help you get some money."

  "I'm not interested in money," Pearce said. "What if I just beat the information out of you?"

  Kennedy said, "We'll phone the police and they'll sling you back in the slammer before you have time to sharpen your screwdriver."

  "You've done your homework," Pearce said. "I'm impressed. Still, the police would have to catch me first."

  Kennedy said, "We can tell them where you're headed."

  "Difficult if you're unconscious."

  "We'd wake up at some point."

  "Not if you were dead."

  "You wouldn't kill us."

  "You sound confident."

  "Hear me out." Gray leaned back in his chair. "This is stupid." He placed his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. "Take a seat."

  Without breaking eye contact, Pearce pulled out the chair from under the desk and sat down.

  Gray said, "Thank you, Mr Pearce."

  "My pleasure, Mr Gray." Pearce grabbed the PI's tie and wrenched him forward. A tray tumbled off the desk and an assortment of documents, some handwritten, some printed, spilled onto the grey carpet. Pearce's peripheral vision picked up Kennedy creeping towards him. Pearce said, "You – stay where you are." Kennedy stopped at the edge of the desk. "I don't have time for games." Pearce yanked Gray closer. If the bandage hadn't been in the way their noses would have been touching. Gray was shaking, his slight double chin quivering. He clutched Pearce's arm.

  "Don't call me stupid," Pearce said. "Now, tell me his name before I lose my temper."

  Kennedy said, "The man who killed your mother got away with a lot of money."

  Still staring at Gray, Pearce said, "So?"

  Kennedy said, "He still has it."

  "And?"

  "We want it."

  "Go get it, then."

  "Look at it as a favour."

  "Look at what?"

  "We give you his name. In return, you get the money for us."

  "You want me to steal the money he stole from the post office and hand it over to you?"

  "Yeah."

  "Why should I?"

  "Either we give the name to you, or we give it to the police. If we give it to the police…"

  "You'll be screwed," Gray said. He coughed. "I'm choking. Let me go."

  Pearce snapped his wrist downwards. Gray's face bounced off the surface of the desk. When he sat up again his eyes were wide with shock and a red stain was beginning to blossom on his bandage.

  Without letting go of his tie, Pearce said, "Shut up."

  Kennedy swallowed. Quietly he said, "What do you say?"

  Pearce said, "Give me the name."

  Gray said, "No way."

  Pearce bounced him off the desk again.

  Above Gray's moans, Kennedy said, "Robin Greaves."

  Tearing the bandage off his nose, Gray said, "What are you saying, you stupid—"

  Pearce said, "I told you to shut up."

  Gray cupped his hands over his face.

  "The money was in a blue sports bag," Kennedy said. "You would have seen it in the post office. I think he's switched the cash to a brown leather holdall."

  Pearce said, "What's his address?"

  Kenned
y told him.

  Gray moaned. He said, "Now we've got nothing to bargain with."

  Pearce looked at him. "You never had." He let go of Gray's tie and got to his feet. "How reliable is this information?"

  "Hundred percent. On the day of the robbery I tailed him from his flat to the post office." Kennedy stood up too.

  "I'm only interested in Greaves," Pearce said. "Not the money."

  Gray slurred his words. "What's that mean?" He tried to stand up and fell back in his chair. "You would not believe how much my nose hurts."

  Pearce said, "It can always hurt more."

  11:21 am

  He'd lost a couple of minutes afterwards. A minor victory for Robin, who'd retreated now, gone where Don couldn't touch him. Don padded across the room and stepped into the corridor. The door on the left led to the kitchen. He walked past it and tried the next one along. Voila. He slid into the bathroom, head pounding.

  Daubs of blood had dried on his fingers. He ran his hands under the tap, then grabbed a bar of soap and lathered his palms. Blood foamed and swirled in the sink. He checked his hands for more spillage after rinsing them thoroughly. They were clean.

  Ignoring his scars, he examined his near-naked body. It seemed blood-free. He checked in the mirror, amazed at how the pain in his head had bleached his lips. No blood splatters, though. That was good. Ah, but he was dripping all over the floor. He should dry his hands. A couple of towels hung on a rail. No, using her towel was filthy, like sharing a toothbrush. Saliva flooded his mouth. He swallowed. Better. He wasn't going to choke. He unrolled a pile of toilet roll, bunched it up and dried his hands with it. He threw the soggy paper down the toilet and flushed it. A clear thumbprint remained on the handle.

  Look at them. He turned as he passed the mirror. Look at them. Hypertrophic scarring. Look. Red curls of thickened skin snaked across his chest. Lower down. Livid welts burned into his abdomen. An L, an O, a V.

  Enough.

  He returned to the sitting room. Carol lay on her back with his word carved in her stomach and his knife buried in her naval. He rummaged in his coat pocket and took out his gloves. A bit late. His fingerprints were everywhere. But he could wipe them off before he left.