‘Now that is what I call paranoia.’ She laughed.
‘Maybe, my love, but it is, in fact, gospel truth. If I saw you to your room, and went inside, I could go into my temporary office tomorrow and have someone pull up the tapes of me doing so. I could even check on when I left.’
Forty-five
The phone had not rung all evening, and Alex was relieved, not because she feared another of those calls but because her time was limited. She had made it home later than she had planned, and she had to shower, change and get herself, as her friend Gina Reed would have put it, glammed up for her big night out.
His call had been the one reasonably bright spot of her day. It had come through on her mobile as she was leaving Paula Viareggio’s office, taking her completely by surprise: Guy Luscomb, her occasional date from her London stint, was in town on business, and would she like to have dinner? Of course she would: so what if Guy was a little self-assured? He was pleasant and she had worked out early in their acquaintance that, as long as she did not take him as seriously as he did, he was okay.
When the entry-phone rang she was ready to go, but she invited him in for a drink, since they would be travelling by taxi that evening.
‘Lexy, darling,’ he greeted her, as she opened the door, ‘you’re looking radiant, even better on your home turf than down in the big smoke.’ His insistence on calling her ‘Lexy’, a nickname that she had discouraged all her life, was his one really annoying habit, but she let it lie because of the compliment.
She stood back and looked him up and down: he wore a yellow Dannimac overcoat, which hung open revealing a suit that might as well have had ‘Armani’ tattooed on its lapels. In that instant he reminded her of Carlos, from the Il Divo quartet; she was certain that the effect was deliberate. ‘You don’t look too shabby yourself, sunshine,’ she said, ‘considering it’s December and pissing down outside.’
‘It’s what black cabs are for, my darling,’ he told her, stepping inside and kissing her quickly on the cheek.
‘That’s a little formal,’ she remarked, and was surprised by the awkwardness of his smile.
‘It’s been a while,’ he pointed out.
‘True,’ Alex conceded. ‘Last May: nice Turkish restaurant, wasn’t it?’
‘Your memory serves you well, and in honour of that occasion I’ve booked something similar tonight, a place called Nargile. I’m told it’s very good.’
‘It is: I’ve been there.’ She led him into the living room. ‘That’ll be nice, but first, make yourself comfortable while I open some cava.’
When she returned with two glasses and a bowl of pretzels on a tray, he had settled into her armchair, rather than on the couch. As she set her burden on the coffee-table, she had the feeling that she was being kept at arm’s length.
‘Well, now,’ she said, as she settled into the comfortable leather sofa, taking care not to crease her dress, ‘now you’ve sprung your surprise, Mr Luscomb, tell me what’s brought it about. Why are you in Edinburgh?’
‘I’ve come with my corporate executioner’s outfit, actually. A data-processing company out on the west side of the city has hit the buffers: you may have read about it in your local business press. Bit of a story: they were New Start of the Year not so long ago, in some pretentious magazine or other; now they’re calling in receivers with a view to liquidation. My firm’s got the job, and as one of the insolvency partners, I’m here to get it under way.’
‘I know who you mean,’ Alex murmured, as she sipped her cava. ‘We acted for them when they set up, then they left us; one of the directors has a cousin in another law firm who said he could do the job cheaper. Now their creditors are paying insolvency fees, and through the nose too, knowing what you lot charge.’
‘That’s business, Lexy my dear. I know I should shake my head and tut at such folly, but where would people like me be without people like them?’
‘Giving positive advice rather than picking up the pieces, perhaps?’
‘Ouch!’
She laughed. ‘It’s all right, this isn’t going to be Pick-on-Guy Night. I know there’s never going to be a world free of bad business decisions. I only wish they weren’t so costly, in human as well as financial terms. The cousin I mentioned has been fired by his firm in the wake of all this. He’s thirty-eight and his career’s on the way to Seafield.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Sorry. That’s an old Edinburgh expression.’
‘Ahh, as in down the toilet, I take it.’
‘You hit that flush on.’
‘My, Lexy, you are in good form tonight.’
‘I’ve been better, but never mind. Let’s call a cab, and finish these while it’s on the way.’ She picked up the phone and pushed a single button: the taxi company number was programmed into the memory.
‘How long have you been in your new place?’ he asked, as they sipped the cava.
‘About a month.’
‘Is that all? You told me back in May that you’d bought it.’
‘It’s new, Guy: I chose it off plans in February. That gave me plenty of time to get rid of my old place.’
‘How’s the market here?’
‘Active. It’s not London, but it’s pricey.’ As she spoke, the buzzer sounded. She sealed the cava bottle with an airtight stopper, put it in the fridge, then fetched her coat from her bedroom.
Christmas was approaching and so Nargile was busy even though it was mid-week. They were shown to a table for two in the window, positioned so one diner could see the crest of Hanover Street, with its Georgian statue, and beyond, the lights of Edinburgh Castle. ‘You sit there, Guy,’ said Alex. ‘You’re the stranger in town.’
‘Thank you, Lexy dear. How very thoughtful of you.’
One more time, she thought, as the name ground on her. On the other hand, he is paying, and he’s not bad looking.
‘How long will you be here?’ she asked, as the waiter brought menus.
He glanced at the wine list and ordered a bottle of Muscadet. ‘Just a couple of days,’ he replied. ‘I got here yesterday. By Thursday the task will be mapped out; at that point I’ll leave my assistant to carry on with it, and head back south.’
That’s fine, she thought. ‘What a pity,’ she said.
‘Yes, and I’m really sorry about it, but we really are busy in London. It’s sad but true: third-term governments usually mean a bonanza for us insolvency practitioners.’
‘I can’t say I’d noticed that. Most of our corporate clients are doing really well . . . thanks to the quality of our advice, no doubt.’
‘Naturally. However, if any of them do happen to have a hard time, or you hear of anyone who is, you’ll keep me in mind, won’t you? I’m also responsible for corporate recovery within the firm, remember.’
She looked at him across the table with a gleam in her eye, as he tasted the wine and as the waiter poured it. ‘Guy,’ she murmured, when he had gone, ‘this isn’t a new business pitch, is it? Will dinner be chargeable to the firm?’
He managed to look genuinely shocked. ‘God, Lexy, you don’t think that, do you?’
Too right I do. But she smiled, letting him off the hook, then raised her glass. ‘If I did, sunshine, I wouldn’t be settling for this when there’s Moët on the list.’ She took pity on his awkwardness. Okay, he was a clothes horse, and he fancied himself to death, but he was single, he wasn’t that bad, and after the few days she had endured, he was there. ‘Tell me something,’ she said. ‘When you chose this place, were you hoping for the same outcome as the last time we ate Turkish?’
He had the decency not to look her in the eye when he lied. ‘Oh, Lexy, of course I wasn’t.’
‘How nice to hear that. You know what, Guy? There’s just a chance that virtue might not be its only reward.’
Forty-six
As she lay there in the darkness, listening to his wheezing snores, she remembered what it was that had put her off Guy Luscomb. He could talk the talk all r
ight, but that was as far as it went.
She had not slept with anyone since their last time together, such had been his effect on her. Alex thought of herself as a modern woman: she did not class herself as promiscuous, but if she met a man she liked physically and who amused her enough, she would have sex with him. It had been that way since she was eighteen, and in her first year at Glasgow University, in the light of the only piece of fatherly advice she had ever received on the subject. That had been along the lines of ‘Not in your own backyard’, but actually it had been unnecessary, as none of the boys she knew at school would ever have dreamed of ‘trying it on’ with Bob Skinner’s daughter.
Even with those years of experience behind her, and her time spent living with Andy Martin when they were engaged, she did not regard herself as a sexual connoisseur. However, she knew what she liked, and she knew what she had a right to expect from a partner.
And that was a hell of a lot more than thirty seconds.
It wasn’t as if the man had been drunk: they’d shared one bottle of wine in Nargile and the cava had stayed in the fridge when they’d got back to the flat. She had her first inkling of how it was going to be when she had gone to hang up her dress, and he had gone into the en-suite to take his turn to brush his teeth. She had turned, still in her underwear and looking to be helped out of it, to find him already in bed, grinning at her from under the slightly tented duvet.
She had tried to interest him in some foreplay, until she recalled that in Guy’s mind that was a type of golf. Instead his leg had come over and he had set to work, teeth gritted. In spite of himself, he had hit the spot, and for a few seconds she had thought it was going to be all right, until his face had contorted, he had let out his patented squeal (God, the memories that come back!), she had felt the condom (hers, not his: that had been a difficult moment) twitching a little, and it had been over.
At least he hadn’t asked how it had been for her. They had listened to Radio Forth for a while, until he had indicated, not in so many words, that he was ready to try again. And she had let him, more in hope than in expectation that it would be better. It had been worse: second time round he had missed the spot completely, and she had endured a full fifty-four seconds . . . she had timed him, secretly, on the bedside clock . . . of pounding before he squealed again and spent himself.
When he rolled off her, shortly afterwards, and started to snore, she had to fight off the urge to laugh hysterically as she remembered something that Gina had said on a night out a few months before. ‘The saddest moments in a girl’s life are, one, when her partner can’t find her clitoris, and two, when he finds it.’ It had been an hour before she had fallen asleep.
The radio alarm kicked into life on the stroke of seven; the bright morning voice of Spike Thomson, Andy’s friend, filled the room. Guy grunted and started to waken: it took him a while, but eventually he was with her and his surroundings. ‘Morning, lovey,’ he mumbled. ‘Sleep tight?’
‘Not a lot,’ she told him. ‘It was a bit noisy in here for a while.’
He grinned, slightly uncertainly. ‘You mean me? Ah, sorry.’ A hand reached for her. She caught it before it found its mark, entwining her fingers with his. ‘Fancy some morning glory?’ he asked, undeterred.
‘Darling, you’ve worn me out.’
‘Ah, come on, fit young thing like you.’ He raised the duvet with his free hand. ‘See? I’m up for it.’
She felt her annoyance gauge approaching the red line. ‘Barely,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I’m out of condoms. Incidentally,’ she added, ‘it’s taken me two years to shag my way through that box.’
‘I thought all you girls were on the pill these days.’
Alex propped herself on an elbow, pulling the duvet round her breasts. ‘When was the last time you got laid, Guy?’
He frowned. ‘What sort of a question is that?’
‘It’s a straight one, now answer it.’
‘A couple of months ago; no, six weeks.’
‘Who was the lucky lady? A steady or a one-off?’
‘Someone I met at a reception: a Lithuanian girl.’
‘Did you use a condom then?’
‘Bareback,’ he answered.
‘Seen her since?’
‘No.’
‘Guy,’ she sighed, ‘are you completely unaware of sexually transmitted diseases, or are you just one of those idiots who thinks he doesn’t mix with the sort of person who might have the clap, or worse?’
‘Oh, come on, Lexy, don’t be silly.’
She swung herself out of bed, stood and looked down on him, with a hand on her hip. ‘There are a few things I hate being called. Up there at the head of the list you will find “Lexy” and “silly”. I’m going to take a shower now; if you want one before you go back to your hotel, use the other bathroom.’
She stayed longer than usual under the spray, taking the jet in her hand and directing it as if she was washing every trace of him from her. When she emerged back into the bedroom she was wrapped in her dressing-gown, and her hair was towelled to dampness. Guy was buttoning his shirt, his back to the en-suite. He turned at the sound of the opening door. ‘Have you been washing this man right out of your hair?’ he asked. The question was so near the mark that she felt a burst of guilt.
‘No, not at all,’ she insisted. ‘This mop of mine takes a lot of looking after.’ He smiled and she realised that she liked him much better with his clothes on. She knew also that it would always be that way. ‘I’ll go and rustle up some breakfast,’ she said.
‘Thanks, Alex,’ he smiled as he said her name, ‘but I’ll get some back at the George. I’m still in yesterday’s clothes and I’m due to meet the unfortunate company’s anxious banker at nine thirty in his office. I’ll grab a cab outside. I imagine there are plenty around at this time.’
He picked up his jacket, which he had hung carefully over the chair that faced her dressing-table, and slipped it on. She stepped up and straightened his tie, and let him kiss her lightly, on the lips.
‘Fancy a return game tonight? This time I’ll bring the rubbers.’
Although she had guessed it might be coming, the question still managed to take her by surprise. There was a considered and distinct pause before she replied. ‘Sorry, Guy. I’m busy tonight.’
His reaction was not what she had expected. ‘Ah, too bad: I won’t ask what you’re doing, just in case you tell me you’re washing your hair.’ He reached up and patted her head.
‘I’m seeing my friend Gina,’ she heard herself say.
He nodded. ‘And I’m off to London tomorrow night. As well, I suppose: one-night stands are the best thing for swingers like us, aren’t they?’ He kissed her again, even more quickly, a mere brushing of the lips, then turned and headed for the living room.
She followed him as he picked up his yellow overcoat from the back of the couch, where he had left it on his determined rush towards her bedroom, and as he walked to the door she opened it, and held it for him. He grinned at her, all of his massive self-confidence back in place, then gave her bottom a firm squeeze. Her neighbour chose that moment to leave for work, trying not to look at her as he passed: his name was Griff and she fancied him more than a little, although he was married and they had exchanged barely more than introductions.
‘Thank you, Lexy darling,’ said Guy, in a voice that was louder than was strictly necessary. ‘That was terrific. See you again some time. Call me if you like.’
As she stepped back inside her apartment, she found herself trying to work out what been happening for the twelve hours that had just elapsed. She had been vulnerable and he had been there and useful: at least that was how it had seemed to her the day before. But who had been using whom?
She drew back the living-room curtains: it was winter-morning dark, and the Water of Leith still reflected the sodium street-lamps. ‘You know what, Alex?’ she murmured to herself eventually. ‘Someone got fucked in here . . . all one minute and twenty-four second
s of it . . . then brushed off, and I rather think it was you.’
Forty-seven
Ray Wilding hung up the phone. He had been in for forty minutes, since eight thirty, but there was still no sign of Mackenzie. He had checked with the switchboard to see if a call or a message had come in from Spain; there had been nothing and so he had decided to ring Gary Starr’s ex-wife, to make sure that she would be at home when he and the chief inspector visited her that morning.
Kitty Philips had been terse, but not downright rude. She had told him that she worked afternoons only in a DIY store, and had shopping to do that morning, but that she would be ready for them at ten o’clock. He glanced at his watch. The traffic could be a bitch across town; before long they would be tight for time.
When his phone rang, his first thought was that it might be the chief inspector, calling in to say that he had been delayed. He almost sighed as he answered. ‘Wilding.’
‘Call for you, Sergeant,’ said the operator. ‘A Mr Smith: James Smith.’
He had to think for a second before it clicked: Big Ming. ‘Put him through.’
‘Hullo.’ The voice was gruff, but clearer than it had sounded across the desk in the interview room.
‘Mr Smith, what can I do for you?’
‘Ah’ve been thinkin’, ye ken. Aboot that lad. The one wi’ the finger.’
‘Or, rather, without it.’
‘Whit? Oh, aye. Ah see whit ye mean. Onyway, I telt you Ah thought Ah might hae seen him: well, Ah remember where.’
Suddenly Wilding’s morning was more interesting. ‘Oh, yes? Where?’
‘Ah dae a bit o’ door work sometimes, helpin’ oot a guy Ah know; bouncin’ ken. There’s a place Ah’ve been tae sometimes, an’ that’s where Ah’ve saw him.’
‘What’s this place called?’
‘Ah cannae remember; a lot o’ they clubs dinnae hae big signs outside, but Ah kin take ye there.’
‘Okay. Have you seen this man in the queue?’
‘Naw, naw, naw, naw, naw. He wisnae a punter; it wis his place, like, or at least he wis one o’ the lads that ran it. He wisnae dressed like he wis in Evesham Street either. He wis smart, like, no’ a scruff.’
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