UNCLE KILLER STRIKES AGAIN
Pawnbrokers close all over the city as terror strikes
Beneath that there was an old picture of Tommy McIntyre and some sparse details of his murder. From the story it was obvious that the police weren’t giving out any info. I guessed that some of the more prurient information came from Mandy. Sure enough, on page three there was a full- length picture of her in a bikini. I nearly choked when I read the text.
Mandy McDowell, 29, a glamour model, was the last person to see the deceased alive. She had entered his shop in search of some fashionable lingerie to wear at a photo shoot later in the day. McIntyre, 58 , known in the trade as Pervy Tommy, had obviously been attracted to her charms and made a crude pass at her. She left the shop, disgusted. That was at seven o’clock yesterday evening, barely an hour before the police found his mutilated body in the back office. “He was an old pervert “ Miss McDowell sobbed. “But nobody deserves to die like that.”
‘Glamour model’? ’29’? The reporter obviously hadn’t looked too closely. On second thought, maybe he had—the picture that accompanied the piece had obviously been airbrushed. Some smarter reporter had linked Tommy’s death to auld Jimmy’s, but that was all they were able to do. ‘Stan and Ollie’ wouldn’t give them any more unless they thought it would advance the case. I knew that from long experience
I checked the full article three times, but my name wasn’t mentioned, not even as someone helping the police with their inquiries. I said a prayer of thanks for small mercies as I drove away
Twenty minutes later I was back in the coffee shop opposite Durban and Lambert’s premises, nursing another cup of strong coffee and trying not to wallow too deeply in self-pity. It wasn’t working too well—a night in the cells has that kind of effect on a body
It wasn’t as if it was the first time I had been pulled in. The first had been while I was still a first year student
We had been out on the town—the happy wanderers, Doug, three others, and myself hitting all the bars in Byres Road. Doug and I had come out of the Aragon, having failed as usual to pull any nurses, when three policemen approached us. Two took me to one side while the third led Doug and the others off. Ten minutes later I found myself in Patrick police station, being grilled on suspicion of rape
I knew I was innocent, but they didn’t. It was ‘Where were you on Tuesday 20th, November’ and ‘Did you know Caroline Moore’ and ‘Where did you get rid of the knife you used to threaten her’. After a night of none-too-friendly questioning, they let me go. When they finally caught the right man his picture was plastered all over the front of the evening paper. For me, it was like looking into a mirror
That had been the first time. Others had followed, several times for being found in the street too drunk to move, once for doing a favor for Wee Jimmy that turned into somebody trying to kill me, and me having to put somebody in hospital to save myself
More recently I’d been brought in under the kindly eyes of Newman and Hardy on one pretence or another, and for various degrees of seriousness. Nothing before had ever been as bad as last night, though
The waitress asking me if I wanted ‘some fancies’ jerked me awake. I hadn’t noticed that I was in danger of falling asleep over my coffee. I fought off the urge for facetiousness and politely refused. Maybe I was getting more mature. On the other hand, maybe I was just tired
Eileen wasn’t on duty—I didn’t know whether to be happy or sad at the fact
“Is Eileen around?” I asked the waitress, who had just moved along to the next table
“No, sir “ she said. She was polite, but her eyes told a different story. “She’s got the day off. But Mr. Durban’s still in the shop.”, ,
So Eileen had told the other waitresses? That didn’t bother me—if anything happened in the antique shop from now on, I was sure to get to know about it, now that they knew there was a tenner available for the right information
There wasn’t much activity around Durban and Lambert’s, and I found my mind wandering, trying to make connections, but I still couldn’t figure out who had killed the three men, or what it had to do with the amulet. I suspected that Dunlop was at the center of it all. I’d have to get round to interviewing him, and sooner rather than later. Thinking of him reminded me that I hadn’t talked to my client for more than thirty-six hours
This time her phone rang three times before she replied
“Mr. Adams “ she said, before I even spoke. “Are you any closer to finding it?”, ,
“Every day in every way I’m getting closer and closer “ I said. I didn’t get any laughs this time
“My husband is most anxious that you retrieve it “ she said. “He is getting ill with worry.”, ,
“You could try singing to him?” I said. “A bit of light opera? ’Three Little Maids from School’ maybe?”, ,
I heard the sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line
“You have been a busy boy “ she said. “But don’t get distracted with peripherals. The amulet is the thing you’re getting paid to investigate, not my private life.”
I wasn’t too sure that they weren’t inherently intertwined, but I let it ride for now
“I need to talk to your husband “ I said
Her voice rose, and I heard anger in it
“No “ she almost shouted. “Find the amulet. And find it fast.”, ,
“But...”, ,
“No. Don’t you understand? If you don’t find it soon, maybe even tonight, then more will die. Many more.”
A cold chill settled in my spine
“If I find out you were responsible for any of those deaths I’ll make sure you rot in hell “ I said
She gave a hollow laugh
“I probably will anyway Mr. Adams…I probably will anyway.” Then she hung up on me again. I rang Doug.
“Hey Derek.” he said. “I came round to The Rock last night and Tom at the bar said that the boys in blue had you. And I heard about Tommy McIntyre. Is everything okay?”
“Hunky dory “ I said. “I’m now a major suspect in three murders my client is pissed off with me and I spewed up all over Stan Newman’s shoes. Things couldn’t be better.”
“Well hold on to your hat “ Doug said. “Here comes a newsflash. It’s just been on the television that police want to interview an old Arabian gentleman who has been seen in the vicinity of two of the murders.”
“They never told me about that “ I said.
“They were probably waiting for you to mention it “ Doug said.
“Aye. That’s their style.”
I thought for a bit.
“Did you find out anything more on Dunlop or the Amulet?” I asked.
“Just one thing “ Doug said. “But you’ll like it. Artie Dunlop is the great-grandson of the Dunlop who wrote the book the archaeologist at the dig in Ur.”
I thanked him promised him a couple of free beers and went back to my coffee.
I knew already that the name must be significant… now I had it confirmed. Things were beginning to fall into place and I now had a theory concerning a feud over the artifacts brought back from the dig. All I had to do was find out who the feuding parties were and I’d finally have a cast-iron suspect. At the moment all I had was Durban.
After an hour I noticed that two people had gone in to the antique shop and not come back out.
The first was a grandiose lady in high heels fur coat and hat looking like a refugee from one of those BBC character dramas set in an old country house. I was willing to bet that her handbag contained an expensive compact and perfumed handkerchief alongside some of those exclusive Russian cigarettes with the gold band around the filter.
She walked with the air of command head held high the sun glinting off her pearls and drop earrings. If she was a day under seventy I would be very much surprised.
The second was a very old gentleman in a tweed suit with a battered trilby and a tartan bow tie. He needed help getting ou
t of the taxi that brought him and he only made it across the curb by leaning heavily on an ancient oak walking stick.
He looked like he had come down in the world—his suit showed signs of wear and his shoes were scuffed badly at the toes but he still had the bearing and gait of an old military man. He also had the finest moustache I’d ever seen stretching out three inches on either side of his cheeks and waxed to stiff points. He resembled nothing more than an old lion thrown out of the pride wounded and running out of time fast.
Durban actually came out of the shop and helped him up the steps; otherwise the old man would have been trying for the rest of the afternoon.
There were several other customers but these all left at some point. None of them looked in the least furtive and several carried expensively wrapped packages under their arms.
At four o’clock the closed sign went up. I paid my bill and went to sit in the car trying to look inconspicuous. Luckily I didn’t have long to wait—there was an over-officious traffic warden nearby who knew I only had a couple of minutes left on the meter I’d parked beside.
Five minutes later Durban left with the two I had seen earlier and got into a car parked just down the street. I had a momentary panic when my car’s engine turned over but wouldn’t kick into life.
“Come on darling—be nice “ I whispered and she responded not quite purring like a cat more croaking like a toad as I got going and followed at a discreet distance.
It wasn’t easy—Durban was a very careful very slow driver and I found myself almost screaming in frustration as we crawled through the city headed south. I managed to drop into place three cars behind them as we wandered slowly through the early rush hour traffic going across the Kingston Bridge. I needn’t have bothered; Durban was very much an ‘eyes forward at all times’ driver.
As usual the dual carriageway had attracted its fair share of dick-heads and I was cut off on several occasions but I always managed to keep Durban in sight. I had a bad moment when I thought they were headed for the airport but they kept on going past the turn-off then headed down the slip road for Irvine and North Ayrshire. Traffic was thinner now and I had to hang further back.
Luckily the car was quite distinctive—there weren’t any other old 1960’s Rovers on the road and I had little trouble following as they headed out into the country
I had stopped concentrating, singing along to an old Elvis number on the radio, so I nearly missed it when they pulled off into a roadside petrol station in Beith. I just managed to get in to the forecourt behind them, taking a small delight in making the jerk behind me brake hard—he’d been driving just three feet from me, trying to get me to go faster. He obviously wasn’t paying attention or he’d have known that my tin bucket was going at top speed anyway
There was a problem with pulling in to the station though—I found myself only three feet away from the Rover’s back bumper at the petrol pumps
What followed was pure pantomime. I got out of my car turned half backwards, having to twist my whole body round so that Durban couldn’t see my face. He was already out of the Rover and walking around it to the pumps. He passed within two yards of me but didn’t raise his head
I got round the back of my car and got fuel in, all the time with my back to the car in front
“Hey, Jimmy “ a voice said, and I turned to see a pimply youth at the parallel pump. “They don’t have CCTV—if you’re going to run without paying, just do it. The cops round here are too lazy to chase you.”
I tried to look shocked
“I’m not going without paying “ I said
“Oh, yeah “ the kid said in an American accent. “Tell it to the judge.”
Sometimes it gets like that—everybody you meet is trying to be someone else
By this time Durban was already on his way to the kiosk to pay. I finished up quickly and followed behind, all the time trying to keep my face hidden
I dropped into the queue two places behind him. He walked right past me after he’d paid, but I pretended to look at the newspapers and he didn’t glance my way
They had fresh doughnuts at the counter—thick, floury things coated in sugar. Usually they wouldn’t have appealed at all, but my stomach suddenly reminded me that I hadn’t eaten all day. I bought a bag of six
Once I’d paid I was too busy congratulating myself on my skill at avoiding Durban and turned away from the counter, right into the face of the old lady in the fur coat
She squealed, a small, almost dog-like bark of surprise, and dropped her purse, scattering small coins all over the floor where they proceeded to run under the counters as if they’d been pulled there on strings
I scrabbled around with her on the floor, both of us apologizing all the time. I kept one eye on the door, expecting at any moment to see Durban come to check on the woman
“You’re so kind “ she said to me as I finally helped her upright, wincing as the old bones in her knees cracked loudly. Now that I saw her up close I had to revise her age upwards. Wrinkles hung slackly at her neck, and her hands were covered with liver spots. I was glad I hadn’t given her a bigger shock; she didn’t look like she would have survived it
She looked me up and down
“You know “ she whispered, her voice conspiratorial, “it’s so good to see a young man dressed properly. But you need a tie, dear. A nice sensible tie. Maybe I could take you shopping?”
I couldn’t believe it—she was flirting with me. I muttered something non-committal and left before I burst into hysterical laughter. I managed to get to the car without Durban looking my way and I pretended to root around in the doughnut bag until the woman finally came out of the shop.
My heartbeat was up, my palms were sweaty, but I was enjoying myself, more than I had for a long time. I almost, but not quite, fought off an attack of the giggles.
The smell from the doughnut bag was cloying and sickly. I scrunched it up, doughnuts and all, and threw it in the back seat, where it joined the old newspapers, empty cigarette packets and soft-drink cans. In centuries to come someone like Doug would have a field day describing ‘A Twentieth Century midden’.
When Durban got going I let them have a five second start before following on behind. Somewhere between Dalry and Kilwinning—I’m a bit vague on anywhere outside the city—they pulled into the drive of a large Victorian house sitting on its own in several hundred acres of land. The old Rover swished through the gates and, five seconds later, just as I got to them, the gates swung shut. Even from inside the car I could hear the satisfying clunk as they locked into place.
I drove past, only having time to notice that there were at least six cars in the driveway. A hundred yards down the road things opened out to open field once more. I did a tight three-point- turn in the road, went back, and looked for somewhere to park.
It took a few minutes, but I found the perfect spot: a mud track off the main road that ran into a disused yard adjoining one of the house’s walls. I turned off the engine and rolled down the windows but there was no noise, just the warbling of birds and the soft rustling of the wind in the trees. I was instantly reminded of childhood conker hunting through sepulchral woodland. There is an oppressive feel to woodland that I’ve never gotten to grips with—concrete and street lamps were more my scene.
The wall was over six feet high, and I had to do a bit of scrambling to see over it, but what I found was encouraging. The garden of the house was heavily wooded—lots of places for a snoop to hide.
This was something I was used to—furtive lurking in gardens had become a bit of a specialty of mine. I clambered over the wall and began heading closer to the house. The ground was soggy underfoot but at least the rain had stopped. The house was huge—well over a hundred years old and festooned with rampant, out-of-control ivy. It was on three levels, in granite, with a massive frontage of bay windows and a genuine Victorian conservatory off to my right.
I’m no botanist, but all the trees in the garden had an exotic, almost
foreign feel to them, and various large statues dotted the grounds, like people frozen at a garden party. Whoever Durban was dealing with was obviously well off—very well off. Durban’s old Rover, although stylish, was the least expensive car in the drive. From my vantage on the wall I could see at least two Bentleys and a Porsche.
The driveway gates were still closed and there was no sign of movement in the gardens. I decided to take my chance and move even closer.
It was at times like this that I wished I had some toys—devices to listen through windows, tracker bugs, all that James Bond stuff—but there wasn’t usually much call for it in the West of Scotland. I made my way slowly through the bushes, trying to get as close as I dared to the front of the house. I could see light ahead of me, so I got on my hands and knees and crept closer. By parting a few rhododendron branches I could see in through the bay windows.
It looked like a cocktail party was going on, one of those sedate country house parties of the kind I never got invited to. The average age of the guests was somewhere around seventy and none of them seemed to be enjoying themselves very much.
At first Durban was the only one I recognized but the rest of them looked similarly well-heeled and there must have been several tens of thousand pounds worth of jewelry on show.
Just then the fur-coated lady walked into view. She was giggling behind her hand like a schoolgirl, and the action suddenly made her younger, almost skittish. The smile on her face stayed with her until she walked out of my sight. It almost made me want to be in there with them.
The party seemed to be revolving around someone sitting in the corner of the room, just out of my sight. When the unseen person spoke, everyone else listened—a rapt expression on their faces, a mixture of deference and something else. I thought that maybe it was fear, but then again that might have been just my imagination.
I found a handy tree to lean against where I had a partial view of proceedings. I skidded on the damp bark, adding a new stain to my raincoat but eventually settled myself in and tried not to think about cigarettes.
The Midnight Eye Files: Volume 1 (Midnight Eye Collections) Page 10