When Boucher turned left into the Royal Mile, Cat prepared herself for the sight of him turning into a cosy eatery or boutique pub and settling in for a romantic meal. Maybe she’d even spot him, through the window, taking someone into his arms. There was, after all, no obvious reason why he would be unattached. He was charming, thoughtful, tasteful, intelligent, stylish and clearly of independent means. Cat couldn’t imagine a more perfect partner. And the idea that others hadn’t thought likewise was preposterous. So why did he live alone? Why did no man, woman or beast climb the stairway to his apartment? Why did she never hear him hosting anyone? Cooking a meal for two? Playing a romantic ballad? Engaged in lovemaking? Was he recovering from a traumatic relationship? Was he ‘between drinks’? Uncommonly choosy? A brothel creeper? Or was he, like her, so devoted to self-reliance that he didn’t need to share his life with anyone?
Alas, the last notion only made him even more attractive – and frustrating – to Cat, who sighed so loudly that a passer-by shot her a quizzical glance.
When he went beyond the Royal Mile into Holyrood Park she started to wonder if he was merely enjoying an evening constitutional, very much as she sometimes liked to do. And though this notion endeared him to her even further, she feared that the wide-open spaces of the volcanic ruins – empty of all but dog-walkers, cyclists and a couple of hill-running clubs out for their evening training – would make it even more difficult to go unnoticed. She considered giving up. It was getting foolish now. And yet she continued following.
He skirted the park at top pace and started heading south around the Salisbury Crags. And downwards. He looked for all the world like he was heading for the Innocent Railway.
This path, which Cat had stumbled upon during one of her early rambles around Edinburgh, is a former train track incorporating a 520-metre tunnel just south of Arthur’s Seat. Plying it for the first time in the middle of the day, Cat’s only thought had been never to come back in the dark.
Did Boucher intend to head back into the city via the tunnel? Or continue down the open path toward Duddingston? Either direction would leave Cat painfully exposed. And night was encroaching rapidly.
But still she couldn’t help herself. She counted off thirty seconds – giving him enough time to gain some ground – and then followed him down the incline.
When she came to the Innocent Railway, however, she found that he was nowhere to be seen. He was not in the gun-barrel tunnel itself. But neither was he visible anywhere on the walled-in path. And these were the only two directions possible. Unless he had sprouted wings? Or ducked into some hiding place she wasn’t aware of?
She hesitated for a few moments – looking left, looking right, glancing up at the corrugated cliff face of Samson’s Ribs – before deciding the time had come, finally, to concede defeat. A cyclist whizzed past and plunged into the tunnel.
Cat followed him in. Some of the sodium lamps in the ceiling had blown and she walked through alternating light and darkness. The walls were covered with lurid graffiti of huge phalluses and horned devil faces. She was still in her work shoes, low-heeled but nevertheless enough to create an echo.
Clack clack clack clack.
Plink plink plink – the slow drip of water leaking through cracks in the ceiling.
And the hiss of the cyclist passing through puddles ahead.
She was a third of the way through when she noticed something on the walls.
DER MENSCH IST GOTT.
And on the other side: GOTT IST DER MENSCH.
She had heard these same lines uttered aloud, she was sure, during her delirium at Castle Aileanach: ‘Man is God! God is Man!’
Ahead, the cyclist shot out of the tunnel, leaving her all alone.
Clack clack clack clack.
Plink plink plink.
And now, halfway through, another sound.
Shwee shwee schwee shwee.
It was a counterpointing footfall behind her. But whereas in other circumstances she would have glanced around to make certain, she was inhibited now by the notion that it belonged to Boucher.
Clack clack clack clack.
And shwee shwee shwee shwee.
The footfall was getting closer. She had the thrilling sense that he was playing a game with her. That he’d concealed himself somewhere with the intention of doubling back on her, walking lockstep with her, tapping her on the shoulder, then grinning broadly when she turned – maybe even sweeping her off her feet.
Clack clack clack clack.
Shwee shwee shwee SHWEE.
She yearned to turn around but didn’t want to spoil the ‘surprise’. And because she hated the idea of appearing nervy, jumpy – to anyone.
Clack clack clack clack.
SHWEE SHWEE SHWEESHWEESHWEESCHWEE.
The footfall behind was accelerating. Her pulse was accelerating. She had almost reached the western end – there was a semicircle of blue light about fifty yards ahead – and it was now or never. But still she didn’t turn.
SHWEEclackSHWEEclackSHWEEclackSHWEEclackSHWEE.
Finally a hand landed on her shoulder.
Cat swung around, just as she’d planned, with a guileless smile on her face.
And saw a long-haired devil glaring back at her.
‘Well, well,’ the devil snarled, ‘if it ain’t Shania Twain!’
For a moment – horrifyingly – she thought it was Dylan Moyle, back from the dead.
‘Happy now, hen? That he’s gone?’
Then it struck her. It was Moyle’s friend, the straggly-bearded rocker.
‘Who you gonna whine about now, cunt?’ His hand was pinning her in place.
Cat saw genuine hatred in his eyes. As if he knew about Aileanach Castle. As if he knew she’d partaken in a Satanic ritual.
She tried to wriggle away but he was grappling with her, hauling her back – intent, it seemed, on inflicting damage.
For a moment she thought she was going to be struck – she could see ROCK STAR tattooed on his whitened knuckles – but then there was a pulse of energy. A formidable swoosh, like an electric wave.
And the rocker was thrown back. He was almost blown off his feet.
Unable to account for it – the force that had repulsed him – he glanced over Cat’s shoulder, his face slackening and his eyes widening. He looked like a man who had peered into the Abyss. And then, in an instant, he was bolting. He was racing down the tunnel past a pair of tandem cyclists.
Cat was confounded. She turned, but there was no one behind her – not a soul. And yet clearly the rocker had seen something. Had someone – Boucher? – scared him away? Terrified him? She didn’t understand.
The cyclists, both female, drew up beside her. ‘You all right?’ one of them asked.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she breathed. ‘It was nothing. Nothing.’
‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Want us to call the police?’ the other one asked.
‘No, no, thanks.’
‘Like an escort into town?’
‘Thanks, I’ll be OK.’
The cyclists looked disappointed with her but were on their way before she could ask them what they’d seen. She turned again and saw the rocker still hightailing down the tunnel, heading for the eastern exit and not looking back.
Perhaps, she speculated, he’d just glimpsed something overpowering in her eyes? Her fierce resistance? Her refusal to be intimidated?
Whatever. It had worked, anyway. The bastard was gone. She collected her bearings, straightened her jacket, and continued on her way.
Forty minutes later, still tingling with confusion and anger, she arrived home to find under her door a beautifully quilted envelope containing a handwritten invitation.
Dear Cat,
This evening on one of my aimless wanders around this sublime city I was seized by the notion that the two of us, both innocents in Edinburgh, should perhaps celebrate our arrival with a good meal.
Would you care to join m
e on Saturday night? My treat? At La Casa del Fuego? It’s a Mexican restaurant I happened to notice tonight in the Old Town. I realise this is at short notice, however, so please don’t feel under any obligation to accept if you have more important matters to pursue.
Sincerely,
Robin (Number Six)
‘The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.’ William Blake
‘Pursue’? ‘Seize’? ‘Innocent’? William Blake?
Was he toying with her?
It was Tuesday, 13 March.
CHAPTER
FIVE
In the morning cat was called in to Bellamy’s cockpit, just as she had expected, for one of his infamous dressings-down.
‘I’ve just had a call from HR, seeking clarification of your current role,’ he said. ‘Do you have anything to tell me?’
‘I hope not,’ Cat replied brightly. ‘I’d like to think I’ve been doing pretty well at Jenny’s job. Funnily enough I’m enjoying it, too, and think I’ve learned a lot quickly – just as I’m sure you planned.’
Bellamy looked unmoved. ‘HR was referring specifically to your investigation at Credit Cards Department.’
‘My investigation?’ Cat made sure she looked puzzled. ‘I’d hardly call it an investigation. Just following up on a complaint, as I said. All I did there, really, was shake a few hands and familiarise myself with their procedures.’
‘That’s not the impression they have at HR.’
‘Well, I don’t know where they’re getting their information from. Was the officer you spoke to called Dunn, by any chance?’
Bellamy stiffened. ‘That’s of no relevance.’
‘Uh-huh. Well, on the way out of the department I shook hands with some big cheese called Mungo Dunn. I think he took an instant dislike to me. He even snuck in a mention of his father. And a sister in HR. So he’s probably marking his territory – you know what these guys are like.’
Bellamy sniffed. ‘Then you didn’t use the office to start phoning around? To the Glenrothes branch? And you didn’t request files?’
‘To be honest,’ Cat said, ‘I used the opportunity to chase up a few perfunctory things but I was unable to find any leads anyway. The employee in question – the one who forced the card on Mr Napier – has since resigned. I’m thinking of writing a letter to Mr Napier, implying that she was fired for incompetence. That will offer him some catharsis and everyone will be happy. He got his money back, after all.’
‘Hmm.’ Bellamy still looked unconvinced. ‘Territory or not, I sincerely hope I shan’t be getting any further queries about you, Ms Thomas. I always said it was a mistake to give you too much responsibility too soon. So take some free advice, if you will, from an old hand. It’s not wise to step on big toes, especially when you’re wearing new shoes. Especially when those toes belong to people called Dunn. I hope you’ll keep that in mind.’
‘I will,’ said Cat. ‘I will.’
As soon as Bellamy left the office, twenty minutes later, she got on the phone to her new friend at Credit Cards. ‘Mr Carterius,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you know who it is. And here’s what I’d like today. The names of former employees of your department who’ve since resigned or been moved to other departments. Specifically, I want names of those who worked closely with Mr Mungo Dunn. Even more specifically, I’d like you to single out the names of those you’d regard as people of integrity. Men or women of good character. Even better if they happen to live in Edinburgh.’
‘May I ask why?’ Carterius asked.
‘Fallen branches.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘If a tree is diseased, you can learn a lot from fallen branches.’
Carterius told her he’d give it some thought and get back to her. Cat said she’d much prefer that she give him something now. Carterius sighed and, lowering his voice to a whisper, offered her two names. ‘Karen Greeley was transferred to the branch in Leith. A loans officer, I think. And Poul Corneliussen – a Swedish fellow – was in line for the post that Mungo Dunn currently occupies. He took early retirement. Both are as honest as the day is long. Karen still lives in Edinburgh and so does Corneliussen, I’m sure of it. I saw him in Sainsbury’s.’
‘The Sainsbury’s where, may I ask?’
‘The one at Cameron Toll.’
‘Remind me how to spell “Corneliussen”.’
He told her.
‘I’ll look into it,’ said Cat. ‘And thanks.’
Deciding that the existing employee, Karen Greeley, might be unwilling to compromise her job in any way, Cat focused on the retired Scandinavian. And by happy coincidence the online directory offered up only one P. Corneliussen living anywhere near Cameron Toll.
It had been one of those curious Scottish days when the clouds seem permanently swollen with rain but never actually burst. Cat left the office at five o’clock sharp and headed for Corneliussen’s listed address in Duddingston. It wasn’t far from the Innocent Railway, so she had to resist thinking about the unsettling encounter with Moyle’s buddy the previous evening. More to the point she had to distract herself from further concerns about the forthcoming dinner with Robin Boucher. Though she had not yet responded officially to his invitation, she had purchased some equally fancy writing paper and was intending to slip a reply under his door as soon as she got home.
Dear Robin,
Happy to accept your generous offer to accompany you to the suggested restaurant. Be warned, however, that being an American I have plenty of opinions about Mexican cuisine – and just about everything else – and I am not shy in sharing them.
Shall I come to your place or wait for you to come to mine?
Regards
Cat (Number Five)
It had taken her five drafts before she found a suitable tone – neither aloof nor overeager – and she still wasn’t happy with it. But it would have to do.
Presently, using a map app, she arrived at Meadowfield Drive and a quaint bungalow half hidden behind a poorly pruned hedge. Pushing back the squeaking gate – a terrier started yapping behind the fence – she reached the door and pressed a cracked buzzer. When there was no sound of movement from inside, she jabbed it again. The dog next door was still growling. She was about to give up when the door drew back with a squeal. A wispy-haired man holding a canvas shopping bag stopped on the threshold.
Cat brightened. ‘Mr Corneliussen?’
The man looked hesitant. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m sorry – I tried the buzzer.’
‘It doesn’t work.’
Cat nodded. ‘Look, I don’t want to hold you up, but I’m from ABC’ – he tightened at once – ‘and I’d just like to talk about your time in Credit Cards.’
‘Who are you?’ Corneliussen had narrowed his eyes.
‘I’m from Internal Frauds.’
‘Who told you I was in Credit Cards?’
‘It’s in the record, Mr Corneliussen. You worked closely with Mungo Dunn and—’
Corneliussen slammed the door.
Cat stood in place for a few moments, a trifle stunned, and then stabbed the buzzer again. Then she remembered that it didn’t work. So she knocked. But Corneliussen clearly wasn’t coming out – not while she was standing outside.
Cat, however, was nothing if not persistent. She feigned a retreat, raising the collar of her coat and making off down the street until she was out of sight. Then she crossed the road, marched up a grassy slope past some foraging crows, and came to the shelter of some leafless birch trees. Here she waited, rehearsing her lines while hoping it didn’t start to rain (she hadn’t brought an umbrella). Finally Corneliussen, still clutching his canvas bag, ventured out once more. Looking left and right – he was visible through a gap in the hedge – he had barely reached his front gate when Cat erupted from her hiding place. The crows took off with a start.
Corneliussen was unlocking the door of his ancient Volvo – a model so old that he was inserting a key in the lock – when Cat caught u
p with him again.
‘Honesty and integrity never seem to pay, do they, Mr Corneliussen?’
Startled, Corneliussen seemed for a moment as though he was about to dive into his car and roar off. But something about Cat’s comment immobilised him.
‘I don’t want to compromise you in any way,’ Cat went on, catching her breath. ‘And if you’d prefer I’ll never mention your name to anyone. But it would help me immeasurably if you’d only let me know I’m on the right track.’
Corneliussen looked off into the distance for a moment, as if lost in some internal debate, then focused on Cat again – not exactly assenting but not retreating either.
Cat took a gulp of air. ‘I suspect there’s something very underhand going on in our Credit Cards Department. Maybe it’s too discreet for others to see, but I’ve dealt with these sorts of things before.’
Corneliussen looked incongruously, bitterly amused for a moment. ‘Dealt with this before, have you?’ His lips had barely moved.
‘I’m from America.’
Corneliussen again seemed to argue with himself. But finally he emitted a sigh. ‘All right, then – tell me what you think is going on.’
‘I think the Dunn family are running a scam at ABC with Mungo Dunn as the point man in Credit Cards,’ said Cat. ‘I think they have a system in place that takes full advantage of the zero liability and lax security arrangements with the current card issuer. I think that whenever an unwanted card is returned “NOT AT THIS ADDRESS” it’s secretly activated and diverted to accomplices who rack up thousands of dollars of purchases before the original customer finds out. Across dozens, perhaps scores of accounts, the stolen amounts would be considerable.’
Corneliussen, still not looking at her, issued a barely audible chuckle. ‘Pounds,’ he said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You mean pounds, not dollars.’
‘Forgive me, pounds,’ Cat said, nodding. ‘But am I right or am I not?’
‘Miss’ – Corneliussen chortled bleakly – ‘you’ve not even touched the tip of the iceberg.’
The Devil Upstairs Page 14