The Devil Upstairs

by Anthony O'Neill

  The Border Terrier was still grrrrrrring. Meanwhile a shadowy figure was emerging from a house across the road with a brace of eager hounds on leashes. Their presence seemed to put the old hag – and her terrier – further on edge.

  ‘Come to me when you need to know more,’ she said. ‘And in the meantime consider your every step.’

  ‘Why should I come to you?’

  ‘Because you will want answers. You will need answers. You have my address.’

  Then the old hag turned, jerking the dog’s chain, and hobbled up the sidewalk. The hounds across the road were undulating like a seven-headed hydra.

  Cat watched for a few moments, trying to raise an objection. Or a chuckle. But the hag, moving up the sidewalk with great alacrity despite a pronounced hobble, soon disappeared around a corner. And Cat got back to finishing her run – frowning, freezing, and wondering how the hell she was meant to know the old woman’s address.

  When she reached Dean Village she was so distracted she barely noticed the now-familiar crowd of shadowy tourists. But when she got closer to her building she certainly noticed Boucher – he was leaning into the engine cavity of his MG with a flashlight – and she swung around impulsively before he could spot her.

  She had barely taken two steps, however, when she found herself being wrenched around – a muscular movement that sucked the air from her lungs.

  An ogre with a buzzcut and a flattened nose had a hand the size of a baseball mitt clamped around her upper arm. He waited just long enough for her to recover from her shock, then he leaned in.

  ‘It’s a warning,’ he spat. ‘Don’t end up like the—’

  Then: the force.

  Cat had no time to react. She could only watch, breathless, as the ogre was ripped away from her. As he was propelled against the wall of a neighbouring building. As the back of his head was slammed against the sandstone blocks.

  It took her a moment to register that the surge, this time, was most definitely Robin Boucher.

  ‘Keep your fucking hands off her!’ he was yelling. ‘Don’t ever touch her! You hear?’

  The ogre – looking as stunned as Cat – seemed not to know what to do. He stared up at Boucher, who was towering over him.

  ‘Do you hear?’

  The ogre couldn’t counter Boucher’s intensity. And he wilted. All two hundred and fifty pounds of him wilted. He squirmed away, like a chastened dog, and with one last terrified glance at Cat – as if she were somehow responsible – he disengaged from Boucher and loped off, picking up pace as he gained distance.

  Boucher, whom Cat had never realised had such heft, looked across at her. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said.

  ‘A friend of yours?’

  ‘No, I’ve got no idea who he is.’

  ‘Something to do with your work?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘The investigation?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘I told you to be careful.’

  ‘You did. You did at that.’

  They took a final lingering look down the street, where the ogre was being swallowed up by a cluster of disapproving tourists.

  ‘Anyway,’ Boucher said, drawing a chamois cloth from his pocket, ‘it’s good to see you again.’

  ‘You too,’ managed Cat, almost laughing at the tone shift.

  In truth, she was still shaken by his thrilling performance. It had been pulsating. Erotic, even. And just quite possibly contrived.

  ‘Just one second.’ As Cat continued to the stair door, Boucher diverted to the car and gently closed the bonnet. He was wearing what passed for his down-and-dirty clothes – oil-stained jeans and sleeveless jacket – and yet still looked impossibly stylish. ‘Haven’t seen you since that overspiced dinner,’ he noted, joining her again.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, getting the key out of the lock. Her breath was still coming in gasps. ‘I should’ve thanked you for that.’

  ‘And I should’ve thanked you for being there.’ When he raised an arm to hold back the door, she got an intoxicating whiff of heated engine grease – he seemed almost to be smoking. ‘No mail for me?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it, no.’ She withdrew from the mailbox a brown envelope and a padded envelope.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, as if he ever got any mail. ‘After you.’

  As they ascended the stairs, Cat, still reeling, was painfully conscious that her pert Lycra-bound glutes were practically in his face. ‘I’m a little sweaty,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t mind. I hope you had a good time anyway – at the restaurant?’

  ‘It was great, thanks.’

  ‘You were a bit under the weather at the end.’

  ‘I was, I apologise. I disgraced myself.’ They whirled upwards. ‘I hope I didn’t say anything stupid?’

  ‘Nothing of the sort.’

  ‘I ended up having a nightmare,’ she admitted.

  ‘Did you? I didn’t hear anything.’ Which didn’t sound remotely convincing. ‘But really, I’m the one who should apologise. It wasn’t right of me to leave you in that way.’

  Cat was startled. Was he saying he’d been in her flat after all? She fumbled for her keys.

  ‘You know, Cat,’ he went on, as they reached her landing, ‘if you don’t mind my saying, you look a bit shaken up.’

  ‘I am shaken up,’ she said, still trying to open the door. ‘That guy – well, it brought back bad memories.’

  ‘No doubt,’ he said, as smooth as ever. ‘I expect you could do with a distraction.’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Then I was wondering’ – he sounded almost tentative – ‘if next time you might join me for dinner upstairs.’

  The lock finally clicked. Cat looked at him. ‘You want to . . . cook me a meal?’

  ‘I’m rather proud of my culinary prowess, you know.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘And you didn’t speak highly of the Mexican food.’

  ‘I didn’t?’

  ‘“Bobo” or something, you called it.’

  ‘There you go, I did embarrass myself – “bobo” is a Floridian term.’

  ‘No, you were right to criticise. But what I can cook upstairs, I promise, will be a perfect Italian pasta.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ She had all the locks open now.

  ‘Even though I’m not remotely Italian.’

  She pushed open the door and finally dared to look at him. ‘Uh . . . Italian? Pasta? Yes, of course, that sounds fine.’

  He arched his eyebrows, smiling. ‘Well, then – say, seven-thirty on Friday night?’

  ‘Sounds great,’ said Cat, but immediately she had second thoughts. Because she was submitting again. ‘Hang on,’ she said, before he could turn. ‘Hang on. I’ve got an even better idea. How about you come to my place? And I cook you an Italian meal?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s my turn, yeah? The Mexican meal was your treat, after all.’

  ‘That’s true – and it’s very thoughtful of you.’

  ‘I fancy my hand at Italian cuisine too, you know.’

  ‘Indeed?’ He sounded amused. ‘Then I’d be delighted to come down.’

  ‘Just knock whenever you feel like it.’

  ‘And I’ll bring a bottle of something – non-alcoholic, of course.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘There’s still a great deal I’d like to clarify about myself, you know.’

  ‘OK.’

  She stepped across her threshold and closed the door. Chained it. And turned the Chubb locks.

  Still a great deal I’d like to clarify about myself.

  And that would be very much in order, Cat thought.

  When she had settled enough to open the mail she was surprised to find nothing inside the brown-paper envelope but an elegant business card.

  MADAM MORGANACH

  OCCULT RESEARCH

  13A Featherhall Close, Corstorphine

  Edinburgh


  She was so disturbed by this – the idea that Miss Marple had traced her somehow to her residence – that she barely noticed herself tearing open the padded envelope. It was only belatedly that she remembered the growl – the threat – of the ogre: ‘It’s a warning.’

  Looking down, she flung the envelope on the table in disgust.

  Inside, bound in cling film, was an enormous maggot-ridden rat.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  The next day, as soon as bellamy departed the office for points unknown, Cat ducked into Agnes’s and called the Musselburgh branch, hoping that Carter Carterius had already assumed his new role there. But, after being kept on hold for an indecent amount of time, she was told that the manager was unavailable.

  ‘But he’s there, right – he’s taken up his appointment?’

  ‘As I say, miss, he’s out of reach.’

  Cat considered invoking her rights as a fraud investigator but thought better of it. She hung up.

  ‘That was quick,’ noted Agnes.

  ‘I don’t like where this is going,’ Cat admitted. ‘What do you know about the Dunn family? Alistair Dunn in particular?’

  ‘Alistair Dunn? As in Dunn and Dusted?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what that means.’

  Agnes, who was slouched in her chair eating a Bakewell tart, shoved a chunk of icing into her mouth. ‘Alistair Dunn is the closest thing we have to royalty at ABC. And that means something, believe me, because we Scots aren’t good at royalty.’

  Cat remembered the tacky portrait in the foyer. ‘Royal or not, is he crooked?’

  ‘Of course he is.’

  ‘Do you know that for sure?’

  ‘You know what Rabbie Burns said – “Behind every great fortune is a crime.”’

  ‘I’m pretty sure that was someone else.* But he’s rich, anyway?’

  ‘Wickedly rich. Got a castle in Morningside that’s as big as your building.’

  ‘And that’s unusual in Edinburgh?’

  ‘Let’s just say J.K. Rowling made an offer and he gave her the who-are-you-again? treatment. And he’s ruthless. Psychopathic. Every time he takes down a rival he shoots a stag in the Highlands and mounts the head on his wall. Or so they say.’

  ‘Surely that’s just a myth?’

  ‘Well, he’s ruthless anyway. Got tentacles everywhere. Claws too. Don’t poke that bear if you don’t wanna get scratched.’

  ‘“Don’t go digging where the worms got teeth”?’

  ‘Eh?’ Agnes washed down the tart with a sip of coffee. ‘You’re not pitting yourself against Alistair Dunn, are you?’

  ‘Is that suicidal, career-wise?’

  ‘It might be suicidal, period. You sure you want to get mixed up in that type of thing?’

  ‘I’ve got to see it through now, regardless of what happens.’

  ‘In for the kill, huh? Blood on your tongue?’

  Cat baulked, for intimate reasons, at the expression. ‘It’s got nothing to do with my personal inclinations. But—’

  ‘Listen to you.’ Agnes had put her coffee down. ‘Just listen to you, Cat. You’re a hunter, accept it. You’re a tigress – a true cat. You like sinking your teeth into flesh.’

  Cat winced again. ‘But do you know of anyone absolutely trustworthy in this bank? Anyone I can approach with full confidence?’

  ‘I don’t know if anyone is absolutely trustworthy, do you?’

  ‘What about whoever it was that accepted my transfer from Florida? Someone upstairs? They must have known about my record?’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself,’ Agnes said. ‘If your appointment was ticked off by someone upstairs, it was probably Alistair Dunn himself – and then only because he thought it’d be handy to have someone in Frauds who knew nothing about him. Or Scottish crime in general. Maybe he just liked the look of you. Did you send a photo of your glutes?’ She smirked, but her face abruptly froze. ‘Uh-oh.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Wing Commander is staring at us.’ Agnes was glancing over Cat’s shoulder.

  ‘He’s back?’

  ‘Looking as sexually frustrated as ever.’

  Cat, who was holding a sheet of paper as though consulting Agnes about some technical matter, made a show of studying the figures. ‘Well, thanks for your help. See you at lunch, maybe?’

  ‘If I’m still here.’

  Back at her desk Cat concentrated on her menial duties while considering her peculiar catch-22: trying to save her job by pursuing an investigation that might well get her fired. But why, she wondered, was she making life so difficult for herself? Because she needed to prove her moral superiority? Or was it because, as Agnes had suggested, she was a born predator? One thing was for sure: it wouldn’t be easy to get a new job in Edinburgh if she’d been perceived to fail miserably in her first Scottish appointment. She needed to make a decisive move before it was too late.

  She was heading out to lunch when she noticed Agnes sitting in Bellamy’s office, her arms folded in disgust. Bellamy himself was leaning back in his chair, one hand pressed on the desk – the old ‘repulse’ posture. When his eyes flicked in Cat’s direction, she quickly averted her gaze.

  At the pub, waiting for Agnes, she took out her phone and did a private search on the Dunn family. There were scattered news items linking them all in innocuous ways to crime. The Daily Record had Craig Dunn from Business Banking warning about the dangers of ‘fly-by-night banks vis-à-vis established financial institutions such as ABC’. In The National Mungo Dunn was quoted about credit card security: ‘I can honestly say that the safeguards we have in place at ABC are among the most stringent in the world.’ In The Scotsman Alistair Dunn himself warned of the ‘increasing sophistication’ of crime gangs and the ‘duty of financial institutions like ABC to be constantly on our guard’. The accompanying photos featured all of them wearing squinted eyes and smug grins, as though taunting someone to take a swing at them. Backpfeifengesicht, as the Germans said – the eminently punchable face. And that was a fatal weakness of white-collar crooks, Cat thought – they revel just a little too much in their guile and duplicity.

  Agnes didn’t show up at the pub and wasn’t anywhere in the office when Cat returned. Reminding herself that they had never quite confirmed their lunch date, Cat got back to her spreadsheets. When Agnes still hadn’t shown up by three o’clock, however, she started to wonder if something had gone wrong. There was a distinctly unsettled atmosphere throughout the office: people button-lipped and barely looking up from their desks. Venturing past Agnes’s office, Cat noticed that all the silly little knick-knacks – a cartoonish voodoo doll, a goat’s head figurine, a sign saying LIVE IS EVIL BACKWARDS – were gone. With mounting alarm she went to Bellamy’s cockpit and rapped on the glass. Looking annoyed – he was doing some two-fingered typing – he nodded to her to come in.

  ‘Agnes,’ Cat said promptly. ‘What happened to Agnes?’

  He didn’t look up from the computer screen. ‘What should have happened a long time ago.’

  ‘You’ve fired her?’

  ‘I did what I had to do.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That should be obvious.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not obvious to me.’

  Bellamy fixed her with a glare. ‘You’d be well advised not to take that tone with me, Ms Thomas.’

  ‘All right then, why was Agnes dismissed? I’d like to know.’

  ‘Unacceptable standards. Deviation from established protocols. Improper lifestyle choices.’

  ‘Improper lifestyle choices?’

  Bellamy’s brows knitted. ‘She claims to be a witch, Ms Thomas. An actual witch.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So?’ He issued an incredulous snort. ‘It might mean nothing to you, but ABC doesn’t need a devil worshipper in the workplace. It doesn’t need those who rally around them either. That used to be grounds for execution itself, in better days.’

  ‘In better days . . .’ Cat hi
ssed.

  ‘In better days, yes.’ Bellamy was wearing his very own Backpfeifengesicht. ‘In any case, I’m rather busy here, as you can see. Have you anything important you wish to see me about?’

  ‘No,’ said Cat, feeling a wave of contempt rush over her. ‘I’ll be back at my desk. Sorting through the mail.’

  She counted down the minutes until five o’clock and then headed purposefully through the chiaroscuro streets – the gorse on Arthur’s Seat had spontaneously combusted, apparently, and the air was choked with fragrant smoke – all the way to Newington, where she found Agnes half-tanked in her stuffy top-floor flat with its purple-painted walls and menagerie of demonic figurines.

  ‘Can I pour you a glass of whisky?’ Agnes slurred, waving the bottle. ‘It’s the Laird of Howgate’s own brand, can you believe that? I got it at Aldi.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Cat asked, settling into the sofa beside a cardboard box of Agnes’s office decorations.

  ‘My sacking? I told you it was inevitable. That fud’s had it in for me from day one.’

  ‘But there are procedures, surely? You need fair notice.’

  ‘I’ve had enough notice. I walked out in the end.’

  ‘But he told me you were a witch. As if that were some basis for a sacking.’

  ‘I am a witch . . .’

  ‘Metaphorically speaking.’

  ‘Nothing metaphorical about it at all. I am a witch. I’m from a long line of witches. You’re not still kidding yourself that the conclave was just some kind of parlour game, are you?’

  Cat ignored her. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘What do you recommend? Invoke the Laird?’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘Well, I won’t be getting my job back while that Sassenach fud is in charge, that’s for sure.’ Agnes surveyed Cat with a roguish expression. ‘Maybe you can fix the problem for me?’

  ‘Now I’m really not sure what you mean.’

  ‘Oh, I think you are. Or you will be soon enough.’

  ‘If there was any way I could genuinely get your job back, you know I’d do it.’

  ‘OK, then, we have a deal. How is the King, by the way?’