Unnatural Justice (Oz Blackstone Mysteries)

by Quintin Jardine

  Susie, of course, was over the moon. Instead of telling her that the arse was about to fall out of her entire world, I told her that the Torrent bid had collapsed, that the Three Bears had gone away, and that I had taken an executive decision on her behalf to fire Sir Graeme Fisher and replace him, pro tem, with her most trusted lieutenant.

  She was still elated when we headed off for Fife . . . early next afternoon as it turned out . . . in a small convoy, Jay driving the BMW with the girls in the back, and me in the Lotus. I took it just in case we needed a second car up there, but there was this also; away from Susie’s presence I could drop my act and set free all my concerns and anxieties.

  I would have to tell her, of course, before the weekend was out. The lawyers’ opinions had been firm and convincing. She was going to lose the company, and she would have to be made to face up to it, and to the need to deal with the Devil. I switched on Clyde One, if not to cheer me up, then at least to take my mind off things for a while. At first, Coldplay and Travis did the business, but then came the top of the hour news bulletin.

  It began with the latest bickering in the Scottish Executive, went on to a report on the latest bickering in Glasgow City Council, and moved into a story about bickering between a football manager and his star player. After the sport, the usual formula is the latest weather and then a handover to the disc-jockey, but the newsreader went on in a glossy, tabloid radio voice, ‘And this just in. Strathclyde Police have confirmed that the man found shot dead in a car outside a betting shop in Crow Road was Jock Perry, Glasgow businessman and alleged underworld figure. Detectives refused to speculate on the motive behind Perry’s murder, but it is thought it may be linked to the death of Aidan Keane, a Broomhill man found dead in the River Clyde a few days ago.’

  I switched the radio off and thought back twenty-four hours, replaying my conversation with Jack Gantry. ‘Jock Perry will live to regret that.’ Unless I was very much off target, he had more or less told me that he had ordered an execution. I had dealt with a couple of serious people in my life before, but never anyone nearly as bad as him. I found myself fearing for Wylie Smith, who had gone back to Edinburgh the day before still determined to resign from Kendall McGuire. If Jack decided that he couldn’t afford him outside the tent pissing in . . .

  We reached my Dad’s just as he finished work for the week: come four o’clock on Friday he’s usually seen enough teeth for a while. I had warned him that we were coming, of course, and that we’d want a room for Jay as well. I wasn’t sure how I’d find him after our last meeting, but he was fine, seeming to be back to his old self.

  ‘Good to see you all,’ he greeted us. ‘You canna’ have enough family. Your sister’s bringing the boys later; it’s rare that we all get the chance to eat together, so I thought I’d push the boat out and take us all to the Craw’s Nest.’

  Enster means just two things to my daughter: the harbour and the ice-cream shop. We were hardly unloaded when she began demanding to be taken to both. My Dad has always been a sucker for a smile, and pretty soon she was heading off in her pushchair, with her grandparents in charge and Jay going along with them, because Susie wanted to rest up for the evening and I wanted some space to carry on thinking.

  We went up to our room and hung in the wardrobe the fancy gear we’d be wearing on the following evening: a voluminous white evening gown, and a white tux and black trousers. Still buoyed by her victory over the hated Natalie, Susie was determined to put on a show at the dinner, so she had brought her best jewellery, which isn’t bad at all, and worth more than all our fancy cars put together.

  It’s so valuable, in fact, that as she undressed and slipped under the duvet, I took it, in its red leather box, downstairs to put it in my Dad’s safe. Like most dental or medical practitioners, he keeps one, and always has. It’s a big thing, bolted to the floor although it weighs a ton, and it sits in the corner of his surgery, hidden beneath a table which always has a white cloth over it.

  I’ve known the combination since I was a boy, so I threw back the cover and dialled it: at the last click, the door swung open, and I reached in to deposit Susie’s valuables.

  I actually didn’t see it in the shadows, but my hand brushed against it, a flat object with a plastic feel. I fumbled around until I had a grip of it, then drew it out: a Shoei laptop computer, looking top of the range and pretty new. There was a modem port in the rear, and a cable dangled from it.

  I stared at it, bewildered. What the hell was my self-confessed computer hater of a father doing with a seriously fast laptop in his safe?

  And then I remembered Joe Donn, and his missing top of the range Shoei. Was this it, and if it was, then again, what was it doing in my Dad’s safe? Had Joe given it to him as a present? No, any time they’d met I’d been there too. And anyway, why would he? Well if not, had . . .?

  ‘Just hold on there, Blackstone,’ I said aloud, and realised that my heart was pounding. ‘Get your imagination in check.’

  All the same, I picked up the phone, pulled Ewan Maltbie’s number from directory enquiries and called him. Happily he was not an early finisher on a Friday. ‘Mr Maltbie,’ I began, when his secretary connected us. ‘Remember Joe’s computer?’

  ‘I do indeed,’ he replied at once. ‘I meant to tell you; sorry I haven’t got round to it. A letter arrived yesterday, redirected from the house to my office. It was from the Shoei Computer Company and it said that the laptop which he had returned to the company under warranty had been repaired and would be returned by Parcel Force, within the next few days. It said that the fault had been in the CD rewriter, and that the recordable disks which he had sent with it were perfectly all right. We only checked the supplier and local dealer. It never occurred to us or the police that Joe might have returned it directly to the maker. Oh yes,’ he added. ‘There was a letter from Laing, the jeweller. The carriage clock and the Piaget watch have been with them being serviced.’

  I felt a mixture of relief and guilt. ‘Did you tell Fallon?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. He was annoyed at first, but then happy that his people were off the hook.’

  ‘Me too. Cheers.’

  I hung up and looked at the Shoei. So it wasn’t Joe’s. So that meant almost certainly that Joe’s death had indeed been an accident, untimely for him, and for Jack Gantry, with Plan B in mind. So was it my Dad’s after all?

  I flipped it open, took a look at the keyboard layout and pressed what looked like the ‘on’ key, in the far right corner. It was powerful, all right: it booted up nearly as quickly as my desktop at home. Before long, the screen displayed an array of icons; some of them were shortcuts to the standard word processing and spreadsheet software that you get with every machine, but others I didn’t recognise.

  I looked at one. The tag under it was ‘Chesty’. I clicked on it, and gasped in astonishment. The screen was filled with the image of a blonde: but this was not your average pin-up. This woman had the biggest breasts I had ever seen.

  I closed it and selected another. This had no file name, only an asterisk. I opened it, and saw another blonde, although there was clear evidence that her hair colouring was not natural. There was nothing spectacular about this one’s bosom. What made her different was the fact that she was on all fours, side-on to the camera, and was being penetrated from the rear by a large black man. If he had as much inside her as was still showing outside, he was a very large man indeed.

  I closed it quickly and flicked through some others. Those with names were not engaged in any field sports, but some of them looked so young that I felt as if ice, not blood, was running through my veins. Those with asterisks were the action shots; some were stills, others were movies, but none were what you called routine porn.

  ‘The old bastard’s been downloading,’ I whispered to myself.

  I opened his programme folders and searched through them. Again, most were standard, but there was one called ‘Neptune’ that caught my eye. I tried to open it, only to discover that
it was not a routine programme, but a link to a website. I took the modem cable, disconnected the surgery phone and plugged it into the jack point, then found an icon marked ‘Free internet with Shoei’. I double-clicked; an indicator told me that I was dialling, that my password was being checked, and finally that I was online. Then it vanished, and the Shoei homepage appeared.

  I selected ‘favourites’. A list of web addresses appeared, and none of them looked like Amazon.com. The Neptune icon was among them, and I hit it. The first web page cleared and another appeared. It showed the old sea-king, trident in hand, only the three prongs on its end looked unsubtly different from the norm. He seemed to be winking too. Below him, there was a line of asterisks, and I knew it was for a password. I thought about it; if this was my naive old Dad, what would he do? I keyed in ‘osbert’ and got it right first time.

  A door opened and Neptune’s trident waved me through; a banner appeared across the screen:

  ‘Welcome to the Sea of Pleasure, member Mac’

  Below it there was an index, a veritable shopping list of kinks, from A for Anal to Z for Zoological. I left that alone and looked at two lines at the foot of the screen. One read ‘Interactive’, but I left that and clicked on ‘Mac’s private room’. I was asked for another password. Taking a logical approach, I keyed in ‘ellen’, and it let me in.

  I’m not going to describe in detail the contents of my father’s private chamber in King Neptune’s Sea of Pleasure. It featured all the usual sexual gymnastics, with a few animal assistants thrown in, and it was without doubt one of the saddest, seediest things I’ve ever seen in my life. But it all clicked into place when I opened one folder and saw a couple having fairly brutal sex. They were unmasked in this clip, where before they had been wearing various disguises. Like the fake blonde and the fit black man, they were side-on to the camera so that the viewer, sorry, voyeur, could see everything that was going on, and in.

  However, they were both looking sideways at the lens, with expressions of a level of rapture that just had to be fake. Beyond any shadow of a doubt, the images were those of the late Andrea and Walter Neiporte.

  I looked into ‘Interactive’ after that, and I will regret doing that to my dying day. All I will tell you is that my father had somehow managed to operate the free digital camera that comes with every Shoei, and had been able to upload head and shoulder images of himself. These had been digitally grafted on to someone else’s . . . Walter Neiporte’s, I guessed, and when I compared the ‘interactive’ chest hair, and other, more private features, I saw that I was right . . . so that he appeared to be a participant in a sexual orgy.

  ‘You stupid old man,’ I shouted out loud. I killed the image and turned off the laptop without bothering to log off from the Shoei homepage, then walked steadily across to the surgery sink and threw up.

  I had rinsed out my mouth and was wiping my face when my father came into the room. He stared at the open computer, still connected to the phone line, and his face contorted with rage in a way that I could never have imagined. It filled me with a horror greater than had anything I’d seen on his computer. ‘What have you done?’ he hissed, seeming to scream and whisper at the same time.

  Try to imagine that you’ve known someone all your life, and loved them as much as you could ever love anyone in the world, in a special way that was unique unto them. Then imagine that their secret soul, the one that we all possess, is laid open to you, and you see that it is weak and corrupt, that the idol you worshipped has feet not merely of clay, for who hasn’t, but of vile slime. Try to imagine how you’d feel.

  You can? Well that’s how I felt when I saw the other side of my father. He came towards me, looking far crazier at that moment than Jack Gantry ever had. He might have tried to hit me, but I thrust out a hand and seized his collar, holding him at bay.

  ‘No. Not me,’ I said, quietly. ‘What have you done?’

  I looked at him, but I couldn’t see anyone I knew.

  He seemed to break down then; he sagged in my grasp and his face crumpled. ‘I’ve been a fool, son,’ said this antithesis of my Dad, in a pathetic, whining voice that filled me with disgust, yet also with a sadness that it pains me to recall.

  ‘You’ve been a dirty old swine,’ I told him, quietly, ‘that’s what you’ve been. You have actually fed your face on to that site. You’ve seen the disgusting things they’ve done with them, but do you really believe that it was just for your own gratification? Fat chance. How many perverts like you do you think there are out there leering at you right now? But forget about you and think about this. If I’m reacting like this, how the hell do you think Mary, and Ellie, and Susie, and even Jonathan will feel if it ever goes public?’

  I didn’t need to wait for an answer. ‘When did you buy the computer?’ I asked.

  ‘A few months ago,’ he replied, in something like his normal voice. ‘Jonny and Colin were on at me so much that I decided I’d better join the twenty-first century. I didn’t tell anyone, though; after all the fuss I’d made about it I was too embarrassed. I tried it out, and I used it at night in the surgery, after Mary had gone to bed.’

  He looked down at his feet. He was calmer now so I released him from my grasp. ‘It all got out of hand,’ he whispered, but I wasn’t in the mood to take anything that resembled an excuse.

  ‘Did it fuck get out of hand!’ I snapped at him. ‘This is what happened. You set yourself up an e-mail address, yes?’ He nodded. ‘But before you even learned to use it, the spam started to arrive.’

  ‘Spam?’

  ‘You must know what that is. It means junk e-mail: Viagra by post, debt management, and most of all, the porn sites. You get e-mails asking, for example, if you’d like to see someone who looks like someone famous sucking someone’s cock. Normal e-mail users filter these things out, so that hardly any of them reach them. Not you, though, you stupid old sod; you let them come through, and more than that, when they did, you opened them. Am I on the case?’ He nodded again, mute. ‘But you did even more than that, didn’t you. You clicked on the links, you visited the sites, and . . . you . . . were . . . hooked.’ I felt my lip curl with distaste. ‘All that indescribable shagging, at your fingertips; I mean how could you resist?’

  I felt myself start to shake with anger, but I controlled it. ‘You did the really stupid thing next, though.’ I felt like a dark side version of Michael Aspel, with the red ‘This is Your Life’ book. ‘You signed up as a member, at a number of sites probably, not just Neptune. And you paid with your credit card.’ Nod. ‘And the form asked for your address, and you gave that too.’ Nod again.

  ‘How many times?’

  He shrugged his shoulders; if I’d let him, he’d have turned his back on me. He certainly couldn’t look me in the eye. ‘I don’t know,’ he whispered. ‘Maybe half a dozen.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe if I checked your credit card statements I’d find lots more.’ I shook my head, struck by an irony. ‘You know, in recent times, I’ve come to think of myself as one of the luckiest guys on the planet. You, on the other hand, must be one of the unluckiest. Most of these sites are run from places like Thailand or Mexico. You just happened to sign up for a do-it-yourself operation run out of Pitten-fucking-weem! And you told them where you lived!’

  I tried to catch his eye, but still he looked away. ‘There never was a surgery incident, was there?’ I asked. ‘I’ll bet if I look at your list I’ll find that Andrea Neiporte wasn’t even a patient. Right?’ I barked it out.

  His shoulders gave a great heave as he sighed. ‘Of course you’re right. I made that story up, Oz, in the hope . . . Oh, I don’t know in what hope.’

  ‘I do. You did it in the hope that I’d take care of it in some way. Pay them off, scare them off; you didn’t care as long as I fixed it for you.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Finally, he did look at me. ‘Son, I was desperate. It was like living a nightmare. The first thing that happened was that an envelope arrived in the mail, addressed to
me, personal and confidential. When I opened it, I found printouts of some of that stuff you saw in the computer.’

  ‘Let me guess. The personal stuff ?’

  ‘Yes, graphic, blown up so you couldn’t fail to recognise my face. There was no note with it, but next day Andrea Neiporte phoned me in the surgery. She told me that the next envelope would go to Mary, unless . . .’

  He sat on the edge of the table. ‘The first time it was five hundred. I agreed, and I posted it to her, in cash. I thought that would be it, but a week or so later, she called again. She said that they’d spent the five hundred, so would I give her a thousand, please. I did, of course. It was the third phone call that asked for the fifty grand. I said that I didn’t have that sort of ready cash. She laughed and said that you did. She said she’d call me in a couple of weeks, and that when she did, they’d be expecting the money. It was a couple of days after that that you came up.’

  ‘What would you have done if I hadn’t?’

  ‘I don’t know. Paid her, I suppose.’

  ‘But instead you turned me loose on them.’ He nodded.

  ‘When did you know that hadn’t worked?’

  ‘I had that first nasty, spitting phone call from her, the one I told you about. She said she’d show me how scared they were, then she’d be back in touch.’

  ‘The can of paint at the premiere; that was a message for you, not me?’

  ‘That’s right. When she called me again, the day after, she said that the timescale had shortened. They wanted the money in three days, or Mary got the photos.’

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘finally, you plucked up the courage and you killed them. And that show of outrage on the golf course afterwards, that was all a sham.’

  ‘No!’ he shouted, violently, vehemently. ‘No, I did not kill them! I wasn’t kidding that day. I really thought you killed them, or you had your man Jay do it. If you want to know the truth, I still do.’