SCREEN SAVERS
QUINTIN JARDINE
www.headline.co.uk
Copyright © 2000 Quintin Jardine
The right of Quintin Jardine to be identified as the Author of
the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2008
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
eISBN : 978 0 7553 5365 1
This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations
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Praise for Quintin Jardine:
‘Screen Savers is a novel that engages you from the start’ Dundee Evening Telegraph
‘If Ian Rankin is the Robert Carlyle of Scottish crime writers, then Jardine is surely its Sean Connery’ Herald (Glasgow)
‘Deplorably readable’ Guardian
‘Engrossing, believable characters . . . captures Edinburgh beautifully . . . It all adds up to a very good read’ Edinburgh Evening News
‘Robustly entertaining’ Irish Times
‘Remarkably assured novel . . . a tour de force’ New York Times
‘Excellent thriller’ Manchester Evening News
‘Compelling stuff . . . one to watch’ Oxford Times
This book is dedicated to the memory of my friend, Anthony Corbett Parton, who lived for family, fellowship and music. Play on, Big Tony, in our hearts.
And in memory of three good men:
Al Pope, my father-in-law
Dr Bob Mackey
Professor Terry Plunkett
They were warm, joyful, hard-working, open and caring people. They made life much better.
Chapter 1
He moved towards her. It was dark, but there was no disguising the menace in his eyes.
She stood there framed in the open window, looking down at the incalculable drop to the sea below her, listening to the roar of the water as it pounded and frothed on jagged rocks. I wanted to help her, to leap on his sleek Hispanic back, to slap on a sleeper hold like my wrestler pal Liam Matthews, or simply to spin him round and give him an old-fashioned toeing. All my instincts told me to help . . . she was Prim’s sister, for Christ’s sake . . . but of course I couldn’t. I just sat there, a poor helpless fool, staring at murder about to happen.
Useless, Oz Blackstone, just plain useless.
She sensed him, the lithe Latino, at the last minute; she turned, her eyes widening in sheer terror as she saw him and realised in the same instant, exactly what he had in mind. I expected her to scream, but she didn’t. No, as quickly as the fear had flashed across her face, inexplicably it was gone, replaced by a soft mocking smile.
‘Just for a second . . .’ she said softly.
And there he was, behind the intruder, muscles tensed in his white T-shirt, his long hair flying as he did what I had wanted to do. In a single blur of powerful movement, he kicked the man behind the knee, without warning, sending him spinning, then caught his right wrist and twisted his arm savagely up behind his back.
My eyes must have been standing out like organ stops as I watched, an intruder myself in the darkness. For long seconds, the three figures stood in a frozen tableau, Dawn still smiling, the short struggle between the two men concluded.
And then she stepped aside, away from the open window. Now her rescuer was grinning, his impossibly good looks turned suddenly into something evil. With hardly any visible effort he raised his captive up on his toes and hurled him outwards, over the low sill, into the night. The doomed man’s arms flailed wildly as he screamed his way down to the rocks below.
Dawn laughed; a soft, deep, throaty chuckle. I felt a shiver run through me; in that instant she sounded just like Jan. But when she spoke, the accent was different. ‘You bastard,’ she murmured, as she wound her arms around his neck. ‘Just for a moment, I thought you were going to let him—’
He put his hands on her waist, lifted her and threw her backwards, out of the window. It happened so fast that the smile stayed on her face, even as she started on her way down to death.
In the darkness I heard a voice cry out: ‘Jesus Christ!’ I realised that it was mine.
Miles Grayson laughed as he pushed the remote button. ‘Now that, Oz, is the sort of audience reaction any movie director likes to hear,’ he said, as his face froze on the big television screen.
Beside me, I could hear Primavera, breathing hard. I pushed myself up from the floor and snapped on a table lamp, then pulled back the heavy, drawn curtains, letting the Glasgow summer evening back into my living room.
‘What d’you think?’ Miles asked. You two are the first to have seen that, apart from us, the crew, and the technician who helped me edit the final cut.’
‘I thought you were supposed to be the good guy,’ said Prim.
‘That’s the hook,’ Dawn answered, in her own accent this time. ‘Miles is always the good guy, so we figured that when he chucks me out of the window all of a sudden it’ll just blow everyone away.’
‘Is that the finish?’
A few years ago, Time magazine had a poll to choose the most famous human on the planet. The fourth most famous looked up at me from my heavy leather sofa. ‘It is at the moment,’ he replied in his Aussie-Californian drawl. ‘Did you get it?’
I was long past being awed by Miles. All that fame crap aside, he was just my partner’s brother-in-law, and just another Equity member, like me. I did a pretty good job of looking down my nose at him; not difficult, since I’m three inches taller than him, when we’re standing side by side.
‘Do’s a favour, of course I got it. Classic sub-Hitchcockesque melodrama; you’re the soft-centred, romantic, perennial failure type back from the South Seas and shagging your incredibly rich brother’s wife. She sells you this scheme where the pair of you do him in and inherit the family millions . . . except, right at the end she finds out the hard way that you don’t plan to share the inheritance.
‘Nice one. Kept me right on the edge of my floorboard all the way through. No kidding.’
‘Yes,’ Prim chipped in. ‘Biased or not, it’s the best film I’ve seen this year. Mind you, it was a bit strange watching you two on screen with you sitting behind me all the time.’
‘Did you understand the ending?’ her sister asked.
‘I think so. You can’t help it, when Miles’ face suddenly takes on that look.’
The world’s fourth most famous human looked at his wife, eyebrows raised. She smiled, and nodded her head.
‘Great,’ he said. ‘Thanks, you two. You’ve just saved us a few hundred thousand dollars. I was thinking about shooting a few extra scenes, just to bring out the final twist in the tail. But we’ll treat you as a test audience and go with what we’ve got.’
‘Maybe you can do a sequel,’ Prim suggested. ‘Maybe Dawn could have a sister who doesn’t believe that she and her husband died accidentally, and turns up to investigate her death.’
Miles grinned. ‘You fancy the part?�
�
‘Not me. Better make it an identical twin sister. Maybe you could find a part for Oz, though. He is a member of your profession, after all.’
Miles and Dawn stared up at me. The looks of astonishment which swept over their faces were as dramatically effective as anything we had seen in their movie.
Chapter 2
‘You? An Equity member? You’ve never done a day’s acting in your life.’
‘Maybe not, but this is a letter from Equity and it is offering me full membership.’
She looked over her shoulder, with that half-smile, half-frown that only she could pull off, the one that told me when I was being a plonker. She had kept her fair hair long, the way it had gone during her sojourn in Spain. Prim and I don’t go back all that far in terms of years, but in terms of shared experiences there was a bond between us tied in stainless steel wire.
Primavera Phillips is the daughter of two genuine eccentrics, whereas my mother, at least, was a normal, feet on the ground sort of woman, even although my Dad is . . . well, he’s my Dad. With that sort of genetic inheritance you might have thought I’d only be half as daft as Prim.
Her special sort of daring daftness must be infectious, though, for ever since I met her my life has been stood on its head, and I’ve found myself in situations that were about as likely . . . and as hazardous to the health . . . as Jimmy Hill walking into the Horseshoe Bar in his England bow tie and asking for a pint of bitter.
All I ever wanted was a nice quiet life as an ordinary, self-employed Private Enquiry Agent, taking enough depositions for lawyers and insurers to keep myself in the modest style to which I’d become accustomed . . . or maybe I should say, in which I’d become complacent.
Not even in my sweatiest nightmare had I ever wanted to become the sort of private detective you read about in mass market novels, or see on telly. Then, one ordinary day, I walked into a flat just off Leith Walk, and came face to face with two bodies. One was dead. The other was very much alive; it was Prim’s.
My life changed beyond redemption in that instant. For a start, thanks to Prim’s even dafter sister Dawn, she and I found ourselves in mortal danger, from which we escaped only by the skin of our teeth . . . albeit with a big bag of money.
With our riches, the pair of us buggered off to Spain for a while and became involved in an even crazier adventure which ended in death and in the discovery for both of us that while we were deeply in lust, we were not exactly soulmates. In fact, I realised that mine was back in Scotland.
So Prim and I said our goodbyes, and I went home to marry Jan, thinking - stupid bastard that I was - that I would live ‘happily ever after’. An imprecise phrase, that; bound as it is round the word ‘ever’ which has a different duration for every one of us . . . for every two of us.
In our case, Jan’s and mine, it meant a few months; time for us to settle down in an eagle’s nest in the middle of Glasgow, time for us to discover what happiness really is, before . . . no, that has to stay in the past. I can’t avoid the flashbacks, but I won’t talk about it again, unless I really have to.
In the wake of that . . . thing, Prim came back into my life, like a strong hawser tethering me to the ground, giving me something on which to focus. With nothing better to do, but knowing from experience that we had to do something, we leased a small office in Mitchell Street Lane, re-established our old business, Blackstone and Phillips, Private Enquiry Agents, and watched the client list expand to bursting point.
Primavera rented a flat, a two-bedroom place in the Merchant City, owned by an Aberdeen lawyer whose older kid had just left Glasgow University and whose younger sprog was still at school.
We kept separate social lives for a while; or tried to. But mine consisted mostly of going for a pint with my copper pal Mike Dylan, and Prim’s involved reading a lot and going to the movies on her own. So after a while we started going to the movies together, and sometimes I’d go to Prim’s for supper afterwards, or she’d come to mine. In the beginning, neither of us stayed over. We’d been over that course before; and furthermore having a business relationship to protect, we were careful to keep things on a ‘good pals’ basis.
Then one Friday night towards the end of September, after we had seen Armageddon, polished off a couple of steaks and watched Men in Black on my video, when Prim picked up the phone to call a taxi, I put a finger on the button and cut her off.
It wasn’t the same as before; it couldn’t be. We weren’t as exuberant as we had been at first, - the truth is, that had gone before we split - but there was a new tenderness there, a new maturity in the way we approached each other. We didn’t use any dangerous words, but afterwards, we fell asleep easily enough; at least that hadn’t changed.
She gave me one funny look the next morning, when I came into the kitchen as she was loading her hand-washed underwear and shirt into the tumble-dryer; a slightly apprehensive glance, as if she was searching my face for signs of guilt. I smiled at her, trying to let her know without saying it that she needn’t have bothered, that there was no one, anywhere, who would take the slightest exception to she and I sleeping together.
That night, when I came back from my Saturday job, she had moved her clothes into the wardrobe and drawer space which I had made ready for her. Jan’s space; Jan, who, everything else aside, had liked Prim enormously.
And that very same night, we won the lottery. Not the mega-jackpot, you understand, only three and a quarter million, but a clear blessing nonetheless upon our new beginning.
It made no difference to us. Honest. We had plenty of money to start with, our business was going well, and my Saturday job was bringing me in even more.
My Saturday job? Oh yes.
About eighteen months back, I had been dropped by my lawyer pal Greg McPhillips into an investigation which involved some extremely crazy gentlemen, and a couple of ladies, involved in the sports entertainment business . . . in other words, wrestlers.
As a cover I had agreed to become the circus’s master of ceremonies, or ring announcer, calling the bouts on the Global Wrestling Alliance’s television shows. To their surprise, and even more, to mine, a few people thought that I was quite good in the part, and so after the smoke had cleared from the explosive conclusion of the real job which I had been hired to do, Everett Davis, the extremely big boss, had asked me to stay on, and had given me a contract backed up by a few share options in the holding company.
Since then, GWA had gone truly global, and Everett was spending more than half of his time in the States, servicing his recently signed network deal there and completing the take-over of his main rival, Championship Wrestling Incorporated, formerly run by his rogue half-brother. Oh yes, and with the take-over, my share options had gone sort of global also: they were worth around half a million dollars.
Even after all that, I was still taken by surprise when I found out that people other than children and eccentrics watch cable and satellite wrestling programmes. I was in the office one Tuesday morning transcribing an interview with a witness in a constructive dismissal action, when the phone rang. Prim answered, then handed it across.
‘Good morning, Oz,’ said an easy, slightly smarmy voice. I struggled to place it, but it sounded like most tele-salesmen I’d ever heard, professional, entreating, anonymous. ‘I’m Mark Webber, from RHB and F.’
‘I don’t think I need any of those,’ I told the guy.
‘Hah! That’s what our secretaries think too. But seriously . . .’ I tried to take him seriously, but failed ‘. . . we’re an ad agency, in Covent Garden. We’re casting for a new commercial for a client in the children’s leisure sector.’
Okay, I thought, play along for a bit. ‘Children’s leisure, eh. Which branch would that be? Smarties, chocolate eggs?’
‘Play accessories.’
‘Ah. I see. Would they be toys, then? My nephews have a few of them. I must tell them that they’re accessorised.’
Mark Webber laughed, as if it was expected of
him. For a second I felt like a politician addressing a party gathering. ‘I get your drift, Oz; we creatives do tend to fall into line with our clients’ corporate language.’
‘Indeed? What else do you market? Beverage transporters . . . cups and saucers, like?’
‘Touché, old lad. I can hear already that you’re just the man for us.’
‘I don’t know about that, Mark. The only leisure accessories I use these days are limb-extending balata propellants. Mind you, I still can’t talk my Dad out of calling them golf clubs.’
The man’s laugh took on a manic tone. ‘God, that’s wonderful. It’s a humbling experience for a guy like me to be exposed to a Northern sensibility. Maybe we should ask you to write the script as well.’
‘As well as what?’
‘As well as doing the voice-over, of course. Listen, this is the story: the client, Roxy Matrix, is launching a new product in October aimed at the Christmas market. It’s a power accessory, personal rather than electronic . . .’
‘You mean it’s a toy, rather than a video game?’
‘I suppose so. It allows the child to become actively involved in play and to create fantasies around its persona.’
‘You mean it’s a doll?’
‘Companion, Oz; at Roxy Matrix they call them companions. ’
I managed to turn a chortle into a cough without Mr Webber noticing. ‘This companion? Is it inflatable?’
‘No, no, no. It’s solid, powered, and about twenty per cent of life size.’
‘Does it have muscles, or tits?’
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