The telephone static muttered like a premonition.
'The thing is,' Eddy Stewart said, 'they recognised the body right away – Merchant being who he was. And when Peerse heard, he remembered Merchant had a bit on the side and pulled her in.'
He stopped talking again and waited as if for Murray to admit something before he would go on.
'Frances Fernie,' Murray said.
'That's right. And she made a bad impression, she was scared, they were sure they were on to something. Only she has an alibi. She claims she was with some guy all night.'
'What guy?' Murray asked, but he knew the answer before Stewart spoke.
'Your brother Malcolm. That's why I'm phoning you. They've been holding him since this morning. He's "helping with enquiries" – you know the routine. It doesn't look good.'
12 The Beating
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8TH 1988
'Small world.'
'You're not a lightweight any more, Murray.'
The doorman whose stock in trade was a memory for faces could not hide his pleasure at remembering this one after so many years.
'I'm not seventeen either. You've maybe moved up a division since then yourself.'
The doorman appreciated the joke; he was a man who liked his jokes to be kept simple. 'And the rest. About a hundred and twenty pounds since they days.'
It was late and this was the last of the possibilities his contact had given him. The approach had not been impressive – a dingy passage then, since he had not taken the lift, two flights of cold stairs passing on the first floor a car-insurance office on one side and Wood Art Novelties Ltd on the other. Perhaps it was the contrast with that exterior which had helped to make the club fashionable. A group of three men and two youths came into the vestibule. One of the men said as he passed, 'Hey, George, Louie sent us,' in a fake Bronx accent which made George laugh although the chances were he had been treated to it before.
'The thing is,' he said, turning back to Murray, 'you're not a member.'
He was a big man and they had kitted him out in the kind of suit worn by gangsters in forties movies, wide-shouldered, loud, and with a lot of room in the legs.
'I don't want to gamble,' Murray said. 'Just have a drink – maybe something to eat.'
'I couldn't let you go upstairs.'
'That's all right.'
'Anyway it's full of bloody Chinamen up there.'
'I don't want to gamble.'
'Something to eat and drink?'
'That's it.'
In the long room most of the tables were empty and a single couple danced with melancholy absorption to a pianist playing at being Sam playing it again. There was a lot of glitter in the decor and an effect of chrome and red leather. There were imitation machine-guns on the walls and fake bullet holes to match and black and white blow-ups of stylised threat and ritual dying in which George Raft, Bogart and Cagney featured. One end of the bar had a cold table and beyond that a servery labelled The Steak Out.
The barman explained, 'They got a professor from the Art School to design it. And students – some of them helped him. But he was a real professor.'
'Did he design the doorman's suit as well?' Murray asked.
The barman grinned. 'The big fellow hates that gear. He thinks it makes him look like an idiot.'
'He could have something there. What's the food like?'
The barman recited until Murray interrupted, 'What's the difference between that and the other one?'
'A couple of quid. It comes with cheese and strips of bacon on top. They'll give you a side salad if you want it.'
Although he was not on expenses, Murray had to eat. It had been a long day since Eddy Stewart had phoned to tell him about Malcolm. Tomorrow was Sunday when he would visit Mother. – Let me tell you about Malcolm, Mother. He's helping the police with their enquiries. He may be able to help because a woman called Frances Fernie claims he spent Friday night in bed with her. I don't want you to worry though or get too upset about that; it's quite possible she's lying. Why would she do that? Because if she wasn't sleeping with Malcolm, it's just possible she was murdering John Merchant – that's right – that John Merchant. There isn't any kind of doubt she slept with Merchant. She talks like a country girl, but she's been around one city or another for some time; lots of people don't have a good ear for changing how they sound. I don't know why she should claim Malcolm was sleeping with her. I don't know how they could have met. – What do you think, Irene?
At midnight the comedian did his act. All the tables except one were full. An aggrieved couple were steered away from the empty table. That was the one, Murray decided. The comedian was a long-time performer who had recently made a record that had sold well enough to move him upmarket. In the accent of Moirhill, he told jokes about football, blacks, Irish and Pakistanis. The pianist had been replaced by a group. People danced.
– She has the body of a dancer. A lot of men must have wanted to sleep with her. She slept with John Merchant, an important man. Polish peasants wanted to kill him, but he was lucky, he knew a dirty joke and people like to laugh. Now he's dead. He came a long way to be tortured to death.
When Blair Heathers' party arrived, it made an entrance – but then that unoccupied table on the busiest night of the week had already made its declaration. It was a surprise when the disturbance settled that there were only seven of them. They took up room naturally; their gestures needed space; even the girls taller than Heathers who sat in the middle apple-cheeked and beaming. Like Christmas Eve in the sergeants' mess, Murray thought, pushing himself off the stool in their direction.
As he came up, one of the men and a girl were making their way to the dance floor. He took the girl's seat and looked round. Left at the table with Heathers, who sat almost opposite, were two men and the other three girls, look-alikes more or less for that year's image of the desirable. The men were older than the girls but a lot younger than Heathers, to whom with a common impulse all of them had turned. At that, even the girl who was available to be intrigued realised that Heathers didn't know him either. 'Nobody's sad,' Murray observed in the tone of a man willing to be reasonable.
The nearer of the two men, beak-nosed, beefy jowelled, blared, 'I rather think you've chosen the wrong place to squat. Better if you left again, eh?' The officer whom duty called to the defence of an unspoiled Christmas. Murray studied him thoughtfully but did not bother to reply.
The waiters wore striped shirts to be in character, their sleeves held up with bands of fancy elastic like a barber's shop quartet. Most of the shirts had yellow on purple stripes, but the one who came across had blue on dark brown. Another officer. 'Is everything satisfactory, sir?' he asked, staring across at Murray. 'Is there anything?'
Before Heathers could answer, Murray said, 'If this is a wake for John Merchant, I'm one of the mourners.'
Heathers stared and then, over his shoulder, said, 'Leave it, Peter – for the minute.'
The man in the striped shirt sketched a bow and moved off. From the corner of his eye, Murray saw him, nodding a couple of the waiters discreetly nearer.
Beak-nose enquired generally, 'What? What did he say? I didn't catch his name. Didn't say mourning, did he?'
The girl with the interested smile became solemn. She was prepared for any occasion.
'I can have you lifted right out of the door,' Heathers said. 'I probably will yet. What's this about John Merchant?'
'Did you know he came from Poland?'
'That's not a bloody secret,' Heathers cried. He looked round for the waiters.
'It's a long way to come to die.'
'Die?' It seemed Heathers was persuaded he was dealing with some irrelevant crazy. 'Who died?'
But it was the second man at the table, junior rank but sound, who told him, 'I thought you knew, Blair. I thought you didn't want to discuss it.'
'Knew?' Heathers snarled and balls of spit flew out with the exclamation. 'How am I supposed to know anything? I'm only off t
he plane an hour.'
'I didn't realise...John Merchant's been murdered. I saw it on the news before I came out.'
'God almighty!' Genuinely Heathers seemed stunned. 'How would John get himself killed?'
It was an odd way to put it, and it was Murray who responded.
'Messily,' he said. 'John got himself killed the hard way. Somebody used a knife on him - in places you wouldn't want me to describe.'
'Oh, please,' the girl said in what could have been protest or anticipation. Not a man to give the benefit of the doubt, Murray watched her lick her shining lips.
'From what I hear,' Murray spoke across the table at Heathers, 'most of the wounds were made while he was still alive.'
'It was a sex crime,' the junior officer explained. 'There was something about a letter, so that they know it was a woman who did it. She must be quite mad. She's killed someone already in Moirhill. There are brothels there, you know.'
'Let me get this straight. Are you telling me John Merchant was killed by a prostitute?' Heathers sprayed them with his anger.
'I don't think that follows. Not at all – I know he was your friend –'
Heathers ignored him. 'Who are you?'
'Murray Wilson. I'm the brother.'
'You're – ' Heathers pondered, rubbing thumb and second finger together, slow motion version of finger snapping to remember '– the brother – the one who's handy with the phone. And now you turn up here.' He smiled unpleasantly. 'Your brother's the one I do business with. I don't have anything for you.'
'I wouldn't count on doing any more business with my brother,'
Murray said. 'He's been with the police all day. It's what they call "helping with enquiries".'
For a moment he thought he had the old man going, he could see all the questions he needed to ask, but then Heathers thinned his lips, 'I'm here with friends,' he said. 'You've chosen the wrong time.' Without looking round he beckoned with one finger. It was the gesture of a man who could shrug off his coat knowing somebody would be there to catch it before it hit the ground.
The barber's shop trio gathered behind Murray's chair. On a hot and spicy breath the invitation was breathed into his ear, 'The gentleman's leaving?'
He stood up. 'Leaving for a drink. I'll be over there when you want me.'
'I won't want you,' Heathers said.
The dark brown shirt followed him to the bar. 'You're sure you don't want to leave?'
'I'll leave when Heathers does.'
'I'll tell Mr Heathers that,' the man said, not sounding threatening at all.
With knife cuts there is an initial numbness, often the victim believes he has been struck only with a fist; later the pain comes and if the knife is unclean the wound goes bad. After a time, the way he had been dismissed from Heathers' table went bad in Murray's pride. He stood with his back against the bar and watched them make a long leisurely supper; it would have been unreasonable to think they should go home because Merchant was dead. A rich man was enjoying a night out with his expensive admiring friends. It didn't make any sense that an obscure clerk called Malcolm Wilson could have been allowed to disturb his evening. The bottles came and were emptied and no one seemed to look Murray's way and the band played and at intervals they would dance, one or other of the desirable girls smiling down at Heathers as his plump white hands lifted the cheeks of her buttocks.
And it repented the Lord that he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him at his heart. The quotation came unwanted into his head and with it a memory from childhood. His father had taken him to visit his uncles. Three unmarried brothers, Calum, lain and Angus, bearded fishermen they had gathered round the child like salt towers. It was the only time his father had ever taken him to see them. At one point, they prayed; they made you kneel on the floor to pray; you had to kneel and lean with your elbows on the seat of your chair to pray. That bit was like something in a dream; he had dreamed about them for a long time afterwards, shouting out in his sleep. He did not think anyone mourned John Merchant or cared about what had happened to him; except possibly Frances Fernie – only he had never put much store by the idea of whores with a heart of gold.
Suddenly he realised that although he could spot the rest of the party among the dancers or at the table Heathers was nowhere to be seen. He circled the floor heading for the vestibule where he remembered there were phones on the wall near the entrance. Heathers was putting the phone down finishing a call, but as he caught sight of Murray watching he lifted it again and, after a moment's hesitation as if making up his mind, dialled again. The phone had a hood around it, and Murray watched the hand gripping the phone and the lips moving as if with a message from outer space.
When he had finished, Heathers made as if to brush past Murray then stopped and swung round. To his satisfaction, Murray saw that the old man's cheeks were mottled red and white with rage.
'I don't know what your game is,' he said. 'You won't help your brother by being stupid.'
'You don't want to get so excited. It could give you a stroke. At your age, that might be fatal.'
Murray's Highland blood made him kin to the second sight, that old gift by which the chosen open a window on the future. He saw Heathers' face, suffused, terrified, staring into the blankness of the moment beyond dying. If not now, yet the hour and the moment would come. Heathers gaped at him as if bewildered, and then a fusion of hatred and terrible fear altered his look like a rabid dog baring its teeth before it would bite.
'You're a very stupid man, mister,' he said.
Over the old man's head, Murray saw the big doorman watching them. 'I'm going to tell you what I told John Merchant,' he said quietly. 'You're a police target – just the way Merchant was. That Underpass deal, the one you were boasting about on television, the pride of the city, it stinks. It could be your mistake, the one that puts you in jail. And you mixed my brother up in it.
He's in enough trouble now. I want him off the hook with you. Understand?'
Heathers, however, was shaking his head in a parody of amazement. Any trace of fear had disappeared.
'Police watching me, is that right? You're something else. Who the hell do you think you're talking to? I've been watched by experts all my life, since before you were a tickle in your father's balls. And I'm still here. Did you think you were running in here telling me something I didn't know? Nobody watches me without somebody watching them. Maybe you could surprise John – I didn't tell him anything he didn't need to know – but there's nothing you can tell me.' He held up his hand and rubbed the thumb across the fingers. 'I buy people. I've got good lawyers - and I've bought a policeman or two in my time. There's no way I'll ever be in jail.' He put a fat little hand against Murray's chest. 'You're the one that's just got yourself in trouble. '
It was time to leave, but Murray was stupid and went back to the bar. He watched the dancers, and for some reason remembered Eddy Stewart weeping with remorse – but then Eddy had a bad marriage and that could give a man a case of easy guilt.
Sitting there, he gave off anger like the scent of danger in the jungle. The stool beside him stayed empty till it was taken by George the doorman.
'Do they let the help drink with the customers?' Murray wondered.
'I don't always do what I'm told.'
The barman set a pint glass of beer and a whisky in front of him unasked.
'He,' Murray said nodding at the barman, 'thinks you look like an idiot.'
'It's the same as a boiler suit,' George said, patting his lapels. 'You have to earn your corn.' He emptied half the glass of beer and sighed. 'It gave me a charge seeing you again, Murray. I've been standing out there thinking about the old Northend. First night I went to the Northend I met you. A couple of kids. We didn't know what it was all about.' He paused as if for a response. Murray said nothing. 'There were some good fighters came out of the old Northend. Nearly had the world champion – remember they used to tell us that. Nearly.' He grunted amusement. Even seated on the stool, he was
taller than most men. 'It's away now. Closed. Did you know that? It's away now. I trained there when I was a pro. Never got to be world champion.'
'Look,' Murray said, 'I'm not in the mood for old times.'
'Do you want a beer? A short? What are you drinking?'
'Lemonade.'
'Murray,' the big man said hitching round comfortably, 'you're the kind of guy who could cause trouble on lemonade. You need the hard stuff to quieten you down.'
'Is this your break or are you finished for the night?'
The big man nodded equably and emptied his glass. 'I'm going back.' He stood up and seemed about to go, then changed his mind. 'Remember the first couple of nights we went to Northend? It was good fun. Then the third night you paid your money – so they put you in with a guy who gave you a hiding. That sickened most of them off but the ones that went back after that they got learned. You and me went back – but it was a hell of a hiding. You and me are getting too old for that stuff. Beam me up, Scotty! You know that joke? They go all shoogley and up they go – no problem. It's an idea, Murray. Lots of guys get a tanking they don't need. I mean in this town.'
Unobtrusively the club was emptying. For some reason, the band had stopped playing early and by now half the tables were unoccupied. People were drifting away and greyness came on the air, something like weariness, something like remorse. Even if he tried – he would not try – to tell Mother about Merchant, about Malcolm and Frances Fernie – and, of course, he did not want her to know about them – she would not believe him; she would not even listen.
The tall girls rose like flowers around Heathers, who was getting ready to leave. Perhaps, like flowers kept fresh by being in water, their sense of his wealth and his power kept them so desirable, so inexhaustibly ready to be entertained. They distracted Murray as he crossed the floor towards them. What good would it do to follow Heathers? He was better than that; better at his trade.
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