by Max Hardy
‘You could have an important role to play in making sure Jacob is safe little feller, so be brave.’ Saul whispered softly as he gently positioned the bear on a small table next to the window, sitting looking out to the opposite apartment.
*
The solid oak door burst open into an empty room, a din of ‘Go, Go, Go’s!’ immediately following the resounding thud of the battering ram and the rip of metal as the locks were smashed from the frame. The ARO’s swarmed into the room, guns enacting a stuttering dance as they were pointed into every corner of the empty space.
‘Clear!’ Three shouted as Four, Five and Six quickly headed off to the side rooms, and with the deftness of ballet dancers, raised their legs in unison, mid stride, and simultaneously kicked the doors in, to another deafening din. Three more ‘Clears!’ joined the still reverberating echoes of brute force, which slowly dissipated as the three men stepped back into the living room.
Cruickshank entered and looked at the obvious emptiness with features furrowed in frustration mixed with fury. With deliberate steps, she started walking around the perimeter of the room, taking in every nuance, nook and cranny of the walls, floor and ceiling.
‘Spotless Strange, absolutely spotless. Can you explain how that could be possible? Could Saul be that calculating as to throw us on a wild goose chase?’ Cruikshank questioned with an undercurrent of sarcasm in her tone.
Strange walked through the centre of the room as the four ARO’s streamed out into the corridor behind him, heading for the window which overlooked Waverley Station and Princess Street beyond. ‘He is the kind of character that will leave nothing to chance. He likes to be in control. He has an amazing memory, photographic I would say and will use that to work through likely ‘what-if’ scenarios. What I can’t imagine is why he would feel the need to play this scenario: what if the police were monitoring our internet feed and we needed to distract them while we made our getaway.’
Cruickshank entered the first door she came to on her methodical recce of the perimeter, entering and carrying on her analysis around the edge of the empty bedroom. ‘For a person who is so in control, who has the foresight to plan something like this, I can’t see how he could be a victim, I can’t see how he would allow himself to become a victim.’ Cruikshank mused loudly, making sure Strange heard her from the bedroom.
Strange sighed heavily, his features disconsolate and disappointed at once, as he looked down to the floor, seeing a Wi-Fi router sitting in the corner of the room, at the apex of the window he was standing at, and the window facing the apartments opposite. ‘Just because he likes to be in control and likes to leave nothing to chance, doesn’t mean that he has always been able to do that. When you have a child, and they have a serious illness, and you can do nothing about that illness, it changes you. It changed John. He wasn’t in control, and as much as he tried to get the best help for Jacob, everything about the illness was down to chance. Sorry, I can’t believe that John was involved in starting a chain of events that led to his son and wife’s death. As for what happened after that: I think he is trying to gain control. I think he is trying to control chance.’
Cruickshank walked out of the bedroom and glared over to Strange, whose back was to her. ‘You are going to need to break those rose tinted spectacles very quickly if you expect to be of any use to me. Facts Strange, work with the facts. Saul has led us to an empty apartment. He has deflected us for god knows what reason. Possibly so he and his mental sidekick can perpetrate another crime.’ she answered, her voice raised and still angry as she walked into the next room.
Strange looked up from the Wi-Fi router and out of the window to the apartments opposite. There was an old, grey haired man in a stylish suit staring at him intently. Strange approached the window and looked back at him, noticing his left arm was stretched out slightly, the index finger of the left hand pointing towards a small table. He also noticed red scabbing on the top of the hand. He immediately looked up to the old man’s face and saw that his lips were moving.
‘We…do….’ Strange murmured, shaking his head slightly. The old man repeated the phrase. ‘We didn’t do it.’ Strange murmured again, his features filling with surprise as he mouthed silently, ‘John?’ The old man nodded, then emphasised his pointing. Strange followed the arm and finger down to the table, to the small bear that sat staring back at him. ‘Ian Bear?’ Strange mused quietly, a look of confusion on his features as he looked back up from the bear, to display that confusion to the old man: but the old man was gone.
‘Daydreaming out of the window is not going to get us anywhere. Neither is your loyalty to Saul. Start getting with the game plan Strange and acting like a DCI or I might just have to have a word with your Super.’ Cruickshank loudly admonished as she slowly strode around the wall and window, her compulsive walk being halted by the presence of Strange in her path.
Strange faced up to her, his demeanour conciliatory, body language open, yet assured as he looked down to Cruikshank’s agitated expression.
‘Gaynor. You will have to forgive me, I haven’t had the time to get fully up to speed with the events of last week, so I am behind the ball on the facts as they pertain to John. What I do know is that all through the events at Featherstone Hall, all John was interested in, was finding out what was happening and more importantly, why. He knew that there was evidence incriminating him and he brought most of it to my table. From what I have seen so far of the happenings here this week, he has done the same with you. He pointed you in the right direction on the reveals by the Fallen Angels and did warn you about your team. I get that there is a large amount of incriminating evidence more than suggesting John and Rebecca’s involvement in this and I am not for one minute suggesting that isn’t the case. But I have an open mind, not a locked and prejudiced mind. Knowing John as I do, there is still a very big part of me -a very, very big part of me-, that thinks he is doing exactly the same as us: trying to figure out what the hell is going on. And knowing John as I do, I can tell you right now, he will be doing a damn sight better job of it than we are!’
Chapter 7
‘The most important thing to remember is, you are a God, but so is he. That is how he thinks, that is how he acts. That is what I taught him. Watch for the signs. Watch for the things I have taught you. How are you feeling?’
Gentle jazz softly oozed from hidden speakers in the opulent, contemporary bar of the ‘Jing’s Club’, an exclusive establishment in the centre of Edinburgh frequented by politicians, wealthy business people, aristocracy and the rich and famous. Hushed conversations were politely taking place at the lines of tables either side of a floor lit walkway leading up to an empty cocktail bar, the clientele enjoying fine dining and expensive wine.
Eve was adorned in a red, figure hugging Bruce Oldfield evening dress, which was split from the hip down one side, her long slender exposed leg drawing admiring glances from the male occupants of the tables as she sashayed down the walkway. Even more ogling stares were directed toward her exposed cleavage from the plunging neckline at the front of the dress, which stopped just above her navel. Her hair was long, blonde and curled, falling seductively over her bare shoulders as she walked. Around the milk white skin of her naked neck she wore a platinum chain with a single large teardrop diamond at the end of it. Matching teardrops hung from her ears. Six inch scarlet Jimmy Choo high heel shoes tapped an indelible beat, announcing her arrival at the cocktail bar, where she shimmied her way onto a stool.
‘Feelings are overrated. It’s not what I am feeling that is important, it is what I want. What I want comes from instinct. Instinct you have taught me to control. I am wet, I want him inside me and then I want to feast on his pain.’ Eve whispered nonchalantly before flashing the barman who approached her an enigmatic smile, which radiated all the way up to her sparking emerald eyes.
‘A Godfather please, made with a Dalmore Single Malt, the older the better: even better if you have a Trinitas?’ Eve asked, leaning into the bar sli
ghtly, allowing her full breasts to heave against the thin silk of her dress.
‘An excellent choice madam, containing spirits dating back to 1868. There have only been three bottles of that particular type ever released to market, so it is rare and very expensive.’ the barman, an older man with a coiffured moustache, relayed factually, a dubious look flashing over his slightly embarrassed face, whose eyes were constantly looking down at her cleavage.
‘I don’t want a history lesson on it, I want to drink it. Just like you want to drink in my breasts. The questions is, do you have any?’ Eve answered, a tinge of irritation entering her sultry voice.
The barman turned red and flustered, looking anywhere but at her. ‘My apologies Madam. That was totally unprofessional of me. Yes, we do have it. Unfortunately, we can only serve it to platinum members of the club.’
‘Good god man, I only want a bloody drink. My dinner partner will be arriving soon, a family member of one of the clubs founders. His status is beyond platinum. Do you really want to be the barman that left his dinner date without a drink?’ Eve raised her voice in frustration, people on the immediate tables turning to listen in on the conversation.
A man dining alone on a table to her left stood up and approached the bar. He was a short man with a stocky, well-muscled frame and a face battered ugly from too many rowdy rugby scrums. He wore a Harris Tweed suit and brown leather brogues, the suit impeccably cut, the brogues spotless and shining.
‘Horncliffe, is there a problem here?’ he asked curiously, with a terseness to his tone, noting the barman’s embarrassment.
‘Nothing I can’t deal with Mr Ettrick, sir. I apologise for disrupting your dinner.’ Horncliffe fawned obsequiously, immediately turning his attention away from Eve.
Eve stood furiously and angrily kicked her stool back, causing it to topple and screech on the floor. She stamped her right foot, lifting it high into the air to get momentum, before crashing it down onto the floor: before crashing it down onto Ettrick’s polished brogue, the six inch stiletto heel ramming straight into the dorsal of his foot, squashing the major tendon.
‘First you ogle my breasts, then refuse to serve me a drink: and now you totally blank me just because a man comes to the bar and asks you a question! What fucking century are we living in here? Yes, I am a woman, but I do not expect to be treated like a second class citizen. Get me your Manager, now!’ Eve demanded, not even acknowledging that she had stomped Ettrick’s foot.
Ettrick didn’t flinch, he simply looked down at his shoe, then let his gaze linger over her slender leg, her slim waist, her smooth, animated arms, lingering a lot longer over her arms, before he placed a hand firmly on the bar between Eve and Horncliffe.
‘You are definitely a woman, a very beautiful woman and I can assure you that it is not the policy of this club to discriminate against anyone. For me, the more beautiful women we have here, the better. Horncliffe, I think the lady wanted a Godfather, with a Trinitas Dalmore. Make that two, and put them on my account.’ Ettrick ordered, then stooped over and picked Eve’s stool up, placing it behind her, admiring her behind as he rose again, proffering her to sit and offering to push the stool in if she accepted.
Eve stood glaring between the barman and Ettrick for a few seconds, fury still evident on the red blotches of her long neck. Eventually she sat, allowing Ettrick to perform his gentlemanly duties.
‘Douglas Ettrick.’ he introduced. ‘I apologise for Horncliffe’s behaviour. Believe me, his discrimination isn’t sexual, it’s purely a class thing with him. If you were a Lady, Dame or Princess, he wouldn’t have asked twice. By the way, my toes are fine, in case you were wondering. And you are?’ Ettrick asked, his piercing eyes not leaving Eve’s face.
‘Lady Harriet Farquhar, Princess of Persia.’ Eve replied sarcastically. ‘Is it a prerequisite of this club to be a stuck up tosser. By the way, I wasn’t wondering about your toes, your foot shouldn’t have been under my shoe and you certainly look like a man who can take a bit of pain. Don’t apologise for that twat’s behaviour either. Not serving me might have been down to class. Ogling me was definitely sexual.’
‘There might have been a bit of class in there as well. You might look and dress like class, but you talk like a penny a poke prostitute.’ Ettrick countered.
In a flash, Eve’s hand shot from her side in a wide arc, her torso turning in time with it as she let rip a flat palmed slap right across Ettrick’s left cheek, surprising him and making his head jolt under the impact. Murmured conversations rose in intensity, a few people sitting near the back of the club standing to get a better view of proceedings at the bar.
‘I talk how I want to talk, I dress how I want to dress, and I take umbrage at what the hell I want: right now, I want to take umbrage with you and your bigoted assumptions. I hope that hurt, but somehow, I don’t even think it touched the sides.’ Eve retorted, her features still full of fury, her tone apoplectic.
Ettrick raised a hand to his cheek and started to rub the red rash that was starting to appear, shaking his head gently as a wry smirk formed on his lips, his gaze still not leaving Eve’s eyes. He took a step back and raised himself onto another bar stool just behind him.
Horncliffe quietly deposited two Godfathers on the bar, directly in the middle of Eve and Ettrick, then quickly turned away, busying himself with anything that meant he didn’t have to get involved in their conversation.
Eve turned her body from the bar and faced front on to Ettrick, her long left leg fully exposed and her breasts, heaving under the adrenaline of her fury, full and firm with erect nipples straining against the thin silk material of her dress.
‘I apologise.’ Ettrick said in a low voice, not an ounce of contriteness in his tone, rather a guttural, earthy rasp, brooding with tension. ‘However, I think the power rather excited you. Your pupils are dilated and your cheeks are flushed. Your nipples are aroused and I can see that you have your thighs clasped tightly together: a sure sign that your clitoris is tingling. I didn’t say you were a prostitute, only that your blaspheming made you sound like one. I didn’t say that I thought it was a bad thing either, in fact, as far as I am concerned, quite the opposite. I was just pointing out why Horncliffe may not be treating you like the lady you deserve to be treated like. If it helps, no, it didn’t touch the sides, but it certainly stirred my loins and peaked my interest enough to want to take you back to my room and see if you could touch the sides.' Ettrick finished, his gaze not leaving Eve’s eyes once as he reached and picked up one of the Godfathers and held it out in front of him, glass tilted towards her.
‘And are you a man that generally gets what he wants?’ Eve asked, her own voice now low, lavished in a sultry whisper. She reached over and took the second Godfather in one hand, running the tip of her perfectly manicured forefinger around the rim of the glass.
‘Possibly not as often as you get what you want, judging by that dress, those diamonds, the passion in your eyes and the fifteen hundred pound cocktail that you wanted: which is now in your hand.’ Ettrick replied, with a teasing lilt entering his still brooding rasp.
‘Are you suggesting that I played for this drink?’ Eve countered, her finger not breaking its sultry circling, her eyes enlivened with the challenge in Ettrick’s words.
‘I don’t see a date arriving, do you?’
‘He’s not due for another ten minutes. I like to arrive early and get to know my environment. I like to take control on a date, rather than be controlled.’ Eve tantalised.
‘I guess I have ten minutes to persuade you to come back to my room then.’
‘If it takes you ten minutes Douglas, I won’t be coming back to your room. You have one more sentence to persuade me.’
Ettrick’s grin widened and he started nodding sagely, not breaking contact with her, totally engrossed in the challenge. ‘In that case, I think you should pay for the drinks Lady Harriet Farquhar, Princess of Persia.’
Eve’s emerald eyes didn’t leave his for one
moment as her finger stopped circling around the glass and she lifted her Godfather up to his, clinking the glasses together.
‘Let’s see how hard I have to slap you then, before I do touch the sides. As lovely a name as Lady Harriet Farquhar, Princess of Persia is, I would prefer you to call me by my real name.’
‘That wouldn’t be a problem, if you told me what it is?’
‘Call me Evangeline.’ Eve pronounced, her lips pouting gently towards him as she alluringly rolled the words. ‘Call me Madame Evangeline.’
Chapter 8
A setting sun hung low over the ululating verdant folds of the Cheviot Hills, casting concealing shadows which rolled over the contours, enigmatically obscuring the evening splendour of the craggy outcrops. The sky was tinged a washed out pink, which edged the low lying dappled stratocumulus cloud cover caressing the top of the hills. Rolling fields of yellow rape, golden wheat and pasture green stretched out from the peaks in a patchwork of tranquillity. The A697 road wound its way through the fields, mainly bereft of traffic, save for a single silver people carrier leisurely traversing the spectacular scenery.
Saul was driving, occasionally taking in the views in between focusing on the winding road, but primarily deep in conversation with Rebecca who was sitting in the passenger seat. Jacob was strapped into a child seat in the back, fast asleep.
‘We know it can’t be Eve. I think we can safely say, given she committed suicide on National TV, that she is out of the picture. That leaves Adam, or the ‘man who makes murderers’ as our prime suspects. Do you remember seeing Connor McFetrich in your time at the clubs? Can you recall him being with anyone regularly?’ Saul asked, after relaying the events that took place at Adam’s flat to Rebecca.
‘Yes, I think I do.’ Rebecca mused, deep in thought for a moment. ‘You mentioned he was with a short, stout man. I saw them together a few times at different clubs. He was a businessman: what was he called? Eve did tell me his name. I think he also knew Gordon Ennis. Yes, he did. He was the politician coming off the fields at the foot of King Arthur’s seat with Ennis the night Eve and I were there. God, what is his name. Parrick, Patrick….Ettrick: the short man was called Ettrick, Douglas Ettrick.’