by BRM Stewart
‘You did not go into that office?’
‘Not that day, no. Of course, I had been in it every day before, so my fingerprints will be all over it.’ Belatedly, I realised I hadn’t asked the obvious question: ‘Why? What happened?’
‘These people – ‘ prodding the photographs of Tudor and Coralia – ‘were found dead in that office, murdered; the girl was assaulted sexually. This girl – ‘ pointing to the picture of Rodica – ‘was found dead in a hotel room the next day: she had been with a client, but he had checked out early, leaving her in room. We found her in the bath: her body had many drugs – cocaine – and much alcohol. She drowned in bath. She was murdered too we think.’
My breathing was seriously laboured now, my heart thumping madly, every muscle in my body twitching.
‘I had nothing to do with any of that,’ I said, as forcefully and as calmly as I could. Oh fuck, I thought: my luggage, they must know I left my luggage at the hotel – no way my departure could be painted as being planned. I was fucked.
He shrugged. ‘You know these people. We need to take statements from you. You must come to Romania with me. Now.’
‘Hey, whoa. I’ve given you my statement. I can write it down if you want, but that’s all there is. What I’ve said is the truth.’
He gave a slight smile. ‘Perhaps. Some of it. But there is much we want to know. You work in computers. My directorate investigates cybercrime. These deaths are important, of course, but this man was a criminal, this girl was a prostitute, and – ‘ he shrugged over Coralia’s picture – ‘this girl was involved with criminals. Their deaths are not so important. But I believe Gheorghe is involved in major cyber crimes.’ And his eyes looked straight into mine. ‘I think you help him. Scottish gangsters are involved in companies you work for. Not as bad as Romanian gangsters, perhaps, but evil men.’
I scratched my chin, trying to clear away clouds of tiredness and alcohol. How did he know all that? It couldn’t end like this, not in some Romanian prison – mind you, would they be any worse than Barlinnie? I didn’t want to go to either kind of prison.
‘Why do you do this,’ he asked. ‘You are smart, good-looking man. Why you work for gangsters?’
By accident, I thought, all by accident. I didn’t ever mean it to happen. ‘You’ve got it wrong,’ I said. ‘I’m innocent. My company is entirely above board – we’ve never been investigated by the police.’
‘OK.’ He stood up. ‘I go now. I come back with Scottish police, and they arrest you. I take you to Romania, and we investigate your links to these people.’
I followed him to the door. ‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ I said.
He didn’t look back as he went downstairs, with his comment floating back: ‘I do not think so, Mr Martin McGregor.’
*
I phoned Amanda Pitt.
‘What is it? I’m busy. It’s late.’
‘What’s happening with the investigation? Have you started on B&D?’
She sighed. ‘I’ve mentioned to my boss that B&D is part of Talbot’s empire, and that I have an informant who is getting inside information for me. That’s you, Martin. I’ve said I’ll have the information before Saturday.’ The last remark was pointed.
‘So what are they doing now?’
‘Just what they have been doing for years: trying to identify key people, build up a case. Slowly slowly. Why?’
I didn’t know how much to tell her. I felt we had some kind of trust, but she was a police officer and I was a criminal.
After a moment of my silence, she repeated: ‘Has something happened?’
That Romanian policeman must have been in touch with the Scottish police…
‘Martin? You still there?’
‘Yes – sorry. Look, have the Romanian police been in touch with you? About B&D?’
‘I’ve no idea – I haven’t heard anything. Why? You were in Romania – did something happen?’
‘I was working with some people there… there was a…’
‘What?’
‘There was a murder,’ I said suddenly. ‘Three murders.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Martin.’ She took a deep intake of breath. ‘Look, you need to tell me what you know – right now. Jesus fuck, what a mess you’re in.’
‘First thing tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I’ll write it all down tonight and give it to you in the morning. Where do you want to meet?’
‘The Thistle Hotel – it’s not far from my station. Nine o’clock.’
‘OK.’
*
By midnight I had five pages of names and companies whose systems we had compromised. I outlined how it worked, and stuck it all a big envelope.
Then I fired up my browser to book some journeys, and packed a small suitcase.
Chapter 23
Glasgow and Amsterdam – a few years before
I’d had little to do with Colin Strachan since he’d told me about what was really going on with the company. We worked together, and I let him do what he did; I would do most of the software installation, and then pass it over to him and whoever he used out there.
But we had no personal relationship. I felt that he had used me, betrayed me. I saw him as sided with Sandy and Ken Talbot, criminals – while I, of course, was an innocent man who was an accidental criminal, through circumstances. When we didn’t have to speak, we didn’t. I knew nothing of his life outside of work, and didn’t want to. I hated him.
My marriage to Elizabeth had kept going, and we kept doing the things that married people do: holidays, travel – often in connection with finding publishers and second-hand bookshops – theatre, concerts, meals with friends. We didn’t ever discuss having children: Elizabeth never mentioned it, and I was still haunted by the memories of Fiona’s miscarriages, and whether that had contributed to her cancer or been a result of it – either way, I couldn’t face the danger again.
I was becoming happily middle class, and could talk of films and plays and music, though my new iPod was full of old and new singer-songwriters, and some modern guitar bands. I was also developing a love of art, part of me thinking of what Fiona would have been doing and achieving. More and more often I thought of Fiona, and saw her every time I looked at Helen.
There were three couples we regularly went out with, and one of them was Helen and her long-term boyfriend Neil, who was an author; I hadn’t heard of him, but he’d had two novels published and won some short story competitions. We often went round to his place while he cooked us dinner and we sat in his lounge overlooking the Clyde. We never ate at our place; I could cook functionally but not for guests, and Elizabeth just couldn’t be bothered - when it was our turn to entertain, we took people out.
On those evenings, Helen, Elizabeth and Neil discussed the intricacies of writing and selling books, self-publishing, though Helen would often break off to talk to me about music and art.
Helen and I swapped mobile phone numbers, and began to visit art exhibitions together. We would meet Elizabeth or Neil, or both, afterwards for a coffee or a drink. And we thought that it would be nice to visit art galleries in other countries.
‘You love Van Gogh, Martin – so you must go to Amsterdam.’
Elizabeth agreed. ‘Absolutely. Let’s have a weekend away there.’
So the four of us arranged a weekend in Amsterdam, staying together in the same hotel. With Helen, it was going to be partially work: ‘There are some interesting Scandinavian crime writers appearing – they’re getting snapped up by the big guns, but I have found a couple of Dutch writers: I think they could ride the wave.’ But there would be time for the museums.
Elizabeth was also looking to link up with a small online bookseller in Amsterdam, with an idea of a network of traders, able to fight the Amazon behemoth. We would meet up in the evenings for drinks and food – we were advised that we had to eat Indonesian over there.
But the day before we were due to leave, Elizabeth said she couldn’t go: the Amsterdam bookseller
was away suddenly, and anyway, she had loads of other work that had come up. Neil couldn’t go either: another short story had won a competition and he had to go to Bristol to get the prize, do a reading, and take part in workshops.
Helen and I were disappointed, but Elizabeth said: ‘Why don’t you two just go? Enjoy it.’
We flew out from a cold damp Glasgow, got the fast, quiet double-decker train from Schiphol into Centraal Station, and walked through the warm autumn afternoon down to the small hotel on Prinsengracht, chatting and laughing, planning the days.
The hotel had misunderstood our communications: Helen and Neil’s double room had been entirely cancelled, leaving the twin room Elizabeth and I had booked. The rest of the hotel was full. There were dozens of other hotels around, of course, but we couldn’t face trekking round them, and being in separate hotels was, by unspoken mutual agreement, out of the question.
So we agreed to take the twin room, and went upstairs to unpack and change, and text Elizabeth and Neil to say we’d arrived, agreeing not to mention the room mix-up. In the room, we dodged round each other, exaggerated gestures of covering our eyes while we changed into cooler trousers and tops, and headed out to explore: ‘Van Gogh museum first,’ she said, ‘then play it by ear.’
The city was busy. We marvelled at the mass of bicycles and the traffic on the narrow streets as we walked over to the museum, and went round it, standing close together, pointing and speaking in hushed reverential tones, agreeing that seeing it all for real was so much better than in a magazine or a print, that we didn’t like his early dark stuff.
Then we meandered back through the town, having drinks in street cafés, picking an Indonesian restaurant on Rembrandtplein at random, guessing at what to eat and going with their suggestion of the rijsttafel, and marvelling at all the flavours and the tastes.
And we went back to the hotel after a last nightcap, exhausted, and into our twin room. She went to the bathroom first, and then me. As I brushed my teeth, I wondered what to do. I had realised that evening that I really enjoyed being with her and wanted to develop our relationship; there was a physical aspect to it too. But I didn’t want a one-off furtive encounter. I didn’t even want a succession of furtive encounters, hiding from Neil and Elizabeth. And what would I do if Neil asked her to marry him?
But I was getting ahead of myself. I grinned at my reflection and shook my head. Let’s just get a good night’s sleep, I thought. She’s a good friend. Don’t spoil it. Unless I walk out there and she’s sprawled naked on the bed…
When I emerged from the bathroom, she was standing by the window, still dressed, looking out, streetlights reflecting up on her face. ‘The canal is so beautiful,’ she said.
I stood beside her, very close, and looked out. There were couples and singles walking along the cobbled street between our hotel and the canal, bicycles zipping past, and the distant sound of a tram rattling along the main road.
‘It’s magical,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad we came.’
And she turned to look at me, and I looked back at her. Our bodies moved fractionally closer, and I could feel her breath on my cheek. She put one hand on my shoulder, as if to steady herself, and her eyes closed as her lips parted. I touched my lips against hers, and the hand on my shoulder gripped tighter.
‘We shouldn’t do this,’ she whispered.
‘I know.’ And I kissed her properly.
‘Martin…’
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘Why don’t we just get into bed and hold each other, all night. Not do anything.’
She nodded.
And that was what we did, holding each other tight in one of the single beds. In the morning, I woke to see her face looking down on mine, smiling. ‘Come on, sleepy head, we’ve got a lot of exploring to do.’ I watched her walk to the bathroom in her T-shirt and knickers, and I slowly breathed out, my mind tumbling confusing thoughts and possibilities while at the same time feeling a sense of gentle happiness through my body.
After breakfast, we walked round the shopping district, and then had a tour on a canal boat. In amongst that we had snacks and lunch, and spent time at pavement cafés by busy junctions, watching the world go by. We talked and laughed. We held each other’s hands, and linked arms, as we explored the city.
She caught up with her prospective Danish authors for a couple of hours, while I just wandered, alone but strangely happy. I met them in a bar near Dam Square, as they were finishing their discussions. I watched the two men shoulder their leather bags and walk off, and I held Helen’s hand tightly. She yawned.
‘We need a time out,’ I said, and she smiled and nodded sleepily.
We went back to our room in the hotel. I went to the loo first, and then stretched out on one bed. When Helen came back she lay beside me, smiling and nestling into my shoulder, arms round me. I bent to kiss her, and she responded. Unthinking, my hand went to her breast. I hesitated for a fraction of a second but she didn’t pull away, and she ignored my mumbled ‘Sorry’ through the kiss. In turn, her hands began to run across my chest, and down.
It wasn’t frenzied drunken passion. It was two people who wanted to make love to each other, and that’s what we did. Afterwards there was no regret, just holding tight and smiling, content. We spoke about what we might do that evening, and then her hands were moving and we made love again, and she nearly crushed me as we orgasmed together this time.
We found another Indonesian restaurant, every bit as good as the first one, and wandered through bars and the red light district, and sniffed cannabis in coffee houses. We laughed and cuddled and kissed all the time, and back at the hotel we made love again and slept.
I awoke at four in the morning, and I looked at Helen’s sleeping face and smiled. I felt… happy, truly happy for the first time in years. It was almost like Fiona had been reincarnated in this woman. I knew at that moment that I couldn’t give Helen up, that I didn’t really love Elizabeth – it had been almost like Sam: something I needed at a time and place, but never sustainable and never totally fulfilling. I had hurt Sam when I finished with her – I had never heard any more about her, and sometimes I felt guilty about that – but I felt Elizabeth was more resilient. Either that or she would kill me.
Helen and I spoke about what we might do as we walked around the Sunday city until it was time to head back to Schiphol and our plane to Glasgow.
‘I’ll need to split up with Neil,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t lie to him. I couldn’t sleep with him again, not now.’
I nodded.
‘What about Elizabeth?’
I wondered whether I was brave enough to tell Elizabeth face to face and absorb her wrath – should I move out? I suddenly saw all the divorce proceedings rolling out in front of me, and Helen could see my turmoil.
‘That’s assuming you want to leave Elizabeth,’ she said. ‘I don’t do sharing – remember that, Martin. I don’t do secrets, or lies, or sharing.’
I reached to hold her. ‘I want you,’ I said. ‘I did from the moment I saw you.’
‘Yes, but that was because I looked like Fiona.’ Her voice was muffled against my chest.
‘That was the initial moment. But you are your own person, you’re not Fiona. I’ve grown to love you. And now I know you want to be with me, well… that settles it. I never want to lose you.’
‘You never will.’ She pulled her head back and looked up at me. ‘As long as you’re honest with me.’
‘I promise.’
At arrivals in Glasgow, Helen phoned Neil to say she was sharing a taxi with me, and would call him tomorrow. Her tone was flat, but if I’d been him I would have spotted that there was something not right. I phoned my place, but it rang out. Elizabeth’s mobile went straight to voicemail. I said I was at the airport and sharing a taxi with Helen into town.
Helen’s flat was south of the river, a modern, bright two bedroom place. The taxi dropped her there and I said I’d phone tonight.
My place was cold and empty, li
ke no one had been there for days. The dishwasher still held a cup that I remembered putting there before I left.
I unpacked and put a load in the washing machine – again, the wash basket had clothes from before I’d left and nothing recent. Bemused, I got myself a lager and sat in the lounge with the TV on. I tried Elizabeth’s mobile again, twice, but just voicemail. I tried to rehearse what I would say to her: how had I done it with Sam? Oh yes – very badly. What words to use… what tone to adopt.
And then the door of the flat opened and someone came in, and it slammed shut. There was a rush of someone in the corridor, and then Elizabeth was in the lounge, looking flustered, unsure, still with her coat on, clutching her handbag, as if she wasn’t stopping. Had Helen told Neil already, and he’d contacted Elizabeth?
She stood looking at me, and I looked back. ‘Martin. You’re back.’ Her voice was agitated.
‘I phoned you from the airport.’
‘Oh, right. My mobile was off. The battery ran out.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You had a good time?’
‘Yes.’ A pause, and then I decided I had to say something: ‘Elizabeth, there’s something I have to say. There’s something we have to talk about.’
She nodded. ‘I know. I’m sorry, Martin. I knew you must have realised. I’m sorry. It’s being going on for a while now – I just… I just couldn’t stop it.’
I took a long drink of lager while all my brain cells went off to have a meeting to work out just what the fuck was going on here. ‘So…’
Now she sat on the arm of a chair, not looking directly at me, holding her hands together tightly. ‘His name’s Joe – he’s the chap that has the chain of small bookshops specialising in military history. It’s a niche market, but there’s lots of potential. I’ve spoken about him before.’
I vaguely remembered a ‘Joe’ being mentioned, and excitement about the possibilities of such niche products having significant online sales, while physical stores struggled to make pin money. And her having to go to publishers and meetings to support him. But I also registered that I had long ago stopped paying close attention to what Elizabeth talked about.