‘Is that your mother?’ he asked.
But Iris Fortune shook her head.
‘Oh no, we weren’t speaking then. But I do have a picture of her somewhere.’
She began turning the pages of the album back and back again, the photographs getting smaller and smaller as she folded time away. Two boys in a yard. Some women sitting on a lawn. Then a picture of a girl, fourteen, maybe fifteen, standing in a field of tall grasses, behind her a house with gables and roses round the door.
‘This is my mother,’ Iris Fortune said.
A bedraggled chain of flowers circling the girl’s wrist.
Solomon didn’t even attempt to stop the flitter flutter in his fingers as he rummaged amongst his own paperwork, pulled out the photograph of the baby farm he had acquired from Peter’s archive at the foundling school, placed it next to Iris Fortune’s picture so that she could see. The old lady bent low over the two images, her mother’s face on one, then the next. When she looked up her eyes were shining.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘From the home where my client was born.’
Thomas Methven (deceased); Daisy Pringle’s son.
After that, Iris Fortune turned the pages of her album more slowly, pausing over every scene as though they had taken on a different significance now. Babies in deep-bottomed prams. A tree stretched across a river. A young woman with a register in her hand. It was not until the very last page that she rotated the book for Solomon to see. A miniature thing, barely one inch by two. Another photograph of her mother, standing next to a boy this time, in a field of hay. The boy was five foot ten or thereabouts. Good teeth. No more than sixteen. Even in black and white Solomon could tell that his hair was as golden as the sun under which he laboured. Iris Fortune touched a finger to the boy in the photograph, as she had touched her mother’s picture, too.
‘Mother always did say she had a sweetheart who went to the war,’ she said. ‘Got himself shot, right at the very end, that was what she told me. Firing squad.’
Oh.
‘Cowardice.’
Oh.
‘Or desertion.’
Suddenly Iris Fortune took on the look of a lost child, haunted by a whole flurry of ancestors who should have been there but were not.
‘Or perhaps that was another story. There were so many ways.’ Her eyes were shiny again as she raised them to Solomon Farthing. ‘I never knew his name.’
They both looked again at the boy standing in the hay field, smiling back at them from one hundred years before.
‘Alec,’ said Solomon. ‘Alec Sutherland.’
Summoned to life once more.
Half an hour later, Iris Fortune waved Solomon Farthing off from her doorstep, seeing him down the garden path until he made it to the pavement beyond. They’d spent a happy thirty minutes swapping anecdotes, before she had shown him the door. She’d even offered Solomon a morning sherry by the end. Brown and syrupy, in a tiny crystal glass. The sherry had not been Solomon’s favourite, but it was proof of a connection between them. At least that was what he’d thought.
They had clinked the glasses before they drank, in memory of Iris Fortune’s mother, Daisy Pringle. And her sweetheart, the long-lost Alec Sutherland. Also their son, Thomas Methven (deceased). Then Solomon had offered up his contract once again, along with the leaky biro, hope blooming in his chest this time.
But as Solomon made his way down Iris Fortune’s garden path, all he felt was a deep slurry of disappointment at how his detective work on behalf of Thomas Methven had come out. Four days of searching for a dead man’s true origins and he had been left with nothing to show once again. No closer to the fifty thousand than he had been at the foot of Greyfriars Bobby when DCI Franklin first dropped in her note.
‘The money . . .’ Iris Fortune had said as she folded her father-in-law, Bertie Fortune, and Solomon’s grandfather, Godfrey Farthing, and her mother, Daisy Pringle, back into the past. ‘Do you know where it comes from?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Solomon had replied.
No serious Heir Hunter ever asked that. Money was money, regardless of its origins. As long as it wasn’t criminal, of course. But Iris Fortune had not been satisfied with that explanation, clicking off the television set and zeroing the tip of the soldier’s frozen weapon to black as though to indicate it really was the end.
‘Well, that’s that, then,’ she’d said, rising from her sofa to show Solomon the door. ‘Wouldn’t want to inherit anything dirty. Never can get rid of the stain.’
Two
Solomon Farthing left Iris Fortune’s house with an unsigned contract in one hand and a loose cuff hanging about the other, knowing that he had failed yet again. Flying the flag for insolvency, he thought as he walked away, the emblem of his life to date. Outside it was a perfect Edinburgh morning, buildings slanted with light. But despite having eulogized it only an hour or so before, Solomon was feeling its colder side once more.
What was it Iris Fortune had said about her father-in-law after he lost his suit?
All the luck ran out of him.
Exactly how Solomon felt now. Nothing left for him to interrogate but a dead man lying in a coffin, adorned in his burial gown. He patted at the pocket of his jacket, felt again the loss of his lucky charm. Then he stopped abruptly by a rose bush growing over a wall, surveyed his own attire. Second-best shirt. Crumpled tweed. Muddy corduroys. An outfit said a lot about a person, that was what he thought. Especially one with fifty thousand sewn inside.
Solomon’s heart hammered against his ribs like a little mallet as he hurried towards Colin Dunlop’s stolen car hidden in a neighbouring cul-de-sac. He must return to the nursing home, he thought, go back to those care assistants with their e-cigs and their anecdotes, have another go at picking their brains. Or maybe visit the funeral parlour first, get acquainted with Thomas Methven and his suit for himself, find out where it came from. There had to be a reason why the money had been sewn inside that particular item of clothing, as opposed to anything else. And Solomon didn’t want the evidence to be destroyed before he’d had a chance to assess it for himself, the whole lot handed over to Margaret Penny from the Office for Lost People so that she could see it all burn.
He rushed round the corner, aimed Dunlop’s car key somewhere in the vicinity of the hybrid, certain that this was a final branch of the tree worth pursuing – his ultimate roll of the dice. Then he saw it. Someone aiming back at him. Not his grandfather standing in the pawnshop pointing a ladies’ gun at Solomon’s heart. Or an old lady with a console in her hand, first-person shooter blazing away. But one of his own misdemeanours, returned to haunt him at the last. There at the kerb, right in front of where he had parked his getaway car, was a Mini that had seen better days. Rust holes in the floor. String holding the bonnet down. And behind it, Colin Dunlop of Dunlop, Dunlop & Dunlop smoking as he leaned against the trim of a sleek grey motor, caught up with Solomon Farthing at last.
Colin Dunlop took the driver’s seat as he gave Solomon a lift to his second reckoning of the day, a smooth run round the stretch at Seafield, on their way to the north of the city now. As they passed the Edinburgh Cat and Dog Home, Solomon released the window so that he could hear the barking. He understood now why a soldier might take his dog to war.
‘Long time no see, Solomon,’ Colin Dunlop had said when they were finally face-to-face. ‘Give you a lift?’
It wasn’t a question. Still, Solomon had attempted to wriggle his way out.
‘Not sure I’m headed in your direction, Dunlop. If you don’t mind.’
Colin Dunlop had grinned, tossed his fag at Solomon’s feet, tip still burning, crushed it with his shoe.
‘But you’re going to see Freddy Dodds, aren’t you. Said he’d invited you to tea.’
Of course, Solomon thought then, sweat all along his grimy collar. Not content with stealing his case by stealth, Colin Dunlop had covered the expense of his pursuit by doing another man’s dirty work as well.
He sighed, considered running in the opposite direction, understood that the time to flee was long past. Then he tossed the car key towards Colin Dunlop as Dunlop had tossed the cigarette butt towards him. Whatever the destination it did have a certain élan to it, riding into the fire in a rival’s chariot, hoping that for whatever reason they might be immolated, too.
‘You never bloody stand still, do you,’ said Colin Dunlop now as he pressed the button on his side to make Solomon’s window rise again. ‘Been chasing you around like some sort of butterfly these last couple of days.’
Solomon held tight to his folder with its unsigned contract, Thomas Methven and all his antecedents and descendants inside, written out on a rough family tree. He was quite pleased to discover there was still something of the slippery about him, even in his somewhat diminished state.
‘Why do we need to go to Dodds’s anyway?’ he asked, to divert attention from what Colin Dunlop was really there to steal.
‘Everyone ends up at Dodds’s, don’t they,’ said Colin Dunlop. ‘Especially when there’s money looking for a home.’
They arrived just in time for elevenses, turned into a garage tucked away in a dead-end street to find five men and one woman dressed in navy boilers, sitting around on whatever they could find. A firing squad, thought Solomon as they pulled up, should it come to that.
The radio was singing out over the small forecourt, a muddle of chat and advertising jingles, the raucous sound of pop. The whole place stank of rubber and diesel, a sign advertising same-day turnaround on brake pads and oil transfusions fluttering in the breeze. But Dodds didn’t just service exhaust pipes and deliver certificates for dodgy MOTs. All of Edinburgh knew that.
One of the mechanics came to assist Solomon from the car. Dodds was famed for his approach to service – anything one wanted, just ask.
‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ she said.
‘We’re looking for a place to exchange,’ said Colin Dunlop.
‘Thomas Cook might do it.’
‘Not a favourable rate.’
‘And what rate might you be looking for?’
‘That depends.’
Colin Dunlop nodded towards Solomon. The mechanic looked the Heir Hunter over, took in the fuchsia socks and muddy knees.
‘I’ll get Freddy, then.’
Solomon didn’t even need to ask.
You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.
Freddy Dodds was a fence. The best in the business. Everybody in Edinburgh knew that. Never had seen the inside of a prison, let alone a police cell in Gayfield on a charge of Breaking and Entering . . . with Intent to Steal. Dodds turned stuff that had been stolen by other people into money. Just as Solomon’s grandfather once took the everyday and turned it into the stuff of life. Old shirts and fur coats. Signet rings and watches. Boots. Blankets. And Sunday suits. All transformed into rent money or betting slips, weekend pints or a trip to the cinema for the kids. Whereas Freddy Dodds turned anything and everything he could get his hands on into cash.
But even Solomon knew that Freddy Dodds had branched out well beyond fencing now. His garage might have been covered in grime, but it could be a very effective laundry when there were dirty things needing a wash. The proceeds from casinos. The takings from slot machines. The income generated in a betting parlour while the punters shouted the odds. Anywhere that took cash over the counter and returned the punter something less valuable instead. Money laundering, that was Dodds’s métier. When it came time for Freddy Dodds to retire, Solomon knew that his son would rise to even greater heights. He had trained as an accountant. What better cover could a true Edinburgh Man need?
Freddy Dodds came out now from behind his glass enclosure, slow and steady, rather like Solomon’s grandfather drawing treasure from his case. Solomon wasn’t certain exactly what it was that Colin Dunlop owed to Dodds for which he had become the pawn, but as the fence ambled over, Solomon had a sudden realization of how these businessmen saw him. Not as a fellow professional, but as a debt to own or trade.
‘Well, well,’ said Freddy Dodds, shaking hands with Colin Dunlop and then Solomon, as any proper Edinburgh Man must. He jerked his head towards Dunlop’s car. ‘Having trouble with the Mini, Solomon? Your aunt mentioned something about it needing done.’
Solomon twitched inside his tweed jacket. His aunt who wasn’t really his aunt, the other person in Edinburgh who had put a summons on his head.
‘She could do with a once over, Freddy, if you don’t mind.’
‘No bother.’ Dodds held his hand out for the keys. ‘I’ll send someone to get her, shall I. Where is it now?’
Last seen round the corner from Iris Fortune’s house. Solomon was reluctant to offer up the location. But Colin Dunlop had no such qualms.
‘It’s on the Southside, Freddy. Parked it there myself.’
Freddy Dodds grinned, gave Solomon a flash of gold – an incisor glinting for a moment in the morning sun. The story in Edinburgh was that the tooth had been fashioned from the proceeds of Freddy Dodds’s first ever deal. Cash for gold. Or perhaps it was gold for cash. Either way would work. Dodds took the keys to the Mini from Dunlop and slipped them into his pocket as though sequestering Solomon’s last tangible asset with no intention of ever handing it back.
‘I heard you were working on a new case, Solomon,’ he said. ‘Something hot?’
Yes. No. Maybe. Why did Solomon find it so difficult to answer one definitive way or the other, choose to dissemble instead.
‘It’s a police matter.’
Freddy grinned again. ‘They given you a warrant card, have they?’
‘Just a favour for a friend.’
Solomon knew there was no point quoting the DCI’s name here to warn the fence off. Dodds would always be able to go higher, probably fixed the chief constable’s timing-belt.
Small talk completed, the fence turned to the real business in hand. ‘Seems you have something of mine, Mr Farthing. Needs returned.’
Solomon tried to ignore the five men and one woman in boiler suits who had moved to stand in a semi-circle around them now.
‘I can’t imagine what,’ he said.
One thousand. Two thousand. Three thousand and counting. Not forgetting all the rest. But Freddy Dodds didn’t even mention money. He was after something else instead.
‘Small. Wears a blue kerchief. Last seen in the vicinity of Greyfriars Bobby.’
Solomon could not contain his surprise. ‘The dog?’
Nor could Colin Dunlop. ‘A dog?’
The real reason Solomon Farthing had been ferried to Freddy Dodds’s garage without so much as a by your leave.
‘Aye.’ Freddy Dodds seemed peeved now. He poked a finger into Solomon’s chest. ‘Word has it he’s with you. That’s why I sent Dunlop.’
‘But the dog belongs to Mr Scott, doesn’t he?’
A beggar man and his trusty hound.
‘No. He’s mine.’ Freddy was annoyed. ‘Scottie hires him by the day to increase his turnover. But I’d like him back now, if you don’t mind.’
The fence’s tooth was gleaming again, but with something more like malice than joy. Still, Solomon held his ground. He knew when he was in business. Word around Edinburgh had it that Freddy Dodds loved animals even more than he loved gold.
‘I don’t have the dog,’ he said. ‘Dunlop will vouch for that. But I can get him back for you. If you do something for me.’
Freddy Dodds blinked. ‘Oh yes, and what would that be?’
‘A certain debt accrued on the Lucky Sevens,’ said Solomon. ‘Amongst other things.’
It was Freddy Dodds’s turn to be incredulous now.
‘You are joking, aren’t you? Ten K for a mongrel. Nobody would pay that.’
The proceeds of Solomon Farthing’s love affair with the puggies and the roulette wheel, tossing cards at a green square of baize.
‘What!’ Solomon wasn’t surprised at the debt, so much as the amount. ‘It can’t be that
much, can it? I thought it was nearer five.’
‘My son’s been keeping a tally,’ said Dodds, gold tooth winking. ‘Very good with numbers.’
There was silence for a moment, nothing but the tinny clatter of the radio playing a happy song. Then Solomon shrugged, his Heir Hunter insouciance coming to his aid. Or perhaps the recklessness of a man who had nothing more to lose.
‘Oh well, then, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. Unless you want to toss for it instead? Your money or your dog.’
He dipped into the pocket of his jacket, brought out a small coin. A sixpence gifted to him by Peter after Solomon had lost the dog in a bet. Dodds stared at the coin glinting in the morning sun. Then he cursed.
‘Bloody bastard.’
And it was Solomon’s turn to grin. Freddy Dodds might like to deal, but he wasn’t a gambling man, at least not in the precipitous manner Solomon Farthing was accustomed to. All of Edinburgh knew that.
Dodds grimaced, rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.
‘Ten per cent off the debt,’ he said. ‘And that’s me being very generous indeed.’
Solomon felt a little kick of glee inside at the knowledge that Freddy Dodds was prepared to deal.
‘Fifty. And I’ll need a receipt.’
‘Twenty. Last offer.’
‘Not a dog lover, then.’
‘Thirty,’ said Dodds, lips pinched.
Solomon did a quick calculation. Thirty per cent off ten K brought it down to seven. Easily payable with a twenty per cent commission on fifty thousand, leaving the rest for him. If Solomon could get Iris Fortune to sign, of course. But Freddy Dodds wasn’t finished yet.
‘You’ll get a receipt when the goods are delivered. Not before. And I want him back tonight, no question, or the arrangement’s off.’
Solomon began to sweat again beneath his tweedy jacket.
‘I can get them both,’ he said, taking a blue kerchief from his pocket and wiping it across his face as though to make his point. ‘The money and the dog. But I need a vehicle to secure them.’
The Inheritance of Solomon Farthing Page 28