Bridge of Doom (25 page)

An hour later Jack and Annie left the town house in Moray Place and turned into Ainslie Place.

'So where are we heading, boss?'

'Henry told me yesterday about an old-style pub near here, called Bert’s Bar, where the beer’s supposed to be good and they also do a pretty mean pie and chips. Sounds like my kind of boozer.’

'Do we need to get a taxi? What about your sore knee?'

‘No, I’ve got the brace on and I'll be alright if we take it slow. It’s not very far from here according to Henry, maybe a ten minute stroll. He said it’s just off the main drag, about halfway along William Street and there’s a couple of other decent pubs, Teuchters and The Melville, in the same neck of the woods. So if Bert’s is too busy, we should be able to get a seat in one of the others. But Henry said if, it’s a tasty pie you’re after, and I am, it’s got to be Bert’s.'

'Bert's it is then.’

Ten minutes later the two partners squeezed through the busy lunchtime crowd at Bert's bar and studied the menu and a long list of guest beers, which were featured on a large chalkboard.

'I'm definitely going with the steak pie, chips and gravy, Annie. But I'm feeling adventurous, so I think I'll try something different to drink. They’ve got a huge selection of beers.'

Annie spotted a couple getting ready to leave and said, 'quick, if you can grab that table over in the corner, I'll pick something for both of us and then put the food order in.'

Shortly afterwards a waitress brought a tray with two glasses of beer over to their table and said to Annie, 'you're the
Blonde Bombshell
and your grandad's an
Old Peculiar
, is that right?'

'Correct,' said Annie with a satisfied smirk.

'You set that up, didn't you? Bastard.'

'Might have.'

'I don't care. I've been called a lot worse than that. Cheers, Annie.'

Ten minutes later, with their plates completely cleared, it was evident from their satisfied expressions that Henry had given them a good steer for a lunchtime pub.

'That's much better,' said Jack, contentedly patting his stomach. 'And, whisper it, Annie, the pie and chips in here was actually a smidgen better than your aunt Peggie's.'

'Whoa … you're on really dangerous ground now, boss. She has spies everywhere.'

'Talking of spies, have you finished trawling through Henry's emails?'

‘Yes, there was nothing new this morning. But it would be great if we could get hold of his mobile, to see if the same number from Darren’s phone appears anywhere in Henry’s call log. If it did, I’d like to see him try and explain that one away.’

‘Obviously it’s been useful being able to read his emails, but they’re not giving us the whole story, are they? So you’re right, if we could get a look at his mobile, we might be able to fill in some of the missing pieces of the jigsaw.’

‘Most people’s lives these days are right there, laid out on their phones. Everything that matters anyway.’

‘That’s right, Annie, and remember a lot of the gambling action is now done much more discreetly, using smart phones apps. It’s not like the old days, when guys used to look around and turn up their collar, before nipping into a seedy betting shop. Now a lot of betting's done in private, almost like a guilty pleasure, and there’s no harm in that. But, unfortunately, problems arise when some people let it get out of hand and then they’re on a real slippery slope.'

'I don't know anything about gambling. Obviously I took a big chance coming to work for
you
. But, apart from that, zero.'

'The point I'm trying to make is that here’s only so much booze or drugs a person can consume in a day. But if gambling’s what floats your boat, there are almost no limits to the damage you can do. You can be clean and sober and, to the outside world look like a model citizen. But, if the gambling bug takes hold, you can lose everything fast. Then before you know it, you’re standing on the edge of the abyss, staring at financial oblivion.'

'Scary stuff.'

'You said it, Annie. I’ve known several serious gamblers over the years and it’s usually their relationships that are the first thing to go. But if they don’t make a serious effort to get a grip at that point, then the house is the next thing, followed by the job and at that point the downward spiral is unstoppable. The addiction becomes all-consuming and the rest of their life usually goes down the pan along with their money. Sometimes they have to really hit rock bottom before the penny finally drops and they start to try and rebuild their lives. But some people don’t make it back. It’s very sad.’

‘So Henry’s maybe in the downward spiral stage?

'I think so, Annie. If I'm right, that’s exactly where Henry is at the moment, caught between a rock and a
very
hard place.'

'It's kind of obvious, but the sensible, rational thing to do would be just to stop gambling and bring some order back into his life.'

'Yes, absolutely. But, of course, gamblers don’t think that way. It’s just like any other addiction and they’re always chasing their next hit, truly believing they’ll get lucky again. And ‘if only I can pull off a six horse accumulator and then put all of my winnings on Celtic winning the Champions League, then everything will be all right. But, of course, that never happens.'

'Yes that would be insane. Especially the Celtic bit.'

'That's just a daft example.'

'I know. So it looks like Henry is completely over-extended, over-exposed and basically totally stuffed.'

'Yes, you’re right. We need to find a way to check out his phone, to see if the missing bits of the puzzle are on it.'

‘Sure, but how do we get hold of it? From what I’ve seen over the last few days, it’s always either in his trouser pocket, or in his hand, and he constantly checks it. Probably to see how all of his crazy bets are doing.’

‘Yes, you’re right. So it would obviously need to be when he takes all of his clothes off.’

‘Well don’t be looking at me for
that
particular job, boss,’ said Annie, horrified at the thought. ‘Anything else, just ask. But I’d rather stick pins in my eyeballs than get down and dirty with Henry.’

‘Relax. That won’t be necessary, I’ll do it.’

‘What?’
spluttered Annie.

‘No not
that,
you fool. I’ll try and persuade him to join me in the sauna for a good sweat and a spot of hearty male bonding. If he agrees, you can sneak in to the changing area and scope out his phone, while we're in the cabin.’

‘Phew, you had me worried for a minute there. I thought you’d gone non-binary.’

Jack was already relaxing inside the sauna cabin when Henry arrived and opened the door.

‘Fuck me, what’s that smell?’ said Henry, grimacing as he staggered back into the locker room, fighting to catch his breath.

‘I don’t know,’ lied Jack, choking back a snigger. ‘It was hanging around in here when I came in. Although you do get used to it after a bit.’

‘Jesus, it fair catches your throat … must be the drains,’ said Henry, frantically waving his towel around as he held the door wide open.

‘Yeah, or rats. They can be a big problem in these old houses.’

‘Phew, that’s better,’ said Henry, as he eventually entered and allowed the sauna cabin door to gently close behind him.

'So, Jack, as they say at all the best parties in Glasgow, how’s your arse for love-bites?'

'My arse is in tip-top condition, thanks for asking. It's the rest of me that's not so good.'

‘Jesus, what the hell happened?’ said Henry, as he sat down and took in Jack’s bandaged ribs, bruised knuckles and badly swollen left knee. ‘Don't tell me you and Annie were fighting over the last bottle of Buckfast?’

Ignoring the jibe, Jack replied evenly, ‘no, we were jumped last night by a gang of hooligans, just off Easter Road. They're the same crew who’ve been hanging around outside here every night. Didn’t you hear about it?’

‘No,’ said Henry, looking genuinely surprised. ‘What happened?’

Jack gave a brief account of the events in Bothwell Street, all the while watching Henry’s face for any tell-tale signs of guilt. There were none and his concern appeared genuine.

‘Bloody hell, I’m so sorry, Jack. You and Annie must have got a terrible fright.’

‘Yeah, we did. But not as much of a fright as the young team got.’

‘And Annie, is she okay?’

‘She’s fine. A few bruises that’s all, but Danni's managed to sort her out.’

‘Ah, so the dyke bitch has been in again,’ snorted Henry.

‘Do I detect a slight note of rancour there?’ said Jack.

‘You could say that,’ replied Henry with a grimace.

‘I think I know you pretty well, Henry. You’re a randy old bastard and I reckon you'd try and shag a fag burn in a fur coat, if there was nothing else around at the time. So I’m betting, despite it being fairly obvious that the gorgeous Danni plays for the other team, you still tried your hand with her, didn’t you? And she’s told you to get lost, or words to that effect.’ 

‘Something like that,’ muttered Henry. ‘Fucking cow.’

‘Look, it’s maybe not personal, perhaps she just prefers women to men.’

‘Yeah, maybe she does. But, trust me, not
all
of the time.’

‘That’s interesting and you know this how, Henry?’

‘Never mind,’ said Henry mysteriously. ‘I just
know
.’

‘Okay, maybe it
was
personal then.’

'No, I think the main problem was that she already knew too much about me, from talking to Guy.'

'What difference did that make?'

'Well it meant that I couldn't use my patented creative lying technique on her.'

'What do you mean, creative lying?' 

'Between you and me, I've always found dealing with the truth a bit tricky and, quite frankly, boring. I find creative lying is so much easier. It's something I've been working on for a while. It makes life much more interesting and it also doesn't cost anything.'  

'Interesting and free are both good, Henry. But I don't get it, what's the difference between this and plain old ordinary lying?'
 

'Well an ordinary lie, something that I just make up on the spur of the moment, probably wouldn't really satisfy either party, either me or the person I'm talking to, especially if it's a female. Women are such expert and shameless liars themselves, so we men really have to raise our game when dealing with the ladies. But it's worth the effort, believe me, Jack.' 

'I'm trying to stay with you here, Henry, but I think I need a practical, hands-on example of what exactly you're talking about.' 

'Okay, I was out on a date last week with a woman and she asked me what my hobbies are. You know, the kind of bog standard question that gets asked when you've just met someone for the first time and you're both feeling each other out. So at that point I had three options. Obviously I could have told her the plain unvarnished truth. But explaining that my two main hobbies are reckless uncontrolled gambling, closely followed by frequent meaningless sexual encounters, with gullible brainless women I meet on the internet, probably wasn't going to enhance my leg-over chances, right?' 

'Fair point, Henry.' 

'Secondly, I could have told an easy boring kind of lie and said that I liked pub quizzes and watching baking programmes on television. That
might
have been well received, but it could also have led to a whole series of awkward questions about my favourite Victoria sponge recipe, or who is shagging who on
Eastenders.'
 

'Best avoided then.'

'Exactly. So, discounting options one and two, I dusted off and combined two of my top ten creative lies and explained to her that I was an airline pilot and also an aspiring author. The pilot story is extremely useful because, firstly, it's a well-paid profession and secondly, by the very nature of the job, pilots are often away a lot and then back home for just one or two nights. So it's the perfect cover story for a serial shagger, with three or four different women on the go at the same time.' 

'Okay, I'm with you so far. What about the author storyline?' 

'I can't tell you how many times this one has worked for me. It's solid gold and as a valued friend you have my permission to borrow it, if you like, Jack.' 

'I wish I'd brought a notebook and pen in here with me,' said Jack. 'Go on.' 

'I use this one maybe half-an-hour into the first date and it should always be preceded by at least ten minutes of hand holding and face-gazing, with lots of eye contact. Then I explain that I've been writing a love story based on the life of Liz Taylor and Richard Burton, some stupid shit like that. But the problem is I've been stuck for months, suffering from a severe case of writer's block. But, since meeting her and gazing into her beautiful soulful eyes, the block has miraculously lifted and an idea to finish the book has just come into my head, with a totally new character based on her. So I beg for permission to write about her.' 

'And women actually
believe
that kind of rubbish?' asked Jack incredulously.

'You better believe it. They absolutely bloody lap it up that someone thinks they're somehow so special and inspirational. It's a classic win-win, because my creative lie has made her happy and, more importantly, willing. And, in turn, that's going to make me very happy and willing as well.' 

'The better looking ones will have heard all of the well-known chat-up lines umpteen times before. So I suppose going for a left-field type of lie does make perfect sense.' 

'That's my top tip for success with the women, Jack. Create several really good lies you can just trot out on demand, tailored to suit the lady in question. Of course, you have to be able to keep the story going and not get things mixed up. But it's like everything else, the more you do it, the easier it becomes.' 

'You've obviously got a real talent for this, Henry. So how do I know you haven't been creatively lying to me for the past twenty minutes?' 

'Good point, Jack. However, if you cast your mind back, I think you'll agree that I haven't held your hand once, or gazed longingly into your eyes. So far.' 

Henry then swiftly changed the subject back to his favourite theme of slagging off all things to do with Glasgow. 'Okay, Jack, tell me this. What are the four sure fire signs that somebody comes from Glasgow?'
 

Jack said nothing and concentrated instead on trying to summon up another silent but deadly fart, which would cause Henry to flee the cabin before he began another onslaught of bad jokes.

Undaunted, Henry launched straight into his routine. 'Right, number one … you let your fourteen-year old daughter smoke at the dinner table. In front of her kids. Second … you class getting stabbed as a perfectly normal, everyday occurrence. Hardly worth mentioning. Number three … you've been married three times, but still keep the same in-laws. And last, the absolute clincher … at least one member of your family has died after saying,
"hey everybody, watch me do this."

At that point Henry convulsed with laughter, inadvertently nudging Jack's injured ribs with his elbow.

Annie had been watching the security camera live feed on her MacBook and saw Henry get undressed, before joining Jack in the sauna cabin. She gave him ten minutes to settle in and two minutes later she was in the basement locker room examining his mobile phone. She scrolled first through his contacts list, then the call log for the preceding three months, before taking multiple pictures of the listed entries for later scrutiny. Peals of laughter from inside the sauna cabin reassured her that she could continue her search without being interrupted. Just as she was finishing, Henry’s phone rang in her hand. Startled, Annie nearly dropped the device on the tiled floor of the changing room.

Inside the sauna, Henry immediately tried to jump to his feet to go and take the call. However, Jack quickly gripped his arm and pulled him back onto the slatted wooden bench saying, ‘look, never mind the bloody phone, Henry. You really need to try and relax, mate. I was just saying to Annie, that you’ve been looking totally stressed out over the last few days. What’s been happening with you? Is there anything you want to share? Talking about things sometimes helps.’

‘No, I'm okay thanks. Really,’ said Henry unconvincingly.

‘Here … let's have a drink,’ said Jack, reaching under the slatted wooden bench to retrieve a three-quarters full bottle of twenty-year old Courvoisier brandy and two paper cups, which he half-filled with generous measures. ‘I liberated this hooch from Guy's wine cellar. It should help us both to relax and sweat better. Your very good health, Henry.’

After draining the brandy in one gulp, Henry enquired out of the blue, 'what's your take on tantric sex, Jack?'

'Oh, you mean that weird malarkey Sting and his old lady, Trudi, are always droning on about in the Sunday papers?'

'Yes, exactly. The reason I ask is that a woman on a dating site told me she was really into it and I don't want to waste any time on her if that's
all
she does.'

'Well I haven't tried it personally, although it can only be more fun than listening to any of the music he's recorded in the last twenty years.'

'Fair point, Jack. I've never tried it either but, apparently, you can elevate your consciousness to the astral plain and make sex last for days on end, without actually moving. Although now I come to think about it, my ex-wife might have invented it.'

'Doesn't sound like a whole lot of fun to me, Henry. And for anyone with a regular job, it's bound to play havoc with their annual leave.'

'What on earth are you on about?'

'It's obvious, isn't it? I mean, if you start gazing into each other's eyes on Saturday night, and you're still not over the line yet, when it's time to get up and go to work on a Monday morning, well you're going to have to phone the office and have an extremely awkward conversation with the boss.'

'Yeah, or call out the fire brigade,' said Henry with a chuckle.

Jack retrieved the bottle of brandy and refilled both paper cups.

‘Thanks Jack. Here’s to happy days and a change of luck.’

‘Talking of luck, what a double that would have been at the weekend, Henry. Tyson Fury to win the world heavyweight title and Britain to win the Davis Cup. I bet nobody in the world was on
that
particular bet.’

‘I
nearly
was,’ said Henry ruefully. But I had Fury to win combined with an outsider running in a steeplechase at Towcester. I had a tip from somebody working inside the stables, who told me that it was a sure thing, despite being quoted at twenty-five to one in the betting.

‘That was a pretty unlikely double, to be fair, Henry.’

‘I know, but I thought it was worth a cheeky hundred quid at five hundred to one. If it had come off I would have been able to clear my feet a bit, you know.'

‘So I take it you’ve been on a bad run with the bookies, am I right?

Henry sighed before once again before necking his brandy in a oner. ‘It’s been the worst year ever, Jack. You wouldn’t believe some of the bad luck I’ve had recently. Horses leading by ten lengths and then falling over with the finishing line in sight, and footballers who have never missed a penalty in five years suddenly start blasting them into row Z as soon as I put a bet on them. And I thought Mourinho and Chelsea were absolute bankers to have the English Premier League all wrapped up by Christmas. It's fucking unbelievable what's been happening.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that,' said Jack. ‘So how much are you into the bookies for?’