Two-Way Split (9 page)

His boss's voice continued blaring in his ear. Kennedy stuck his numb hand inside his coat. Up ahead the trio turned down a side street. He quickened his pace as the cold seeped through his boots. Each step felt like someone was slapping the soles of his feet with a plank of wood. "Gonna have to go," he said into the phone. He hung up, dropped the phone in his coat pocket and turned the corner.

It took a couple of seconds to locate them. A line of cars huddled in the shelter of a long block of tenement flats. Water dribbled from a first floor overflow pipe. A puddle had formed on the pavement and was now trickling down from the kerb onto the road, licking the front wheel of a two-year-old, white Ford Sierra with a taxi sign fixed to the roof. The woman sat behind the wheel. Edward Francis Soutar was snuggling into the seat beside her. Crouched in the back, Robin Greaves looked up as Soutar slammed the door shut.

Kennedy fumbled for his phone and dialled the office. The line was busy. He tried his boss's mobile.

After four rings his boss said, "Hang on. I'm on the land line."

"That's why I phoned your mobile." But nobody was listening. Kennedy lit a cigarette and waited.

As he stubbed it out his boss came back on the line. "What is it?"

"Can you check your report and find out if Greaves's wife is a taxi driver?"

"She isn't."

"You sure?"

"She's a temp."

"You absolutely positive?"

"I got my nose bashed up. My brain's fine."

"This is important. Would you mind double-checking?"

"Double-checking?" Kennedy heard chair legs scraping the floor as his boss stood. "Double-checking?" The clank of the filing cabinet's drawer opening. "If it keeps you happy, I'll double frigging check."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it." He sighed. "Okay. Here it is. Ready?" Kennedy said nothing. His boss cleared his throat and continued, "Carol Wren is registered with—"

"That her own name?"

"She uses her maiden name, yes. Some women do. May I continue?" His boss confirmed Carol Wren's recruitment agency. It specialised in office personnel. There was no indication that she owned, drove or had ever driven a taxi. "What's the significance?"

"Tell you later."  Kennedy disconnected the call. He stood at the corner, leaning against the wall. He lit another cigarette. Inside the car there was very little movement. A few minutes later he stubbed out his cigarette and lit another one. Both hands were freezing now. He stamped his feet and winced as a hundred tiny knives stabbed his heels. Still nothing happening in the car. What were the bastards doing? They were sitting in the damned car, that's what they were doing. That's all they were doing. Not moving. Not speaking. Just sitting there. Listening to the radio or something. Soutar even had his eyes closed. Maybe he'd fallen asleep. Carol was staring straight ahead. Greaves had slumped forward and was resting his chin on his chest, eyeing the knuckles of his interlocked fingers.

Kennedy looked at his watch and wondered once again why he was doing this, choosing to stand here in the cold while his extremities turned to ice. He'd become a PI for the excitement, the adventure, the danger. He blamed Hammett. Chandler, you could forgive. But Hammett? What a bastard.

PI novels had saturated Alex Kennedy's teenage years. From the moment he read his first Chandler he was hooked. He read all of Chandler, then Hammett, then Ross Macdonald. All the while he was amassing a stack of out-of-print fifties and early sixties PI pulp novels from charity shops and flea markets. His favourite PIs were Max Thursday and Johnny Killain. Men who thrived on danger and excitement. Men who thought two-to-one was pretty fair odds. Men who could take on a brick wall and before long have it begging for mercy. Kennedy blew into his cupped hands. Hammett had been an investigator himself and should have known better. He had no excuse for making this shitty job seem exciting. Nothing happened. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. In the office you made phone calls and surfed the net. You filed a report, made more calls and did a bit more surfing. Out of the office you sat in a car for hours on end watching zip. Occasionally, like today, you didn't even have the luxury of a car to sit in. You had to stand in the cold and watch very little turn into sod-all. If you were really bored you could always capture the precise moment nothing happened by snapping a photograph, which is what Kennedy would have done if he hadn't left his bloody camera in the car. He eased another cigarette out of the pack. As he lit up he noticed a movement in the Sierra. Something happening at last? He dropped the lighter in his pocket and watched as Soutar turned round and passed something to Greaves. Greaves weighed it in his palm and, with a flick of his wrist, held it to Soutar's head.

Kennedy grabbed his mobile and dialled the office. This time the line was free.

"What?"

Kennedy's throat was dry. He swallowed. "How quickly can you get here?"

"Can't you handle it?"

He swallowed again. "This could be more serious than just your nose."

"What're you on about?"

"They could leave any minute. Phone me on your mobile once you're on your way."

In the white Ford Sierra, a grinning Robin Greaves handed the gun back to Edward Francis Soutar.

Kennedy's boss said, "I can't leave the office."

"You'll want to be here," Kennedy said. "Believe me."

12:40 pm

"I spent the morning sharpening the point of a long screwdriver with a file," Pearce told Thompson.

Thompson was crying like a little boy whose lollipop has been stamped on by the school bully.

"Think you can be quiet a minute?" Pearce knelt down and untied Thompson's hands. "I knew where my sister's dealer, Priestley, lived."

Thompson's shoulders bounced with each breath that leaked out of him.

"I paid him a visit." Pearce remembered a sign on the wall. Blacket Neighbourhood Watch. He'd laughed at that as he walked along the row of semi-detached villas. Some of them had stone balconies. They all had private gardens and burglar alarms stuck on the front of the building, a sure sign that there was something worth nicking inside.

Thompson started to crawl under his desk, moaning, teeth vibrating against his lower lip.

Pearce had opened a wrought iron gate and walked up a path that curved towards a white wooden porch with a slate roof. Very pretty. He'd rung the bell and admired the lawn while he waited. When Priestley answered, Pearce stepped inside and closed the door. No fuss.

Thompson blinked rapidly.

"I stuck him with the screwdriver," Pearce said. "Twenty-six times. Once for each year of her life."

A peculiar noise came out of Thompson. It sounded as if he was about to break into song.

Pearce ignored him. Justice wasn't cheap. It was true that Pearce had paid the bill with ten years of his life, but he had no regrets. The scumbag had deserved it. Still, Pearce didn't know if he could do it again, knowing how far into the future ten years can stretch.

He tossed what was left of Thompson's shirt at his naked body. "Get dressed if you want. I'm leaving."

Wedged under the desk, Thompson's body spasmed as if jolts of electricity were shooting through his chest. His hands were jammed between his legs, protecting the balls Pearce had threatened to crush in the desk drawer. His creased cotton shirt stayed where Pearce had thrown it, draped over his left knee. A soft moan slipped out of his oddly grinning mouth and the bubble joining his parted lips popped as Pearce leaned over and gently shut the desk drawer.

"You've had your warning." Pearce prodded Thompson with his boot. "Unless you have a burning desire to join a girls' choir, keep away from Ailsa. If you don't, I promise you'll be hitting the high notes. Unless I'm in a bad mood. In which case I'll make a pincushion out of you. You paying attention, Pete?"

Thompson nodded vigorously and cried out when the back of his head bumped against the edge of the desk.

"I'll be checking. Can I trust you?"

Thompson sniffed. "I'll stay away."

"Okay." Pearce held out his hand.

"Don't." Thompson crossed his arms in front of his face. "Please."

Pearce touched Thompson's elbow with the back of his hand, lightly. "Shake."

Slowly Thompson lowered his arms, red eyes dripping, face shining with tears. His lips quivered as he held out his hand.

Pearce grabbed it and squeezed. Quickly, he turned and left. He was finished here and he didn't want to keep his mum waiting.

12:51 pm

Greaves, Soutar and Wren were still in the Sierra. So far so good.

Kennedy spoke into his phone: "There's a parking space over here."

"Where's here?"

"Leith Walk end, on the corner." Kennedy stood on tiptoe. "Want me to wave?"

"Don't bother. I see you."

Kennedy put his phone away as he saw his boss's red Saab rolling towards him. Cold hands tucked under his armpits, he sauntered towards the vacant parking spot opposite the Sierra. The Saab arrived first, gliding to a stop. Kennedy opened the passenger door and folded himself into the seat. The engine was still running. He made a show of rubbing his hands together and looked across at his boss. Half-a-dozen strips of Micropore crisscrossed his bandaged nose. "Who fixed you up?" Kennedy asked him.

"What the hell are they up to?"

"Okay. Just ignore me."

"Did you notice any other weapons?"

"Apart from the gun?" Kennedy was thinking that maybe this job wasn't so bad after all. At last something big was happening and he was stuck in the middle of it. "Nothing much. Couple of hand grenades, flame thrower, missile launcher."

"I don't need that kind of crap right now."

"Did you do it yourself? I wasn't aware we had a first aid box."

"It's the law."

"Where's it kept?"

"Filing cabinet. Third drawer down. At the back."

Kennedy said, "Greaves was cleaning his fingernails with a knife."

"What kind?"

"Sharp."

"What kind?"

"I don't know." Kennedy held his hands about a foot apart. "Big."

"A bread knife?"

"Smaller." His hands drifted a couple of inches towards each other. "Serrated edges."

"Hunting knife, maybe."

"Don't you want to know about the gun?"

"I don't know anything about guns. Do you?"

"Not really. Wouldn't mind one, though."

"What would you do with a gun?"

Shoot wankers like you.
"Dunno."

"Well, that's fascinating."

"Greaves gave it back to Soutar." Kennedy paused. "Soutar has it now. I know that much." He paused again. "It's black," he said.