The Price to Pay
Euan B. Pollock
© Euan B. Pollock 2018
Euan B. Pollock has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Stewart Scott stared at the phone on his desk, its shrill ring loud in his ears. His hand hovered over the receiver, frozen in place as he stared at the name of the caller.
‘Sudgeon’. The name of one of the partners at his law firm appeared in the text screen on the phone in small, old-fashioned text letters, with a vast power behind them.
He took a deep breath and grabbed the receiver.
“Hello, Mr Sudgeon, this is Stewart Scott.”
“Stewart, good fellow! I’d like you to pop along, for a quick chat.” Sudgeon sounded jovial, but that meant nothing. Sudgeon sounded just as jovial before he fired people.
“Eh, yes, right. I will. Eh, to your office, Mr Sudgeon?”
“Yes, that’s right. My office.”
“Ah, yes, okay. No problem, Mr Sudgeon. And, eh … Now?”
“Yes, that’s right. Now. Right now, in fact.” The voice was becoming less jovial with each question.
“Okay. Right. I’ll be there. Right away.”
“Capital!”
The line went dead. Stewart looked at the receiver in his hand for a second, then put it down slowly. He looked at Michelle and Jennifer, the other trainees who sat with him in their office.
“I’ve been summoned. By Sudgeon.”
They nodded in unison, both equally dubious, and Stewart knew they were all thinking the same thing. Being summoned by a partner was news. It could be good, or bad, but it was definitely something. Unless you were Hamish, of course, the other trainee, who excelled in ingratiating himself wherever he went. He always got good news.
“What about?” Michelle asked.
“He didn’t say.”
“You’ve been working really hard recently on the Raker file. And it’s going really well, isn’t that what Mark told you? So maybe it’s to say thank you?” Jennifer tried a smile.
Stewart shrugged. “Maybe.” Except that it wasn’t even a maybe. There was no chance that Sudgeon was calling him up to give him a pat on the back, even if he’d done the most sterling work. That wasn’t the way it worked.
“Maybe there’s news on the job positions for us at the end of this year? Maybe a third one has opened up? They did say that there might be more.” Jennifer again. She was still trying for that smile, but it was more wishful than certain.
“Yeah, could be, I suppose. But I don’t know why he would give me a summons for the news. And then just me as opposed to all four of us. And I definitely can’t imagine any of us being told before the golden boy.” Stewart paused as he put on his suit jacket, his voice quieter when he spoke. “I’m just hoping it’s not the firing squad.”
“Of course it won’t be!” Jennifer spoke immediately, the sound of her voice loud in the small room.
“Stewart, they’re not going to terminate your traineeship.” Michelle’s tone was gentler.
“It happened to Belinda two years back. She’s working as a waitress now. She can’t even get another firm to take on her traineeship.”
“Yes, but we’re second years now. She was cut after a few months of her first year. I mean, they said she got so stressed so quickly she couldn’t do anything except cry in the toilets. You don’t do that.” She tilted her head, and gave a mischievous smile. “Do you?”
A smile broke out on his face as he snorted. He walked over to the mirror in the office, pen and notepad in hand, as he did every time before going to see a real, bona-fide lawyer to make sure he hadn’t spilled something on his tie. He had to skirt the papers and folders lying in piles on the dull green carpet, placed there because the solid wooden desks were already overflowing. There was talk about it becoming a paperless office, more environmentally friendly. And maybe it would, on the day the Devil skated to work.
He patted down his shock of dark hair. Tall, dark and handsome, wasn’t that it? He had the dark bit down, at least hair-wise. Although it had the unfortunate consequence of accentuating the natural paleness of his skin, making him look even more peely-wally. He was struggling with the tall part, aiming for six foot but always falling just short.
As for handsome, well, his mum always said he was handsome. That would have to do.
His brown eyes looked a bit tired. They always seemed to be, these days. He tugged on his cuffs. He felt odd wearing suits, with his thin wrists and neck poking out, and his boyish face. It always reminded him of the days when he used to dress up in his father’s suits, when he was eight or nine.
But still. He was getting there. He was getting there. His first year had been a roller coaster ride, lows with people shouting at him and messing things up, and highs when contracts were signed and pats on the back were handed out liberally. He could practically feel himself getting more professional, learning more each day. And getting the Raker file … that had been great. All to the good, in fact. So long as he wasn’t cut off early.
Stewart checked his tie in the mirror. If it was indeed the firing squad, he would at least look smart.
“If I’m not back in an hour, send a search party. I’ll probably be crying in the toilets …”
Chapter 2
Stewart’s battered black shoes sank into plush, thick carpets of reds and golds in the partners’ corridor. Paintings adorned the walls here, grand battle scenes alongside flowers and fruit. Fresh flowers and the occasional small shrub here and there gave a real life to the place, their smells wafting in and out of the art.
Stewart tugged on his cuffs again as he walked. The trainee and junior associate corridor where he worked was far drabber – white walls and worn carpet, paying the price for being host to those at the bottom of the legal food chain.
There had been a time when he’d been scared of these rich surroundings, but then he’d discovered, chatting with a secretary, that the artwork was all rented. For some reason that made him feel much more relaxed, as if knowing the company was only playing at being cultured made him feel better abo
ut playing at being a proper lawyer.
Sudgeon’s door was ajar. There was talking inside in low voices, Stewart unable to make out any of the words. He checked his tie one last time, then knocked. Sudgeon appeared through the crack in the door, rolling his black leather seat across the rich cream carpet. Stewart gave him the awkward smile his face made when he was worried that he wasn’t meant to be wherever he was.
“Ah, Stewart! Come in, my boy, come in!” Sudgeon boomed the words. Stewart stepped into the room, slipping into the corner with his back to two walls. It was a large space, with lots of light entering through big windows. They lined up behind a beautiful oak desk that commanded the room. In front of it was a long wooden table, with chairs down the length of it.
Sudgeon often spoke in this bombastic tone, as if his volume was set a couple of notches higher than everyone else. It was in contrast to his appearance. Sudgeon was slim and bald, with circular glasses dominating his face. He reminded Stewart of the clever but weak kids who were bullied in school.
Richard Green, an American partner, was sitting at the table beside Sudgeon. Stewart felt himself shifting under the man’s bright, cold eyes. Green had never so much as smiled at Stewart, and it didn’t look like he was going to start today.
Hamish, the other trainee, sat beside Green at the table. He was looking down, not meeting Stewart’s eye. That was unusual enough, but besides that his face was oddly petulant, something Stewart couldn’t remember seeing before.
Opposite them sat a bald man, with his back to Stewart. Before Stewart had a chance to get a good look at him, Sudgeon had rolled his seat back to the table. He motioned Stewart towards the table.
“No, no, please, come in and take a seat! Don’t stand back there!” Sudgeon spoke, before turning to the table. “Hamish, my boy, that will be all. You may return to your duties.”
Hamish looked at Sudgeon for a second, like he was thinking about arguing – arguing! – but then stood up and marched towards the door. He didn’t so much as glance at Stewart on his way past, instead just stomping out, eyes fixed on the ground.
A flash of schadenfreude warmed Stewart’s mind. Hamish in the doghouse. Happy days. Although that was pretty unusual. And maybe, just maybe, whatever happened to him was about to happen to Stewart…
But before Stewart’s imagination could really get going, the bald man stood and turned.
“Hello again, my brother.”
Chapter 3
Sebastian Dakar wore the same gentle smile Stewart remembered. His hand moved to his heart as he spoke, and he gave a small inclination of the head with eyes closed.
Stewart looked back, no words coming out. He hadn’t seen Dakar for months. After the events at Hanover House, where they had been investigating a suspicious death, he wasn’t sure he was ever going to see him again. He found himself smiling back at Dakar as he eventually put out a hand and his brain connected with his mouth.
“Hello, Dakar.”
They shook hands before Dakar sat back down at the table, Sudgeon glancing between them.
“I see you remember each other. Stewart, the firm is hiring Mr Dakar to conduct another investigation, across three days. He has requested, aha, that you personally be the firm’s representative, as opposed to anyone else.” Sudgeon coughed delicately.
Stewart stared mutely at him. He hated that ‘aha’ that Sudgeon made, pulling out the second ‘a’, as he pretended to deliberate over his next words but really just wanted you to wait for what was coming.
“Richard and I …” Sudgeon shot a look over at Green, but the man’s eyes remained fixed on Stewart, “… thought we should consult with you about whether you wished to accept this assignment. It would take approximately three days.”
Stewart waited for more, but Sudgeon seemed to have finished. “Right. Yes. What’s the investigation about?”
“I’m not at liberty to divulge that information until you let us know your thoughts.”
Stewart nodded at this legal equivalent of ‘I’m not telling’. He wouldn’t have expected anything else from Sudgeon.
“And, aha, we would probably have to re-assign the Raker file. Perhaps give it to Michelle.”
Stewart’s eyes widened, and he breathed in sharply. “But that’s my file, Mr Sudgeon. It was given to me—”
Sudgeon cut him off with one upraised hand. “I know it’s the first time you’ve been trusted with your own contract, with only the final sign-off required from your superiors. And Mark tells me you’ve been doing good work on it. But no-one in the firm is irreplaceable.”
“Especially not a trainee.” Green’s tone was laconic, his eyes looking unblinkingly at Stewart.
Stewart swallowed hard, his cheeks beginning to burn at the rebuke. But even that was overruled by the thought of losing the Raker file. He remembered lonely, long, late nights working on it on his own, his pride at being given his own file and of the praise he was getting for the quality of work and the hours he was billing. He’d felt, for the first time, like he felt a proper lawyer ought to feel. To lose that …
Stewart looked at Dakar. New images flooded his mind, of yoga lessons at a place in Morningside, a police file on a man’s death, and the rooms of Hanover House, where Stewart watched Dakar as he figured out how a man had died. He remembered people shouting and screaming at Dakar, the police, a poisoning. Mysteries and obstacles, but triumph in the end.
And then nothing. Nothing from Dakar for months – four months. Radio silence, almost like he’d done something wrong. Instead, back to SSM, slowly building up his reputation for good, hard work, for reliability, being the safe pair of hands. Nothing fancy, everything solid, preparing the ground to fight for his place at the lawyer table at the end of the year, with weapons like the Raker file.
And now Dakar was back, wanting him to help.
Stewart looked back at Sudgeon, into the man’s eyes. There was movement there, a constant movement. He could practically see the machinery of Sudgeon’s mind, shifting, analysing, reacting, and always, always, calculating. Constantly predicting the future in order to put himself in the best possible position, an ability honed through life as a lawyer, a shark in human clothing. And he’d surrounded himself with people like Green, and patronised people like Hamish.
Stewart looked over at Dakar, seeking his eyes. Nothing seemed to be moving below the surface there, no complex plots or deep thoughts. No analysis, no readiness. But there was a depth there that was hard to penetrate.
He could hear his own thoughts as he looked between them all, as if someone were whispering them in his ear. Sudgeon and SSM represented his future. The Hanover House investigation had been an anachronism, albeit an exciting one. But if he wanted to get on in life he had to be like Hamish. That was the key. Working with Dakar again would be a waste of his time, valuable time that he could bill to clients. It wouldn’t look good. This was a test, and Sudgeon was making sure he was truly a safe bet.
He had to be like Hamish. So he could end up like Sudgeon. Or maybe even like Green.
There was a seat beside Dakar at the table. There was also the seat that Hamish had vacated, on Sudgeon’s side. Stewart looked at Sudgeon, then at Green. Then at the spot Hamish had vacated. Very slowly, Stewart walked over and lowered himself into the seat beside Dakar.
Sudgeon’s smile didn’t leave his face, but it did twist slightly, becoming uglier.
“Capital.” Sudgeon spoke coldly. He got up and walked over to the door, closing it firmly before returning to his seat. “One of the partners at the firm would like Mr Dakar to investigate a crime for him. A murder.”
Sudgeon paused after the last word, saying it distastefully. Stewart looked at him incredulously.
“A murder?” His fingers gripped the edge of the oaken table.
“Indeed.”
“Aren’t the … Well, you know, the police …?”
Sudgeon shook his head. “It appears they have concluded their investigation, without making an arrest.
They are apparently perplexed. Mr Dakar is going to re-investigate.”
Sudgeon held up a newspaper, a broadsheet. It was open at an inside page, a headline screaming ‘Police still baffled over murder of dentist’.
Sudgeon placed the newspaper down. “Rather dreadfully, the victim is actually Tom Mannings’ son, Daniel. The poor man found the body himself. Awful. Simply awful.”
Stewart nodded, trying to keep his face professional. Tom Mannings. Also a partner at the firm. Stewart hadn’t had much interaction with him, what with Stewart being a trainee and him being a partner. Tax specialist, from what Stewart remembered. Bit of an oddball. No, wait, plenty of money. Eccentric, then.
“Tom had a heart attack when he found his son dead. Almost died as well, poor chap. Although thankfully he survived. Very fortunate. In some ways, of course. Perhaps better if, well … Well, no. No. Of course not. But dreadfully hard to put one’s own son into the ground, as it were.”
Stewart watched Sudgeon speak, but for the life of him couldn’t work out if the man was being sincere.
“Tom is in hospital. Private, naturally. The Squareglass, just past Morningside. Recuperating.”
Stewart sat back. Now he thought about it, he did remember something about a murder, about a week back or so, in one of the nicer areas of Edinburgh. Somewhere on the outskirts.
“Mr Dakar has already agreed to undertake the investigation. Turning to the brass tacks for you. Stewart, my boy, if I may, your report last time was … how can I phrase this? Not quite satisfactory?”
Green leaned forward across the table, head seeming almost to wave on the end of his slim neck as it struck out towards him. Stewart had never seen him so close before. He had little pitted grooves scarring the skin on his face. His American tone was like an iron fist in a velvet glove, softly spoken but hitting like a wrecking ball.
“Scott. Take notes, okay? Proper notes. And this time, bill your time, every six minutes. Include a breakdown in your report. I know you’re only a trainee, but try and act professionally. You get me?”
Stewart felt transfixed by the eyes a few inches from him, a hot flush breaking out at the word ‘professionally’.
The Price to Pay Page 1
