Charles’s eyes widened. His goblin smile became large, like a puppet master was pulling the muscles in his cheeks to make his lips move upwards. “Yes, yes I did. Of course I did. Daniel was good fun.” A pause. “Once he got going.”
Dakar had a long pause now, but Charles didn’t elaborate. “Who invited you to come?”
“Daniel. My fiancée and I … She’s a lawyer as well, works over in Q&T.” Charles vaguely waved at the wall behind him, although he didn’t turn around. There was a photograph of a woman there, with Charles, on a beach somewhere, mountains cascading down to the sea in a tide of green trees visible in the background. It and a calendar of Scottish scenery were the only decoration on the otherwise white wall, and nothing except for work papers and Charles’s mobile phone adorned the desk.
“Family law, mainly, as most women do. Ghastly stuff. Well, anyway, we had planned a night at the theatre. But it’s not every day that you get the chance to go to your partner’s house and have dinner with their family. These opportunities have to be taken, you know.”
Pause. “Your fiancée came as well?”
“No, no. No, I needed to be undistracted in such an important setting. I couldn’t play nursemaid to someone who didn’t know anyone else there.”
Pause. “And did you know Daniel’s wife?”
“Only by name.”
Pause. “Who was there that night?”
“Daniel, of course. His wife, Sarah-Anne. And Tom, naturally, Tom Mannings. He’s my partner. That is, he’s the partner I work for. We specialise in tax, as Stewart knows. And Daniel’s stepdaughter Sandra. She had a couple of her friends with her, Jane and Russell. Russell is Sandra’s boyfriend. Jane was her flatmate, I think, or something along those lines.”
Pause, nod. “Anyone else?”
“Well, there was some woman called Martina who was there. Fine-looking creature, although getting a bit long in the tooth. Her son was also there, can’t recall his name. He looked, how can I say … a bit unkempt. Rough and ready all round. Like he’d just got over being a teenager.”
Charles stopped, waiting for his audience to smile. Stewart cast his eyes to his notes, until the moment passed.
“The only other people there were an older couple Daniel worked with. Daniel was half of a dental partnership. Eleanor, the woman, was his business partner. She’s incredibly plain, in looks and in conversation. Her husband is a balding, plain little fellow. And more than a little rotund. He’s the secretary, of all things, of the dental partnership.”
Stewart looked at Dakar, but his expression hadn’t changed. “What time did you arrive?”
“About half past seven. I was almost last. The dentist couple turned up about fifteen minutes later. I met everyone. A bit of desultory small talk later, it was time for dinner so we all trooped through to the dining room.”
Pause. “Did anything happen during the dinner?”
“Nothing special. I was sitting between the dentist secretary, whose name escapes me, and Eleanor. David, perhaps? Something beginning with ‘D’ anyway. We spoke about inconsequential things, like the weather. We didn’t have much in common.”
Pause. “Where was Daniel sitting?”
“Up at the head of the table, of course. It was his home. He was chatting to Tom, mainly. They were sitting next to each other.”
Pause. “What happened after dinner?”
“Well, I … Look, something a bit embarrassing. Something I’d rather the rest of the firm didn’t know.”
Pause. “Mr Sudgeon has requested that Stewart give him and Mr Green reports.”
Stewart’s heart began to beat faster at the mention of his name. But Charles just waved a hand. “Yes, yes, I understand that. They already know, of course. No, I mean, I’d rather it didn’t get out amongst the … Well, you know. The trainees. Paralegals. That sort.”
His eyes flicked over to Stewart and away again. Charles’ last words were laced with distaste, as if he had popped into the legal world as a fully formed lawyer, never having had to go through the disagreeable embryonic trainee stage.
“I won’t tell anyone, Charles.”
Charles’ eyes lingered on Stewart for a second or two, but eventually he nodded.
“Well, during dinner I had some wine. Perhaps too much. And I was animated, you know, what with being with my partner’s family. Anyway, I ended up discussing things with Russell. He’s rather liberal, you understand. No life experience. Anyway, because he was floundering on the technical points of our discussion, as these people always do, he decided to claim he could drink more than me.”
Charles began playing with a pen, holding it between fingers of either hand. He focused on it as he spoke.
“Well, after that much wine, I accepted. More fool me. We went to the dining room and began drinking beer. I had brought some imported stuff, a champagne bottle of Belgian beer. It’s strong stuff. And we began doing shots of vodka. The girls tried to stop us, but, well, a long story short, both Russell and I had to be carried upstairs to the spare bedroom.”
Pause. “And so you did not see the fireworks?”
Charles shook his head. “Didn’t see them, didn’t hear them. In fact, my memory of the evening goes from getting drunker and drunker with that fool Russell to waking up in the morning with a police constable on the door.”
Pause. “And then?”
Charles looked up from the pen to Dakar. “Then? Then I was interrogated, like a common criminal, by some idiot of a policeman. They even brought in a police casualty surgeon to take some of my blood, after threatening me with a warrant. It’s outrageous, really.”
Pause. “Do you recall the police officer’s name?”
“Thomas. A Detective Inspector, so he claims.”
Stewart was halfway through writing the name when his stomach sank. He looked up at Dakar, who was already looking back at him.
“What?” Charles interrupted their shared glance.
Pause. “We know that officer.”
“I see. Well, no doubt you know exactly what I mean.”
Dakar paused for a few seconds longer than usual. “You were invited by Daniel personally?”
“That’s right.”
Pause. “I had understood it was a surprise birthday party?”
“Yes, that’s right. I suppose it was one of those surprise birthday parties which aren’t really a surprise.”
Pause. “Do you have the message from Daniel inviting you?”
“Yes, of course.” Charles reached for the phone lying in front of him on the table then stopped, his hand hovering over it. “No. No, I don’t.” He took his hand back, holding it up awkwardly in front of him. After a few seconds he held up his index finger. “I deleted it. Yes. Sorry.”
A long pause. “Why did you do that?”
“Why? Is that what you asked?” Dakar nodded once. “Well, I, it’s something I do regularly. Space. For apps. On the phone, you know.” Charles was turning red.
Dakar waited for a long time, gazing at Charles gently. Charles, his eyes darting back and forth between Dakar and Stewart in the silence, suddenly gestured towards some paperwork on his desk.
“Look, I have quite a lot to do, so if that’s all, well, duty calls and all that. So perhaps we can wrap this up?”
Another pause from Dakar. He looked down at Charles’ phone, then back up at him. The lightest bead of sweat had appeared on Charles’ brow, even though the room wasn’t warm.
“I have nothing further. For now.” Dakar spoke in his normal gentle tone, but somehow the last two words sounded ominous.
Chapter 7
Stewart stood outside the Squareglass Hospital, beside Dakar. It was a beautiful October day, and the morning had given way to a splendid afternoon. The sun shone in a blue sky, making vibrant the autumn yellows and browns of the trees and picking out individual blades of short, well-trimmed green grass in the tree-lined avenue on which they stood.
But only a foreigner would be fooled
by such weather in Scotland. In spite of the sunshine, Stewart had to turn his coat collar up against the chill invading his bones.
Squareglass Hospital looked magnificent in the light, like an old Victorian home. It was built from grey shaped stone, sitting amidst well-manicured gardens of grass and trees. A small wall, made from the same grey shaped stone, ran around the gardens. Aside from the sign on the wall, you wouldn’t have known it was a hospital at all.
Stewart looked around. The area epitomised what he thought of as Edinburgh proper. Grand old buildings faced each other across wide, tree-lined streets, broken only by a multitude of green spaces. It had been like this for a long time, the upgrades and maintenance only accentuating the riches and opulence the area represented. Had always represented. If you threw in the castle and Princes Street Gardens, maybe the Scott monument, this basically was Edinburgh. Or at least the one on the postcards.
They started towards the building, Stewart carrying his work bag in one hand as he walked.
He shifted his grip on it, trying to find a comfortable one. It was actually more of a satchel, an over-one-shoulder job. His mum had given it to him, as a present for landing a traineeship. And it was a quality bag, no doubt. Lovely leather. Kept stuff dry on the dreichest of dreich Scottish days, when no matter what you did the rain somehow got in.
But in spite of these qualities, he’d got a ripping from his mates as soon as he’d put his bag on. Digs about wearing a glorified handbag, and being labelled that all-purpose insult, gay. So he’d taken to not wearing it at all, but rather carrying it briefcase style, looping the wrap around his hand.
But he was with Dakar now. Stewart took a quick look at him, then put the satchel shoulder strap over one shoulder and let the bag fall to his side, the way it was meant to be worn. He looked again at his companion. Dakar didn’t even seem to notice, much less comment.
They strolled in through the open doors, Stewart adopting Dakar’s slow pace. He stopped as he saw the corridor. It was all black and white, little tiles on the floor of the alternating shades, then white paint on the walls interrupted occasionally by black and white photographs, like something out of Alice in Wonderland.
Dakar had gone straight to the reception, a hole in the wall to the left just beside the entrance. A young woman, no more than 20, sat there, looking sprightly in a white coat and suit trousers. Dark hair spilled in curls down over her shoulders. She smiled at them, although her expression became amused for a split-second as she looked over at Stewart.
Bloody satchel.
“Good afternoon, and welcome to Squareglass Hospital. How can I help you?”
Stewart, whose face had contorted into a frown when he first saw the corridor, kept on frowning. He always did when people with Scottish accents sounded genuinely happy. It wasn’t natural.
“Hello, my sister. My name is Sebastian Dakar. I believe Tom Mannings is expecting me.”
“Of course. Just give me one moment …” She picked up a phone and consulted a list of numbers. Stewart looked around at the corridor again, studying it in an attempt to explain its existence.
“I’ve got a Mr Dakar here, to see Mr Mannings?” … “Yes, that’s right.” … “Okay, no problem. Yes. Okay.”
She turned back to them, the genuine smile in place. “Would you care to take a seat in the waiting area? Sister Agnes will be with you in a moment.” She indicated the door next to the reception.
Pause. “Thank you, my sister.”
“Oh, I’m not a sister, I’m just the receptionist.”
Pause, nod. Dakar turned and walked through the door the woman had indicated, Stewart slowly following him. They entered a deserted room with a number of couches and comfy chairs, and reading material scattered around various grand tables. Large windows allowed those waiting to see out into the gardens.
They had barely sat down when the door opened again and a grey-haired woman walked in, dressed in the blue top and trousers of a medic. She was carrying a clipboard.
“Mr Dakar?”
Pause. “My sister?”
“I’m the sister, yes. Mr Mannings is expecting you.” She frowned at Stewart. “Will your associate be joining you?”
The woman’s tone was clipped as she looked at Stewart, as if he was some untidy loose end, a little bit of soon-to-be-eliminated chaos in an organised world. Stewart did his best not to look shifty.
Pause. “He shall, yes. His name is Stewart Scott.”
“Mr Mannings was quite clear he was expecting a Mr Dakar, and only a Mr Dakar. I’m afraid your associate will have to remain here.”
Stewart looked at the sister, who looked back at him. Her expression didn’t show an ounce of sympathy, much less fear.
Pause. “My sister, I would prefer if Mr Scott joined me. My preference is sufficiently strong that I will not see Mr Mannings without him.”
The sister frowned as she looked over at Dakar, her fingers gripping the clipboard tighter.
“His instructions were very clear.”
Pause. “I have no doubt, my sister. And I have no doubt that you have ignored his instructions in the past when you think best. For what it is worth, I do not think he will care that Mr Scott here accompanies me. Certainly, I imagine he will be more irritated if Mr Scott, and therefore I, are turned away.”
The sister looked back over at Stewart for a second, the nodded reluctantly. “Mr Scott. Yes. Then if you’d both care to follow me, I’ll take you to Mr Mannings’ room.”
They followed her in silence back out into the black and white corridor, to a spiral staircase at the end. They climbed up, coming into a corridor that was, while geometrically identical to the one they had left, different in all other respects. The floor was polished wood, overlaid with oriental rugs down its length. The walls had been painted a rich green, portraits and paintings placed generously along them. Stewart let out a deep breath as they walked along.
They followed the woman to one of the doors. She knocked sharply, two taps, before opening the door immediately.
The room was smaller than Stewart expected when he first heard the words ‘private hospital’. It was old-fashioned, from the screens that hung down over the window to the iron bedstead. The bedsheets had a rough woollen shawl on top of them. A wooden table with a couple of chairs beside the window completed the furniture, while the window provided a view over the garden, trees and wall into Morningside.
It reminded Stewart of the rooms you saw in films about the first and second world wars, where pretty nurses tended wounded soldiers. The only recognition of the 21st century was a flat screen TV, stationed high on the wall opposite the single bed.
Tom Mannings lay on the bed, hooked up to a monitor. As soon as they came in, he began speaking in an aggrieved tone.
“Sister! What’s this? I just … Read … If I need … MRI … I go to … Royal Infirmary.”
The sister stood by the bed, looking disinterested.
“That’s right, Mr Mannings.”
“But that’s .. NHS. I pay … For private!”
“We don’t have an MRI machine, Mr Mannings. It’s too big for the hospital. So we send you off to get an MRI, then bring you back.”
“Bloody disgrace!”
“It’s standard practice for this hospital, and most UK private hospitals. And it’s in your contract, Mr Mannings. The NHS does a number of our operations.” The sister’s tone was firm, a warning note underlying her words. “Now here’s Mr Dakar and Mr Scott.”
The sister turned to leave, Mannings muttering under his breath until she had disappeared and the door was closed.
He took up the entire single bed, his body fallen across it. He still had the wild hair Stewart remembered from the firm, and his bushy, untamed beard, which had started to grey, now crept down onto his chest, stretching down to meet the blanket. Even his eyebrows sprouted out, striking away from his face like so many intrepid explorers. His red nose was large and bulbous, combining with the hair to make him look
like a drunken, angry Santa Claus who brought bones rather than presents.
“Who are you?” Mannings said abruptly, and Stewart realised with horror Mannings was staring at him. “I wanted … Dakar here … Only.”
“Eh—”
“This is Stewart Scott. He is a second year trainee at your firm, my brother.”
Mannings glared at Dakar, then back at Stewart. “Ha … Right. Yes. Firm representative. Piece of … bloody nonsense.” He glared at Stewart for a second longer. Stewart looked down at the floor, his cheeks on fire, as if being forgotten by someone was a sin.
“Now listen,” Mannings divided his glare between them both as he lay incapacitated in the bed. His tone was severe, like a rock face stripped by the wind. “Both of you. Sensitive matter … I don’t want … any rumours … Not friends … Not family … Not wives, girlfriends. No-one … at the firm … Except Charles. He knows … already. Yes?”
Stewart nodded. He’d forgotten the way that Mannings spoke, as if he ran out of breath after a word or two. It gave him a brusque, halting manner. He slid his notepad out.
“Mr Sudgeon and Mr Green have requested that Stewart provide them with reports detailing our progress.”
Mannings grunted angrily, and one of the monitors beeped more urgently. “Stuff and nonsense! They want … Rumours … Gossip. No reports … to them. Reports … to me … I’m the one … paying. Yes?”
Stewart looked at Dakar, but the man just looked back at him. Stewart turned back into the intense glare of Mannings.
“Right. Eh, yes, Mr Mannings. No problem.”
Mannings grunted again, in acceptance. Stewart sat with a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach as he realised he’d agreed to both send and not send reports to Sudgeon and Green.
Bollocks.
“Good. The issue … My son. He’s dead. Murdered .. Stabbed. By some bastard. Want you … to find out who. ”
Stewart was ripped back to the present by Mannings’ voice, a raw mixture of anger and pain. He picked up his pen and wrote down the time at the top of his blank sheet, his pen poised.
“I’m full of sorrow for your loss, my brother.”
The Price to Pay Page 3
