“Don’t be … sad! Just … find the bugger … Killed him. Killed … my son. Ask me … whatever you want. Just find … murderer.” His eyes were glinting in the light of the room, watering as he focused on Dakar.
Pause. “Who else was there?”
“Sandra, Sarah-Anne’s daughter. Daniel’s stepdaughter. She came next … With a friend … Girl … Good-looking … young thing. And her boyfriend. Then Martina Donaldson … Fine-looking … filly. Childhood friend, Daniel … Brought her son. Young thug. Then Charles came.”
Mannings paused, and took a drink of water. Some of it spilled into his beard, and stayed there, caught up on the greying hairs like flies in a spider’s web. “Bright young spark … Charles. And last … the dentists. Well … female dentist, Eleanor. Her husband, Dennis … Secretary.” Mannings snorted at this last word.
Pause, nod from Dakar. “It was Daniel’s birthday?”
“Yes. A surprise. That’s why … celebration.”
Pause. “And what did you and Daniel discuss at dinner?”
“Work … mainly. Awful state … Tory party … at the moment. Get power … Still … bloody useless.”
Pause. “And did you notice anything unusual at the dinner?”
“Not really. Well, one thing. The young girl … friend of Sandra … She was looking … Looking at Daniel … Very feisty. Sarah-Anne … One foot away. Looked … annoyed. That was all.”
Pause. “What happened after dinner?”
“I went … to prepare fireworks.” Mannings’s eyes lit up as he said the last word. “Had some … big ones … Big bangs.”
Pause. “Do you always have fireworks when you have a party?”
“No … No. But special occasion … So … fireworks.”
Pause. “And everyone came out to watch the fireworks?”
Mannings nodded, then stopped, his eyes screwing up as he frowned in recollection. “No … Almost. Charles … Young idiot … Got too drunk. Sandra’s boyfriend … the same. Some kind of … drinking game … Fools. Rest, yes. Great show. Well … the start, anyway. Sandra’s friend … Bloody idiot. Crappy little bangers. Let a couple off. I told her … Fireworks … Proper show.”
Pause. “And what then?”
Mannings took a deep breath. “Banging … at the window. Turned … Daniel up there. In his bedroom. He disappeared … A crash … We ran upstairs. But there was no-one … in the room … No Daniel … or anyone else. Nobody.”
Chapter 8
Pause. “You saw Daniel in the room and heard him bang on the window, but by the time you arrived, there was no-one there?”
“No-one.”
Pause. “How did you know it was Daniel?”
“He’s … my son! Think I … can recognise … my own son.”
Pause. “You saw his face?”
“No. But he had … jacket. Suit jacket.”
Pause. “Suit jackets can be mistaken, my brother.”
A smile of victory lit up Mannings’ face. “I bought it. For Daniel. As a … birthday present. From … my own tailor. Lovely turquoise. Daniel wore it … all night. Was wearing … at the window. Unique. Unique.”
Pause. “Daniel was outside with you when the fireworks began?”
“Yes … Right beside me. Didn’t realise … he had left … at all. Until saw him … at the window. Was concentrating … Watching the fireworks. Big bangs.” The manic gleam reappeared in his eye.
Pause. “And did you see anything out of place before the banging at the window?”
A shake of the head. “Concentrating. On the fireworks.”
Pause. “What did you do when you heard the banging?”
“Went. As fast … as I could. Heart condition … You know … Can’t run … Not fast.”
Pause. “And what exactly was there?”
“Nothing! Well … There had been … a fight … Of some kind. Some things … on the ground. A knife. And blood.” His voice, like wind scouring through heather, lost its strength at this last word.
Pause. “Blood?”
“In different places. Some leading to … the en suite.” His voice was low now, eyes sunk in their sockets. “It was. Locked. Everyone was … Shouting. Screaming … Broke the door down. Before I got … there. Lots of blood. But no … body.”
Pause. “What was the knife like?”
“A … kitchen knife. Blood all … over it. Just lying there … Middle of the bedroom.”
Pause. “Do you think there was enough time for the murderer to remove the body?”
He shook his head vigorously, energy returning. “Definitely not time.”
Pause. “What did you do after you arrived on the second floor?”
“I went to … Daniel’s bedroom. Stayed there. Sandra’s friend … Began shouting about Charles … And the other boy. Dead. Everyone ran … to their room. Rubbish. Not dead. Drunk.”
Pause. “You did not go?”
He shook his head, eyes closed, lines of pain and weariness traversing the old skin. “Daniel had been … in his bedroom. That’s where … blood was. Stayed there. Looked. Properly. But didn’t find … anything.”
Pause. “Do you remember who was all in Daniel’s bedroom when you arrived?”
“Everyone. I think. I don’t know. I went … to Daniel’s bedroom. I heard Sandra … Her friend … in the en suite. Think the young thug … was there too. Martina was in … the bedroom. Sarah-Anne … Came into the bedroom after me … at some point.”
Pause. “And the dentist couple?”
He shrugged. “In Daniel’s bedroom … When I got there.”
Dakar leaned back, nodding once or twice to himself, then forward after a few seconds. “And after they discovered that Charles and Russell were not dead?”
“The rest … Came back. And we looked. In the other rooms upstairs … Nothing. Began to think … A joke. Daniel had said … something … to Sandra’s friend … The young girl … about his own surprise … that night … She told us. Thought maybe he meant … Disappearing … from his own … celebration. Like Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn. Late … for their own funeral.”
Mannings paused for breath here at the effort of all the words, heaving the air in through his mouth.
Pause. “Did you see any blood anywhere else when you searched?”
“No. No more blood … Nowhere.”
Pause. “And what took place after Sandra’s friend spoke about this joke?”
“Sarah-Anne … Furious. Took Sandra’s friend. Into the en suite. Sent rest of us … away. They came out … few minutes later. Angry. People left. Sandra … Her friends … Young thug … To the local pub … See … if Daniel … was there. Then dentist and secretary. They left … Quickly.”
Pause. “You don’t know what they discussed in the en suite?”
“No.”
Pause. “And Charles and Russell?”
“Couldn’t wake … either of them.”
Pause. “What about Martina?”
“She stayed. I was going … to go. Leave. Sarah-Anne suggested … one more drink … But then … Found the body … Stabbed … In the cellar.” Mannings’s voice became flat as his chin fell to his chest, battered unceasingly by a whirlwind of emotions that stripped away not just energy but also hope. “On the ground … Lying … Face up. Like he’d fallen … Blood … On the steps down … Bright red … On the wood. Terrible smell, death … Stillness … In the air. Still.”
Pause. “I am full of sorrow about what happened to your son, my brother.”
Mannings’s eyes glinted as he brought his head up, his glare refracting through tears. “Told you. Don’t be sorry. Find bastard … who did it.”
Pause. “And the turquoise suit jacket, where was it?”
“Still … wearing it.” His head fell back, his voice directed into his own chest.
Pause. “What happened after you found the body?”
“Felt pain … Fell … myself … Next thing, an ambulance. Remember the lights … H
ospital … Then here.” Mannings hit the bed, glaring at it as if it was somehow responsible for his plight.
Pause. “Thank you, my brother, for talking about this night. It must be hard.”
Mannings grunted at him, and hit the bed again.
“I would like to speak with Sarah-Anne. Do you have her address?”
Mannings’s picked up his phone, a tiny thing in his huge hand, swiped around it before he handed it over to Dakar. “Here.”
Dakar looked at the phone, then passed it to Stewart. He copied down the address before passing it back. ‘Colinton.’ The name rang a bell with him. A suburb of Edinburgh maybe? Something like that.
Dakar looked over at Stewart. Stewart looked back silently, before he suddenly remembered, the first time he’d worked with him down at Hanover House, that Dakar would always wait at the end of interviews to see if Stewart wanted to ask anything.
“Eh, nothing from me,” he said, snatching at the words. He felt his face warm up. Dakar nodded, and turned back to the man in the bed.
“Thank you, my brother.”
“One more thing. For you.” Mannings spoke as they got up to leave.
Pause. “My brother?”
“When you speak … With Sarah-Anne.” Dakar and Stewart both nodded. Mannings took a deep breath. “Don’t believe a word that hippy bitch says about me.”
Chapter 9
Dakar and Stewart stood outside the hospital, waiting on the taxi the receptionist had called. The afternoon was getting older now, more mature, the vibrancy of the sun waning as it fell from its zenith.
They hadn’t said anything to each other since Mannings’ last words. Stewart was pretty sure his shock showed when Mannings spoke – in fact, he was certain it was written clearly all over his face – but Dakar had just nodded once at the man, imperturbably.
“Pretty mental, eh?”
Pause. “Indeed.”
Stewart stood, waiting for more, but nothing more came. “No love lost between those two by the looks of it?”
Pause. “It would appear not.”
Stewart waited again, but it seemed like Dakar had finished. If Dakar was a normal person, Stewart would have guessed this was something he didn’t want to talk about. But Dakar wasn’t a normal person. Stewart couldn’t really remember how to interpret Dakar’s answers from the last time they’d worked together. If he’d managed to work it out at all.
“I suggest we go to Sarah-Anne Mannings’ house, to see the murder scene and speak to her. What do you think?”
Stewart hesitated. Green’s eyes came to his mind, the words ‘trailing around’ bouncing around Stewart’s skull in that sardonic voice.
Stewart shook his head. Bollocks to Green.
Go and see the murder scene. It seemed the logical thing to do. Seeing the murder scene was important. He wasn’t sure why, but that’s what everyone on the TV did. Plus they could talk to the wife, an important witness on the night and someone who could give them background info on the victim.
Stewart examined it every which way he could for a few seconds, then nodded. If he were a proper detective, that’s exactly what he’d do.
“Sounds good to me.”
“Very well. For this investigation, I suggest we drive. I have access to a car we can use.”
Stewart frowned, his imagination conjuring up a big 4x4 squeezing through the narrow streets of Edinburgh. He shook the thought away. Dakar didn’t seem the type to try and get attention through such desperate measures.
Dakar checked his watch, an old, black plastic thing, as the taxi pulled up. “It is now just after two thirty. I can pick you up at three thirty at the firm. Does that work for you, my brother?”
Stewart, still think about the type of car Dakar would drive, nodded his head absent-mindedly. “Aye, right. Yes. Good idea.”
Pause. “I shall ask the taxi driver to send another taxi.”
Dakar went to do his hand on heart thing, but a sudden thought grabbed Stewart’s attention. “Eh, actually, could you pick me up at my flat?”
Pause. “Of course.”
“Great. 180 Summerhall Place. And, eh, you’ll be wearing what you’re wearing now, will you?”
Dakar looked down at what he was wearing, then back up. “Indeed.”
“Eh, right. Well, I was just thinking, I might join you. In what you’re wearing, that is. I mean, not what you’re actually wearing, like, those precise clothes. My own clothes, obviously. I meant the style. Well, maybe not the style, actually. But the, eh, the formality. Aye. Well …”
Stewart trailed off. He had forgotten about Dakar’s lack of desire to interrupt others, which had left him drowning in his own verbal diarrhoea on a few occasions the last time they’d worked together.
Dakar smiled, then put his hand on his heart and did his nod thing before he strolled to the taxi, hands in pockets. Stewart watched the taxi pull away and disappear.
He was about to pull out his phone and start a Sudoku, but stopped himself, remembering his vow that morning. Instead he pulled out his notes and leaned back against the wall, studying what he had written down until the taxi arrived.
He gave the address, received the taxi driver’s grunt in response, and in silence they drove back. As they returned back via Morningside, Stewart remembered the taxi ride he and Dakar had shared from the train station the first time they’d worked together. Dakar and the driver had bonded over the taxi driver’s family, or something like that.
Stewart shuddered at the memory, his feeling of crawling up the walls with embarrassment re-emerging for a moment. This taxi ride was much more his cup of tea, driver and passenger ignoring each other as one undertook a service for the other for straightforward cash in hand. An entirely non-intimate experience.
The taxi arrived, and Stewart paid his money and got out.
He walked up the stone steps of what he would have called, if he were back in Mother Glasgow, a close. He could feel the bounce in his step as he thought about the murder – a murder! Of a partner’s son! And one that had the police stumped to boot. He began whistling.
As he walked up the steps, his mind passed from the murder to Beth. She wouldn’t be home just now, but just wait until he told her about this. She’d be mightily impressed that he was working with Dakar again. His heart thumped as he thought about her, the blood pumping around his body as her image appeared in his mind.
Stewart still remembered when he had first told Beth he was working with someone called Sebastian Dakar, regarding a death down at Hanover House. Stewart had never heard of the guy. But Beth had known so much about him she was basically able to give him Dakar’s shoe size and favourite holiday destinations, simultaneously conveying the impression that she’d love to cover him in crushed avocado and lick him clean.
Stewart reached the door, and felt for his keys.
And as night followed day, Stewart once again remembered confessing his love for Beth to her. Well, asking her out, anyway. It was Dakar’s fault. After everything had been said and done at Hanover House, Dakar had given Stewart the advice to tell Beth that he, Stewart, fancied her. Big time. It had backfired pretty spectacularly, Beth swiftly rejecting him.
He opened the door and went inside, his face wearing the concentrated expression of a person focusing on the past rather than the present.
Except weirdly, afterwards, their normal relationship had almost reversed. Beth, determined and fierce about things she believed in, had become almost shy around him. Stewart, on the other hand, with his cheeks always ready to blaze red, had become more confident around her.
It was funny, the way life worked.
He took off his coat and hung it up.
But that was the past. Now, after letting time carry the worst of the awkwardness away, there was a future. The gig tomorrow night was the first time he’d be going out into her world of trad singer-songwriters. And then, at the gig, he could impress her by telling her he was working with Dakar again.
Yes, i
t was all coming together.
Stewart closed the door, and looked with satisfaction around the empty flat. With the door closed, the world was shut out, like he was in his own private fortress where he could do what he wanted and be what he wanted. He sighed with contentment. Then almost jumped out of his skin as the sound came to his ears.
“Hello?”
Chapter 10
It was a female voice, calling down from upstairs. The tone was that of someone who is pretty sure they’ve just heard their front door open, but that no-one was meant to be doing that right now.
Stewart frowned. “Hello?”
“Stewart?”
“Beth?”
There was a bit of noise from upstairs and then Beth appeared at the top of the stairs. She was covered in sweat, her hair either plastered to her head or sticking out at random angles. She was decked out in running gear, the crazy neon colours alternating with her skin, which was a patchwork of sweaty red and drained white.
Stewart thought she looked magnificent.
“What are you doing back?” She smiled at him, and his heart soared.
Stewart opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“Eh … the firm has given me a new assignment today. A new client. Yeah. New client. So I’ve just come back to get changed. Into something a bit more, eh, informal …”
“That’s cool! But don’t you need to wear a suit for a client?”
He looked at her with his mouth open. “Ha, aye. You’d think so, wouldn’t you? And, well, yeah, normally. But, it’s more of an informal chat. Not necessarily a client yet. Anyway. Yeah, informal. The client’s informal. Well, in what they wear. But you know, that’s life, I guess.” He shrugged desperately.
“Wouldn’t you want to be more formal then, to try and impress them?”
The lightest of light sweat broke out on his forehead as he found himself straining for words, any words, once again.
“Ha, yeah, well, normally. Normally, that’s very true. But this client, or, eh, potential client, they’re one of those techy companies. Everyone wanders around in t-shirts and jeans, that kind of thing.”
The Price to Pay Page 4
