DI Thomas put his elbow on the table and rubbed his forehead with one hand. “There’s nothing to tell, Frank.”
Frank laughed shortly, a laugh without any humour. “Think I came down with the last rain? Post-mortem photos being pulled out by you, other photos being pulled out by Dakar here, your wee messenger boy running out urgently …” DC Lemkin looked like he fancied taking a swing at Frank, but the journalist ignored his murderous expression. “You’ve got something, Malky.”
DI Thomas kept rubbing his head. “Fine. Okay. We’ve got someone in mind. Enough to charge them. We haven’t got them yet, but once we do, I’ll let you know. Enough?”
Frank looked at him for a second longer. He sniffed once. “Why don’t you give me the name as well?”
DI Thomas’s look darkened. “No names, Frank. Not yet. Didn’t work out all that well last time, remember?”
Frank’s eyes gleamed bright for a second, but the daft grin soon reasserted itself. “Guy or girl? And someone who was there that night?”
But DI Thomas just shook his head. “That’s all for now. Like I said, once we’ve got them, you’ll be the first to know. I’ll even hold off from letting the rest of the pack in on the secret for half an hour.”
“Half an hour? What the hell am I meant to do with half an hour? I need at least six hours.”
DI Thomas’s eyebrows shot up as an amused smiled appeared on his face.
“You have been out of the game for a while, Frank. You’re talking about old deadlines – paper deadlines. In this digital world, anything new gets snapped up and ripped apart within ten minutes. Believe me, after your story appears on a website, it’ll be two minutes before the first phone calls come in. Thirty seconds, even.”
Frank looked at him searchingly. Eventually he shrugged. “Okay. One more thing you’ve got to tell me though.” His smile grew manic.
“What’s that?”
“What are these two doing here?” He indicated Dakar and Stewart. “Cops can’t do without the help of Sebastian Dakar? Calling him in on all your murder investigations, are you?”
DI Thomas shook his head irritably. “No.”
“Is he a suspect then? That would make a great headline, Malky. ‘Murder! Former DI turned PI a suspect in a brutal stabbing.’ Please. C’mon.”
DI Thomas shook his head irritably again, swinging it with some force this time. “No, he’s not a suspect. Neither is this one.” He indicated Stewart.
“Helping you with your inquiries?”
“Tempted as I am to drag his name down,” DI Thomas said, “no.”
“Then what?”
“Then nothing.”
Frank’s lips made a pout. “You’re not giving me a lot to go on here, Malky. You know what that means. Speculation.”
“I’ve given you plenty, Frank. You can’t just show up here and get all the good stuff straight away. That’s not the way it works.”
Frank shut the notebook, replacing it in his hat. “No, I can’t, can I? Well, I’ll see what I can do. You know what editors are like these days though. Drama, action, speculation. Most of the news is made up of speculation nowadays. Facts don’t just garner the same attention they used to.”
“Just keep it straight, Frank and I’ll give you a bell once we’ve brought the person in. All right?”
Frank looked at him for a second, then pulled out a card. “All right then. Mess with me on this, and I’ll mess with you right back, good and proper. All of you.” His manic grin was on full beam.
DI Thomas nodded as he sighed, and took the card out of his hand. He rubbed his forehead one more time before he turned to his colleague. “Why don’t you see Mr McPherson here out, Tommy? Make sure he leaves, eh?”
DC Lemkin nodded and got up, towering over the journalist.
“My, my, now you’re a very big glass of water, aren’t you?” Frank had to crane his neck to catch DC Lemkin’s eye.
“I wouldn’t try him.” DI Thomas’ voice came flatly from behind the colossus. DC Lemkin’s murderous face turned a darker shade of purple at his inability to intimidate Frank.
Frank stuck his head around DC Lemkin’s torso and winked at DI Thomas. “Thanks for the hospitality boys. I’m looking forward to hearing from you soon!” Frank gave a big wave as he turned and left, DC Lemkin stalking behind him.
In the awful silence Frank left behind him, DI Thomas slowly turned back to Dakar. “What the hell was that, Seb?” He spoke in a measured tone, but it was the calm before the storm, when the world seems to stop, holding its breath.
The silence lengthened. Dakar’s eyes had followed Frank all the way out of the bar, and now they looked at the door, like they were frozen.
“I said—”
“I didn’t bring him here.”
“Is this why you’ve been running around interviewing everyone? More publicity for the almighty Zen master? For God’s sake!” He kept his voice down, but the anger made it tremble. Stewart carefully put down his half shandy glass, the amber liquid sloshing against the sides of the glass as if it too wanted to escape.
Silence. Dakar turned slowly to DI Thomas, an ugly look on his face. “I didn’t bring him here.”
“You might owe him, but I bloody don’t. If any of what I told you – any of it – gets into his story, it’s all over for you. Understand me?”
“I didn’t bring him here!” Dakar slammed both hands down on the table. Stewart leaned away as others in the bar looked over at the noise, but DI Thomas didn’t flinch.
“You’d better not have. I had a big enough mess to clean up after you disappeared, Dakar. I’m not cleaning up anymore.”
Dakar sat silently, glaring back at him. DC Lemkin had returned, and stood next to the table, a silent golem waiting for its orders.
“Get the hell out of here. We’re done. We’ll get chain of custody statements from you later. Lemkin, escort these two out as well. Get them the hell away from me.”
Lemkin nodded, as if he’d been waiting for this. “Let’s go.”
Stewart immediately grabbed his coat and satchel and began to slide out, praying that Dakar would do the same. He stood up, and squeezed past DC Lemkin. The cop barely looked at him, his stare focusing mainly on Dakar. The man was still in a glaring competition with DI Thomas, both of them breathing heavily.
Slowly, almost painfully, Dakar stood up. He looked at Lemkin for a second, then back at DI Thomas. “I didn’t bring him here.” He repeated the words in a low tone, shaking his head ever so slightly as he spoke. Then he turned to follow Stewart out.
DI Thomas leaned forward suddenly, hissing words as if he were firing bullets. “No more investigating from you, Dakar, or your little pup there. I hear anything more, and I’ll bring you both in, the full rigmarole. Remember, they don’t like ex-cops in Bar-L.”
But he was speaking to the man’s back. Dakar just kept on walking.
Chapter 39
“I didn’t bring Frank there.”
Dakar spoke in a hard tone, his eyes fixed on Stewart as the drops of rain began to fall around them.
They stood outside the police station, the walk back cold and silent. Now they were standing next to his car, the cold, dark night close around them, the wind stronger than it was before. Dakar’s clothes looked odd on this new personality, ill-fitting where before they had seemed natural.
Stewart swallowed, and nodded once. He looked at the ground, unable to meet Dakar’s eyes.
Dakar took a deep breath, and gestured for Stewart to get in the car. He didn’t start the car once they were inside though, instead sitting, grasping the steering wheel tightly and staring out into the darkness as if some answer was out there, somewhere in the shadows.
The silence continued for a few minutes. Stewart looked around at Dakar, but the guy hadn’t changed his position, not one iota. Stewart felt like some crappy forgotten ornament.
Stewart looked back out of the window, arms hanging uselessly down by his side. Suddenly his phone
began to make a noise. Frowning, he pulled it out. An alarm. Set for ten to six. For the office party.
Christ. Stewart looked round at Dakar again, urgently this time. The man hadn’t reacted to Stewart’s phone sound. Actually, Dakar didn’t look too good. But then, what was Stewart meant to do? It didn’t really look like Dakar was ready to share his troubles. Was he meant to just hang around him all night, on the off-chance he might say something? And, of course, at the end of the day, he worked with Dakar once in a blue moon. He worked in the firm every day.
“Eh, Dakar?”
Dakar looked around. Stewart leaned away from him ever so slightly, gulping.
“You all right?”
Dakar continued looking at him for a second, then turned back to stare into the shadows again.
“Eh, thing is, I’ve got that office party tonight. I thought that as we seem to be finished for the day … Well, it’s actually starting about now. I’m sorry to bail and all that … I know it’s maybe not the best time. Thing is, eh, is there any chance …” He trailed off as Dakar looked back around at him, his expression set, eyes shielded behind whatever mental defences he had erected.
“I’ll drop you at your flat.” The words came out in a tone as dark as the night around them.
“Okay. Eh, thanks. And is there anything I can, you know, well, do?”
Dakar pushed the ignition button instead of answering, and the car pulled away with its normal lack of noise. Stewart glanced over at Dakar once or twice, but the guy was staring at the road, expression unchanging. He wanted to say something, but finally gave up, turning instead to look out of the windscreen at the miserable weather outside.
Spots of rain were coming down more and more heavily. Dakar didn’t bother with the windscreen wipers, and the world outside became more and more fractured as they drove along.
Stewart shifted in his seat. His mind raced to find a way to square the circle, both not ditching Dakar while also making the office party in time to show face. But he couldn’t do both. And it seemed like he couldn’t really help Dakar. And if he didn’t make the office party … well, it would be a serious black mark on his record, majorly denting his hopes of getting a job at the end of the year. Especially as Sudgeon had pointedly reminded him recently about it.
He checked his watch again, surreptitiously, as the car pulled up outside the flat. Six. He’d have to do the report as well, of course. That would take a bit of time too. Or maybe it was over now, now the police had decided it was Donaldson?
The car had stopped, but Dakar was still looking forward, out into the night.
“Eh, I guess that’s it for the Mannings case, if the police have worked that it was Donaldson? I guess it sort of makes sense, what with the affair and all.”
Dakar closed his eyes.
“Shame we didn’t find him first, I suppose. If only that GPS Martina used on him was still active!”
The steering wheel creaked as Dakar’s knuckles whitened around it. Stewart looked at the thin, long fingers.
“Right, yeah. I mean, it’s a tough case. Was a tough case.” Stewart paused for a moment, wetting his lips. “Just, about the case, I’ll be needing to write that report for today, and I was wondering—”
“Jesus Christ! You and your bloody reports! A man died here! Stabbed! Don’t you care about who actually murdered him? Or you only worried about what the partners will think if you haven’t crossed every bloody ‘t’?”
Stewart sat stunned as Dakar shouted the words from half a metre away.
“Eh—”
Dakar rounded on him. “You and bloody Malky. How stupid are you? Makes sense? Makes bloody sense? Tell me then, why did he fight Daniel in his bedroom, with a window into the garden where everyone could see? And then why dump the body in the cellar? And how did he magic it down there? And why, why the hell, in the name of all that’s holy, after managing to pull off this crime, did he sit around in his car and wait to be collared? Makes sense? Jesus!” Dakar whipped back around to face forward.
Silence expanded out into the car, the only sound the raindrops outside thumping down. Stewart looked down into the floor, a hollow feeling in his stomach that felt like it was sucking in all his organs.
“No, yeah. Guess you’re right. Sorry.” Stewart eventually broke the silence, his voice barely strong enough to be heard over the rain.
“Aaaah!” Dakar exclaimed with frustration, hit the steering wheel with the butt of both of his hands, once, hard. He blew out a big bit of air. Then he put one hand to his temple, rubbing it as if he was trying to go through the skin to the skull. “Something here isn’t right!” He practically shouted the last word. “It’s there. It’s all there!”
Dakar slowly lowered his head until it was almost touching the steering wheel, his face a mask of agony.
Stewart looked at the bowed head for a moment, his lips two bitter lines across his face. Then he got out into the rain that bit into his face, and the wind that pierced to his bones, and closed the door behind him.
Chapter 40
Stewart stood looking at himself in the mirror in his bedroom. He’d typed up his report mechanically, a technical recounting of everything they’d done that day, cutting bits here and there without any conscious thought. In the end he hadn’t included the part about the police issuing an arrest warrant for Donaldson. He didn’t know why not.
The concern of who to send it to didn’t even register with him. The report went to Sudgeon and Green, and then an identical copy went in a separate email to Tom Mannings.
The only thing in his head since the moment he’d left the car had been Dakar’s words, bouncing around, echoing and pulsating every time they crashed off one side of his brain heading for the other. How stupid was he? Very, in the end. To think he could just rock in and solve it, something that the police couldn’t work out. Yes. Really bloody stupid.
He had a blue suit on. Smart-casual, those had been the instruction for the office party. Normally this would be a tough choice, his mind calculating what others might think about what he was wearing. But now he couldn’t bring himself to care about any of that. All of his thoughts felt dull, and dense, and uninteresting, floating in his head like big, heavy old rusted super tankers in a gloomy grey sea where nothing lived.
He caught a taxi to the office, waiting under the eaves of his building until the taxi arrived, out of the worst of the storm that was breaking. Breaking it was, though, the rain coming down like machine gun fire. He’d have to get a taxi to the Oak as well, if he didn’t want to turn up looking like a drowned rat.
Dakar’s car was gone when he came out of the house, and he stood staring at where it had been until the taxi arrived. The journey was a silent one, Stewart staring out the window at nothing. The Meadows flashed past, as did Lothian Road and Princes Street, but Stewart could have been looking out into utter darkness for all he saw.
He checked his watch as he walked into his firm’s building. Seven. A few of the high heid yins would be left, so at least he could show face. Then they could pretend that he’d made the effort to ‘network’ and everyone could pretend to believe he cared about his career. And then he could go home, ditch the suit and head out with Beth to the Oak for this gig.
At least that was something to look forward to, a small ray of light in a dark, cold day. He really didn’t fancy talking about working with Dakar at that exact moment, but hell, good music, a beer or two and some facetime with Beth would cheer him up. And he could always lie about how it was going with Dakar.
He walked into the boardroom where the party was taking place. It was up on the partners’ floor, a place Stewart normally went once in a blue moon, although now he was here for the second time in two days. He felt no excitement, or fear, or boredom, or anything. He felt nothing, in fact, just going through the motions until he could go somewhere else.
It was a massively long room, where on normal days a large, faux-oak polished table sat in the centre with chairs on those littl
e roller wheels around the edge. A place where serious people – mainly old, white-haired men – could discuss serious business. Today was no normal day though. Today was a day the partners were letting their hair down, such as they had left. The padded seats had been removed, presumably by the secretaries. The table, pushed to one wall, was now serving as the bar and buffet, holding the very best food and drink from the local posh supermarket.
There was a large gaggle of people there when Stewart arrived, a hum of noise in the air accompanied by a scent of perfume, aftershave and ambition. Partners, associates, secretaries, trainees, paralegals … Stewart tallied the groups as he looked around. That was basically the ranking order too. Stewart had heard things about what happened to the paralegals. Screaming, shouting, a bin being emptied over someone’s desk. Bad times.
He could see Green and Sudgeon off to one side with a small gaggle around them, so at least they would be easily avoided. Stewart studied the rest of the crowd. On the plus side, few, if any, would want to talk to him. On the down side, a number of them would probably awkwardly try to do so, taking pity on a trainee who they presumed must be desperate to get a job.
He shook his head. He’d get some food, and then head off. At least he could say he’d been there, and it wouldn’t be a lie. That would do.
Stewart made it halfway to the table when he heard his name.
“Scott.”
Charles Robbin stood behind him, staring at him with his gimlet eyes. He was wearing a very smart three-piece suit, a handkerchief poking out of a breast pocket. The get-up made him look like he had walked out of the 19th century, or was a member of the modern-day Tory party. He had a glass of white wine, but it looked untouched. He was leaning away from Stewart as he spoke, as if to be seen with him was the social equivalent of contracting the Black Death.
The Price to Pay Page 21
