Beggars Banquet

by Ian Rankin

  Franz reached into a drawer, held one hand up to let Lars know nothing tricky was coming. He produced a fat bundle of Deutschmarks and tossed it to the gang-leader.

  ‘See?’ he said. ‘Now I’m funding both of you. Does that make me neutral?’

  Lars studied the notes, stuffed them into a zippered pocket.

  ‘Let me set up a meeting,’ Franz went on blandly, ‘get all sides together, anyone who has an interest. That’s the way business works.’

  ‘You’re full of bullshit,’ the biker said, but he was grinning.

  ‘Should your employer ever wish to dispense with your services,’ Franz continued, ‘you may wish to contact me.’ He wrote a number on a sheet of paper, ripped it from the pad. ‘This is my private line. Maybe next time you’re thinking of coming to see me, we could arrange an appointment?’

  A nice big smile. Lars slid his feet from the corner of the desk. His heels had left marks on the woodwork. As he reached for the paper, Franz snatched it back.

  ‘One thing, my friend. Try something like this again without an appointment, and I’ll destroy you. Is that clear between us?’

  Lars laughed and took the number, stuck it in the same pocket as the money.

  Franz’s mobile phone rang. It was in the desk drawer, and he opened the drawer again, shrugging, telling Lars there was no rest for the wicked.

  ‘Hello?’

  A hushed voice, one he knew. ‘We’ve got every one of those dirty fuckers in our sights.’

  ‘Fine,’ Franz said, making to replace the phone in its drawer, bringing out the pistol in its place. Lars was already reaching across the desk. He’d pulled a combat knife from one boot. Franz was leaning back to take aim when the gunfire started outside.

  Caldwell was in the library. He’d locked the door, and when his wife had come knocking, saying the judge and his wife were thinking of leaving, he’d hissed at her to fuck off.

  He sat in a burgundy leather chair, hands on his knees, while his visitor stood four feet away, the gun steady in his left hand.

  ‘My bodyguard?’ Caldwell asked.

  ‘Tied up outside. Let’s hope someone releases him before hypothermia sets in. It’s a bitter night. We wouldn’t want any unnecessary deaths.’

  ‘You’ve come from Franz?’

  The man nodded. His accent was English. He had a heavy body, thick at the neck, and cropped hair. Ex-forces, Caldwell presumed.

  ‘With a message,’ the man said.

  A typical gesture by Franz: he always had to show his puissance. Caldwell thought he knew now what this was about, and felt a mixture of emotions: the thrill of fear, fury at Franz’s little game; embarrassment that his guests would be wondering what the hell was going on.

  ‘Everything’s set,’ Caldwell told the man.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Does Franz have any reason to doubt me?’

  ‘That’s what I’m here to find out. It’s nearly midnight. Everything was supposed to be finalised by midnight.’

  ‘Everything is.’ Caldwell made to rise from his chair, but the gun waved him back down again.

  ‘Links in a chain, Mr Caldwell. That’s all we are. The weakest links have to be taken out, the strong ones reconnected.’

  ‘You think I’d put myself on the line for a little turd like that?’

  ‘I think you like to operate at a distance.’

  ‘And Franz doesn’t?’

  ‘He always uses the best people. I’m not sure Hunter falls into that category.’

  ‘Hunter’ll do as he’s told.’

  ‘Will he? I’ve heard he might have a personal stake in all of this.’

  Caldwell frowned. ‘How do you mean?’ His wife knocked at the door again, her voice artificially bright.

  ‘Darling, Sir Arthur and Lady Lorimer are leaving. I’ve asked Foster to bring the Bentley round.’

  Her voice grated. It always had. The way she spoke now, like she’d been to elocution classes, like she’d been saying ‘Darling’ and ‘Sir This’ and ‘Lady That’ all her life. And all she was was a piece of crumpet he’d picked up early on in his travels through life. Too early on. He could have done better for himself. Still could, given the chance. Send her off with a settlement, or bring some mistress into the equation. It seemed to Caldwell that he hadn’t really started living yet.

  ‘Apologise, will you?’ he called. ‘I’m on the phone. Important business.’ He lowered his voice again, mind half on his life to come, half on the gun in front of him. ‘How do you mean?’ he repeated.

  ‘You see,’ the man said, ‘that’s the difference between my employer and you. He takes the trouble to know things, to know people. He’s a thousand miles away, and he knows more about your operation here than you do.’

  ‘What does he know?’ There was a slight tremble in Caldwell’s hands. Why would Franz be so interested in Caldwell’s territory? Unless he was planning some incursion, or to move in some new operator. Unless he thought Caldwell wasn’t his best bet any more . . .

  ‘Hunter,’ the gunman was saying. ‘He’s tough, but just how tough? I mean, that’s what we’ll find out tonight, isn’t it? If things go the way they’re supposed to.’

  ‘Nelly’s just a runt. Hunter won’t have any trouble with him.’

  ‘No?’ The man got right into Caldwell’s face. ‘What if I tell you something about Nelly?’

  ‘Such as?’ Caldwell’s voice nearly failed him.

  ‘His surname’s Hunter, you fucking idiot. He’s Johnny Hunter’s kid brother.’

  Hunter was in the club, chain-smoking, eyes everywhere. He didn’t feel like dancing. The bass was like God’s heartbeat, the lights His eyes shining down across the little world. Hunter’s right knee was pounding, speed working its way to his fingertips and toes. He sat alone at the table, Panda not six feet away, just standing there so nobody’d bother his boss unless the boss wanted to be bothered. He hadn’t much left to sell. Not much at all.

  His friends were whooping on the dance-floor, waving to him occasionally. They probably thought he was cool, sitting the dances out, smoking his smokes. He rattled a cube of ice into his mouth and crunched down on it. Another drink replaced the empty glass. Fast service in the club, because he owned thirty per cent. Thirty per cent of all of it. But he knew that fifty-one was the only percentage that mattered.

  Fifty-one meant control.

  He was waiting for Nelly, hoping not to see him, knowing he’d come here eventually. Hunter could have gone elsewhere, but what did it matter? Nelly would always find him. It was like the guy had a homing instinct.

  Nelly: young and whacked out and terminally stupid.

  Hunter had always tried to keep things between them strictly business. He could have refused to deal with Nelly, but then Nelly would have gone elsewhere, maybe gotten into worse trouble. But Hunter had never done him any favours. No dope better than anyone else was getting; no discounts for family.

  Strictly business.

  Only tonight, Nelly was going to get better dope. He was going to get the best stuff going. Caldwell’s orders.

  ‘Hey, Hunter!’ A girl he knew: short skirt, any tighter and you’d have to call it skin. Waving him on to the floor. He waved back in the negative. She blew him a kiss anyway. Margo and Juliet were off somewhere: maybe at the ladies’, or whisked away by other raptors. They were meat, the window-dressing in a butcher’s shop. Hunter didn’t give a fuck about them.

  He didn’t give a fuck about anyone but himself. Number One. Looking out for.

  Ah, shit, Nelly . . .

  Hunter punched the table with his fist. It was all about the future, about Nelly’s versus his. No contest, was it? Nelly all fucked over anyway, while Hunter was just starting out. There was never going to be any contest. But all the same, he hoped the crowds outside, the swoop and swirl of this millennial midnight, would keep Nelly away. Maybe the tide would wash him down on to Princes Street, and he’d score there. Or maybe the cops would grab him, sp
ot him at last for the one they wanted. Which was just what Caldwell didn’t want. No telling who Nelly would grass up. No telling where the trail would lead. So instead there was to be a deal. There was to be the purest heroin going, stuff that would stop your heart dead.

  Caldwell’s orders. And Caldwell was acting on orders, too. And the person above Caldwell - Hunter had the idea it was some German or Dutch guy - that was who Hunter had to impress. Because he had to make a name for himself pronto, had to get ahead of the game, had to stake his place as Caldwell’s replacement.

  Had to make contact.

  Had to make good.

  ‘Yo!’

  His chest tightened. Lanky and dripping sweat, unlikely ever to be let in by the bouncers if they didn’t know he was Hunter’s brother, here came Nelly, nodding towards Panda, sliding into the booth and tipping the remains of someone’s lager down his neck.

  ‘Thought I was never going to find you, man.’

  Hunter gazed at his brother, couldn’t find any words.

  ‘Happy New Year, ’n’ ’at,’ Nelly said.

  ‘It’s not midnight yet. Another couple of minutes.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Nelly nodding, not really giving a toss about any of this conversation, or any emotions his brother might be feeling. Only needing a taste.

  ‘Dosh,’ Nelly said, sliding the money across.

  ‘You know the score, Nelly. Panda takes care of that.’

  Panda: standing there with one packet in his pocket exclusively for Nelly. Hunter’s orders. And when Nelly OD’d, Panda would know Hunter had balls.

  Everyone would know. Nobody’d ever try to screw him. The word would be made flesh. Suicide a small price to pay for that big bright future.

  Nelly was already thinking of getting to his feet. He had no business now with Hunter. His business, his most urgent and necessary business, was with Panda. But he had to make a bit more conversation, pretend he’d a bit more respect for Hunter than was the case.

  ‘Eh, man, just to say . . .’ Nelly twitched. ‘Like, sorry about the kid.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Christ, man, how was I to know he’d take the whole shot? I didn’t know he was a virgin.’

  ‘But you sold him your methadone, right?’

  ‘Needed the dosh, man.’

  ‘And he was fourteen?’

  Nelly twitched again. ‘It’s going to be cool though? I mean, the police and the newspapers are going apeshit looking for—’

  ‘I’ve got friends, Nelly. They’ll take care of it.’

  Nelly’s face brightened. ‘You’re the best, Johnny.’ On his feet now. ‘Don’t let any of the bastards tell you different.’

  Hunter got up. They hugged, wished one another Happy New Year as the siren in the club sounded, releasing balloons. The DJ put on ‘Auld Lang Syne’, and it was like they were kids again, getting to stay up late this one night of the year, ginger cordial and madeira cake. Sneaking into the kitchen for swigs of whisky and brandy, giggling at each new pleasure revealed to them.

  And when Hunter let his brother go, and watched him put an arm around Panda, and saw them vanish into the haze in front of his eyes, he felt a stab of terror for what he would have to become in this new millennium, and for all the things he would do, and the pleasures he would of necessity forgo.

  In the Frame

  AN INSPECTOR REBUS STORY

  Inspector John Rebus placed the letters on his desk.There were three of them. Small, plain white envelopes, locally franked, the same name and address printed on each in a careful hand. The name was K. Leighton. Rebus looked up from the envelopes to the man sitting on the other side of the desk. He was in his forties, frail-looking and restless. He had started talking the moment he’d entered Rebus’s office, and didn’t seem inclined to stop.

  ‘The first one arrived on Tuesday, last Tuesday. A crank, I thought, some sort of malicious joke. Not that I could think of anyone who might do that sort of thing.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘My neighbours over the back from me . . . well, we don’t always see eye to eye, but they wouldn’t resort to this.’ His eyes glanced up towards Rebus for a second. ‘Would they?’

  ‘You tell me, Mr Leighton.’

  As soon as he’d said this, Rebus regretted the choice of words. Undoubtedly, Kenneth Leighton would tell him. Rebus opened the first envelope’s flap, extracted the sheet of writing-paper and unfolded it. He did the same with the second and third letters and laid all three before him.

  ‘If it had been only the one,’ Kenneth Leighton was saying, ‘I wouldn’t have minded, but it doesn’t look as though they’re going to stop. Tuesday, then Thursday, then Saturday. I spent all weekend worrying about what to do . . .’

  ‘You did the right thing, Mr Leighton.’

  Leighton wriggled pleasurably. ‘Well, they always say you should go to the police. Not that I think there’s anything serious. I mean, I’ve not got anything to hide. My life’s an open book . . .’

  An open book and an unexciting one, Rebus would imagine. He tried to shut out Leighton’s voice and concentrated instead on the first letter.

  Mr Leighton,We’ve got photos you wouldn’t want your wife to see, believe us. Think about it. We’ll be in touch.

  Then the second:

  Mr Leighton, £2,000 for the photos. That seems fair, doesn’t it? You really wouldn’t want your wife to see them. Get the money. We’ll be in touch.

  And the third:

  Mr Leighton,We’ll be sending one reprint to show we mean business. You’d better get to it before your wife does. There are plenty more copies.

  Rebus looked up, and caught Leighton staring at him. Leighton immediately looked away. Rebus had the feeling that if he stood behind the man and said ‘boo’ quite softly in his ear, Leighton would melt all down the chair. He looked like the sort of person who might make an enemy of his neighbours, complaining too strenuously about a noisy party or a family row. He looked like a crank.‘You haven’t received the photo yet?’

  Leighton shook his head. ‘I’d have brought it along, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘And you’ve no idea what sort of photo it might be?’

  ‘None at all. The last time somebody took my picture was at my niece’s wedding.’

  ‘And when was that?’

  ‘Three years ago. You see what I’m saying, Inspector? This doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘It must make sense to at least one person, Mr Leighton.’ Rebus nodded towards the letters.

  They had been written in blue ball-point, the same pen which had been used to address the envelopes. A cheap blue ball-point, leaving smears and blots of ink. It was anything but professional-looking. The whole thing looked like a joke. Since when did blackmailers use their own handwriting? Anyone with a rudimentary education in films, TV cop shows and thriller novels knew that you used a typewriter or letters cut out of newspapers, or whatever; anything that would produce a dramatic effect. These letters were too personal to look dramatic. Polite, too: that use of ‘Mr Leighton’ at the start of each one. A particular word caught Rebus’s attention and held it. But then Leighton said something interesting.

  ‘I don’t even have a wife, not now.’

  ‘You’re not married?’

  ‘I was. Divorced six years ago. Six years and one month.’

  ‘And where’s your wife now, Mr Leighton?’

  ‘Remarried, lives in Glenrothes. I got an invite to the wedding, but I didn’t go. Can’t remember what I sent them for a present . . .’ Leighton was lost in thought for a moment, then collected himself. ‘So you see, if these letters are written by someone I know, how come they don’t know I’m divorced?’

  It was a good question. Rebus considered it for a full five seconds. Then he came to his conclusion.

  ‘Let’s leave it for now, Mr Leighton,’ he said. ‘There’s not much we can do till this photo arrives . . . if it arrives.’

  Leighton looked numb, watching Rebus fold the letters and replace them in t
heir envelopes. Rebus wasn’t sure what the man had expected. Fingerprints lifted from the envelopes by forensic experts? A tell-tale fibre leading to an arrest? Handwriting identified . . . saliva from the stamps and the envelope-flaps checked . . . psychologists analysing the wording of the messages themselves, coming up with a profile of the blackmailer? It was all good stuff, but not on a wet Monday morning in Edinburgh. Not with CID’s case-load and budget restrictions.

  ‘Is that it?’

  Rebus shrugged. That was it. We’re only human, Mr Leighton. For a moment, Rebus thought he’d actually voiced his thoughts. He had not. Leighton still sat there, pale and disappointed, his mouth set like the bottom line of a balance sheet.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Rebus, rising.

  ‘I’ve just remembered,’ said Leighton.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Six wine glasses, that’s what I gave them. Caithness glass they were too.’

  ‘Very nice I’m sure,’ said Rebus, stifling a post-weekend yawn as he opened the office door.

  But Rebus was certainly intrigued.No wife these past six years, and the last photograph of Leighton dated back three years to a family wedding. Where was the material for blackmail? Where the motive? Means, motive and opportunity. Means: a photograph, apparently. Motive: unknown. Opportunity . . . Leighton was a nobody, a middle-aged civil servant. He earned enough, but not enough to make him blackmail material. He had confided to Rebus that he barely had £2,000 in his building society account.

  ‘Hardly enough to cover their demand,’ he had said, as though he were considering actually paying off the blackmailers, even though he had nothing to hide, nothing to fear. Just to get them off his back? Or because he did have something to hide? Most people did, if it came to it. The guilty secret or two (or more, many more) stored away just below the level of consciousness, the way suitcases were stored under beds. Rebus wondered if he himself were blackmail material. He smiled: was the Pope a Catholic? Was the Chief Constable a Mason? Leighton’s words came back to him: Hardly enough to cover their demand. What sort of civil servant was Leighton anyway? Rebus sought out the day-time telephone number Leighton had left along with his home address and phone number. Seven digits, followed by a three-figure extension number. He punched the seven digits on his receiver, waited, and heard a switchboard operator say, ‘Good afternoon, Inland Revenue.’ Rebus replaced the receiver with a guilty silence.