by William Paul
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sunday, 17.30
Sandy Ramensky should have been at work but instead he was sitting on a high stool at a bar where, like chess pieces on a board, the beer taps stood like pawns in front of the ranks of spirit bottles behind. He had drunk too much beer in the four pubs he had visited one after the other in rapid succession that afternoon. It lay heavily in his stomach, congealed into an indigestible lump that was only slowly being eroded away. He had progressed from beer to vodka, and then dark rum although he didn’t like the taste. It was rum that was in the glass he held cradled between his big hands. He would finish the sickly sweet rum but he had had enough of it. He would try whisky next.
Ramensky had left home with the intention of going to work as normal, but had been diverted. The turmoil in his head would give him no peace. A farewell kiss from his dying daughter was like a stiletto blade viciously stabbing him. His crazy theory about life force being passed from the dead to the living had finally been discredited. How did he know? Old Zena McElhose lay dead, and his daughter Lorna’s condition had suddenly got worse. So much for divine intervention and the science of metempsychosis. Lorna was too weak now to get out of her bed, reducing Marianne to tears. And all he could do was clench his jaw and open and close his fists and offer to fight the invisible enemy. And the smart cop called Fyfe could see inside his brain, could see the illicit thoughts corralled there surrounded by a fragile fence that could so easily be broken down. Or maybe it was already broken down. Maybe he had killed old Zena and then somehow blacked it out. The bastard Fyfe seemed to know exactly what he was thinking.
Ramensky hadn’t lost himself in drink for ages but here he was stumbling into the familiar alcohol-induced fog, killing off another few thousand brain cells so that he didn’t have to think about what was happening to him. It was a deceptively simple solution, ruined by the simple fact that he inevitably woke up the next day and had to face it all over again. So he had gone on the wagon, drying out, trying to be strong and terrifying himself with the discovery that he was hopelessly weak.
Now he was losing it once more. The mental fog was narrowing his field of vision. He held on to the glass clutched in his hands, believing it was all that stopped him falling off the stool.
‘What is it then?’
He must have called the barmaid over to him. He lifted his head and was taken on his own personal fairground waltzer ride. She stood in front of him, chewing gum, hands on her hips, twitching in time to the music that was an oceanic roar in his ear. She was wearing a flowery shirt and baggy jeans, looking dowdy like the pub she worked in. She had a weary, seen-it-all expression on her face; too long on her feet, too many drunks, too many propositions, too many other people’s problems which didn’t interest or concern her.
‘A Tina Turner,’ he muttered.
‘What? I can’t hear.’
‘Tina Turner. Whisky.’
She leaned against the counter, frowned and pursed her lips. There was a tattoo of a purple rose on her upper arm.
‘A Tina Turner,’ Ramensky repeated.
‘What’s that?’
‘Whisky.’
‘What?’
‘Black Bush whisky. Tina Turner. On the shelf there.’
He grinned at his own cleverness. The barmaid’s face twisted into an expression of affected disgust. She tried to snarl to show her teeth but it ended as an amused smile. She turned and found the Black Bush bottle to pour the drink. Ramensky sat up and downed the dregs of the rum but the action in tilting his head made him lose his balance. He toppled backwards and landed on the floor. Suddenly there were a dozen faces looking down on him, and hands touching him all over, helping him to his feet. He watched with fascination as a hand slipped inside his jacket, fingers seeking the pocket where his wallet was. He grabbed the wrist and pulled it away as he regained his full height. He was holding a skinny, unshaven guy with a hook-nosed profile and a shabby suit. He couldn’t have looked more like a pickpocket if he had deliberately dressed for the part. Ramensky raised his arm, still holding the thin wrist, and the man’s feet left the floor. He wriggled and hissed like an angry snake.
‘Leave him alone,’ somebody shouted. ‘He didn’t do nothing.’
Ramensky was punched in the stomach by a darting shape that ran right on past. It didn’t hurt much. Somebody else jumped on his back. He swung round. The pickpocket swung with him, his legs knocking over tables and chairs. Ramensky let go of his wrist and he flew against the wall, crashing straight into it like a cartoon character and falling on to his back. Ramensky reached over his shoulder and got a handful of hair. He heaved a red-haired youngster in a faded Hibs strip over in a high arc and slammed him down on the bar. Somebody kicked Ramensky in the leg, somebody else came rushing at him head down. Ramensky lashed out, making satisfying contact with a soft belly and a hard jaw. His attackers collapsed loudly among the scattered furniture, moaning. Everybody else in the pub had drawn back against the wall as if silently waiting for a sign before moving again. Ramensky swayed where he stood, fists curled into tight balls, gradually feeling the anaesthetic of the outburst of raw violence wear off. Van Morrison kept singing ‘Into the Mystic’, a special tune he recognised from a time long before Lorna was conceived. Tears of self-pity began to prick at his eyes.
He saw that the barmaid was on the phone, probably calling the police, and he knew he had to get away. He tried to walk to the bar but tripped up and fell against it. He took hold of the boy lying there by the trouser belt, jerked him into a sitting position and then roughly down on to the floor. The bar top had been cleared of glasses. Ramensky tried to snatch the bottle of Black Bush whisky but couldn’t reach it. The barmaid shrank into a corner when he climbed on to the bar to extend his reach and managed to grab the bottle by the neck. With as much dignity as he could muster, he returned to the public side of the bar and staggered towards the exit. Van Morrison sang:
I want to rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
And together we will float into the mystic
Come on girl
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sunday, 17.45
Time passed quickly. Fyfe found himself sitting in the corner of the sofa with Hilary stretched out along the length of it, her legs partly folded and her head on his upper arm. The hem of the white T-shirt had bunched up round her midriff showing a narrow band of bare flesh where her waist turned into the curve of her hip. Her weight was a pleasant burden he could easily bear, enjoying the feel of her body against his. The deep bass rhythm of the whispering music combined with the heat in the room had a soporific effect. Fyfe could quite happily have gone to sleep there and then with Hilary lying next to him. She had said she wasn’t going to sleep with him but it might come to that yet, whether she approved or not. Hilary had her glass balanced on the palm of one hand while she ran the finger and thumb of the other up and down the stem. They were down to the dregs of a second bottle of wine Hilary had produced. His half-hour was up long ago.
She had asked him for police stories and he had recited the tale of the father of a terminally ill child thinking that he could gain some extra time for it by sacrificing the life of another person. No names or places. It was purely theory as he set it out, but he had still told her more than he ever told his own wife Sally – ex-wife actually, as he was obliged to explain once they were on the subject. But Sally was his partner again after a reconciliation. He regarded himself as married to her.
‘Is that why you’re here with me?’ Hilary had asked with mock sincerity. He had no answer to that particular paradox.
‘And what happened to him?’
‘Who?’
‘The father of the child.’
‘Imprisoned for life.’
‘What a shame.’
‘The law has little or no compassion in such cases.’
Hilary looked up at him momentarily, as if checking he was still there, and then down again.
‘Would you be shocked if I asked you something?’ she said.
‘I doubt it.’
‘It’s not real, you understand. I would never do it. It’s just something I wonder about.’
‘What is it?’
‘You must meet all sorts of people in your job.’
‘A sweetie jar full of them.’
‘Is there such a thing out there as a hit man?’
‘A hit man? You mean a professional assassin?’
‘Yes. I read about them in the papers all the time. Do they exist?’
‘Most certainly.’
‘You’re not just saying that?’
‘No. There are people around who will do anything for money.’
‘Here? In this city?’
‘In any city if you know where to go.’
‘They’re not in Yellow Pages then?’
‘Possibly. Try K for killers, just before Kwikfit tyres and exhausts and after key cutters.’
‘How much would it cost?’ she asked, glancing up again and causing a ripple of pleasure to run over Fyfe by the movement of her head against his arm.
‘Depends,’ he said. ‘Probably the same price as a couple of double-glazed windows. You’re not thinking of having that absent husband of yours bumped off, are you?’
‘And live happily ever after? It sounds like a bargain. He is well insured, after all, and he is a bit of a luxury these days. Maybe I should cash him in.’
No alarm bells rang for Fyfe. He had started the conversation off on this tack. He raised his arm to put round her and her head fell against his chest. She cuddled in close. She wasn’t serious. He might have only known her for a few hours in total but he believed he knew her well and she wasn’t about to ask him to arrange for her husband to be disposed of, professionally or otherwise. She was just day dreaming.
They lay together silently for a few more minutes. The wine was finished. Fyfe could feel the warmth of Hilary’s breathing reaching his skin through the thin shirt. He thought she must have fallen asleep when he was suddenly wide awake. He wanted to go but couldn’t rouse himself to make the move. Hilary had started him thinking about Ramensky and his blunt denial that he was old Zena’s murderer. Suppose he wasn’t directly responsible but had hired somebody else to do it on his behalf. Suppose the bloke in the balaclava had been deliberately framed, carted in already unconscious and laid out in the most compromising of positions. Suppose Ramensky wasn’t as dumb and slow-witted as he made out. It was far from impossible. Fyfe had unravelled murder plots that had more convoluted lineages.
Fyfe’s mind was wandering rapidly now, twisting and turning as it ranged over subjects as various as the meaning of life, a suitable excuse to end his encounter with Hilary, what might have happened if he hadn’t abandoned his second round at Gleneagles, a wonder drug discovered in the nick of time to save Sandy Ramensky’s daughter, the forgotten name of the author of Lorna Doone, the shape of Hilary’s rounded breasts that were within a few inches of his hanging fingers, and tomorrow’s lunch with the returning native Angela and whatever grief she had in store for him.
He remembered how he and Angela had lain in bed together just as he was lying with Hilary, her head on his chest, while he regretted what had happened between them. If it was to be blackmail, he decided, he might do worse than consider hiring his own personal hit man to get rid of Angela. Donaldson MacDuff, well-known low-life sauna parlour owner, was rumoured to be branching out into the business on a strictly inter-criminal basis. He might be the answer to Hilary’s prayers as well. No evidence against him worth a damn, naturally, just a stack of overdose victims who had developed a taste for lethal cocktails of drugs. But a businessman was always looking for new markets and MacDuff did owe Fyfe a favour for the time he quietly overlooked a bag full of cocaine in a Soft and Gentle sauna cubicle. Favours are granted to be called in at a later date. Maybe he could get cheap rates. In fact one of the messages back at headquarters had been from Duffy, the codename he and MacDuff used for clandestine communication between the civilised and the criminal world. Well, it made life more interesting when it was turned into a game. What did Duffy have to tell him?
Hilary stirred, burrowing in even closer, putting her arm across Fyfe and clutching his free forearm. There was a damp patch on his shirt where she had been breathing. He moved his right arm down until he was holding the side of her rib cage, feeling the solidity of the bones under his hand. She made a contented murmuring sound he took for approval. He wondered what time it was but didn’t care. The shrill double burr that came after it was much less welcome.
‘Is that a portable phone in your pocket or are you no longer pleased to see me?’ Hilary said, rising up.
‘I should have turned it off.’
‘Too late now. The spell is broken.’
‘I don’t have to answer it.’
‘Yes, you do.’
She climbed to her feet but he grabbed hold of her hand so that she couldn’t fully straighten up. Her face was level with his, her hair in disarray. She offered no resistance when he kissed her and once again he felt the tip of her tongue slide over his top lip and teeth. The shrill burring continued. It was Hilary who eventually broke the contact of their mouths.
‘I don’t have to answer it,’ he repeated.
Hilary retrieved the phone from his jacket on the floor and handed it to him. ‘Yes, you do,’ she said on her way out of the room.
Fyfe sighed and submitted, reasoning that here was the excuse he needed to be able to leave Hilary with honour. Hopefully, he could come back for more since he had behaved himself. He turned his attention to the phone, guessing that it would be Sapalski, unpleasantly surprised when it was the Chief Constable Sir Duncan Morrison who spoke.
‘Where are you, David? I’ve just found out.’
‘I’m just touring the back of the McElhose property,’ he lied. ‘I was looking for means of easy entry. How was the golf?’
‘Best forgotten. We’re just leaving Gleneagles now. It’s a bit embarrassing, this guy Randolph, isn’t it?’
Fyfe didn’t know what the chief was talking about. Who was Randolph? He was going to have to think on his feet, and think fast if he wasn’t going to fall flat on his face. In the past he had carried his resignation letter around with him all the time. It lacked only a date to make it authentic. The plan was to slap it in when the mood moved him because he was independently wealthy thanks to his clandestine deal with Angela. But, after a while, he had torn it up, worried that resignation might be forced on him if he was knocked unconscious in an accident and the letter was found on him. It was the same kind of reasoning used by his mother when she made him put on clean underwear, warning that without it he would be shown up if he was involved in an accident and was taken to hospital. If it became necessary he could just cut the call off, claim atmospheric interference, and find out what was going on before making contact again.
‘Why should it be embarrassing, sir?’ he asked carefully.
‘I know him. Val Randolph’s been a dinner guest in my house a couple of times, for God’s sake. Not so long ago either. He was a charming bugger, I seem to remember, though it’s his partner Gregor Runciman I know socially.’
Val Randolph must be the man in the balaclava, Fyfe was thinking. He must have regained consciousness or they must have identified him some other way, fingerprints perhaps. Sapalski should have come to Fyfe immediately with the information but the bastard had probably decided to run the show himself and make no effort to bring him in. Fyfe couldn’t blame him. He should have been concentrating on the murder investigation rather than Hilary’s bone structure. Never mind, the situation was not beyond rescue as long as he played it cool. Who the fuck was this bloke Randolph? How come he went to dinner parties with the Chief Constable? Fyfe remembered the manicured fingernails.
‘Can you tell us anything about him, sir?’
‘Not a lot. His wife died just over a year ago. Val didn’t let it get him down. He
took on a whole new lease of life after the event. His firm is relatively new but very well regarded. How he came to be at a murder scene in fancy dress is a complete mystery. I can hardly believe it. I’ve been trying to get Gregor. Don’t know where he is.’
‘We’re trying to raise his other partners now,’ Fyfe said, presuming it was being done.
‘I had a bad feeling about this one from the outset. It’s going to be messy. I’m glad you’re there to watch over it.’
‘We’ll sort it out.’
‘Good. Keep me informed – and congratulations, by the way.’
‘Congratulations? For what?’
‘You won the star prize in the raffle at the outing.’
‘I did? What is it?’
‘Dinner, bed and breakfast for two at Gleneagles any night you like.’
‘So there is some justice, after all.’
Fyfe stood up and rapidly worked out his plan of action for regaining control of the situation. He phoned Sapalski but got a constantly engaged tone. He phoned Matthewson at headquarters and got Randolph’s home address and the background story of how the anonymous woman had phoned in to the radio programme with the name. It had been confirmed by the finding of Randolph’s car in the street next to Zena McElhose at Wardie Avenue. Just because Randolph was a pal of the Chief Constable didn’t mean he wasn’t a murderer. In Fyfe’s cynical eyes it damned him that little bit more. One person’s embarrassment was another’s entertainment.
Hilary appeared beside him. She had washed her face and done something to her hair. She smiled at him so appealingly the urgent need he felt to get away instantly evaporated. Sapalski was capable of doing everything that required to be done. Why couldn’t he simply go back to lying with Hilary and pretend nothing had happened? This was the moment intended for the letter of resignation he had prepared earlier.
‘I’ve got to go,’ he said reluctantly.
‘Are you okay to drive?’
He nodded. She was offering him an excuse to stay. He was probably just over the limit. He should wait until he sweated it out of his system. But she didn’t really mean it. She was helping him on with his coat. She wanted him to go, so that he could come back another time and be her sleeping partner again. He could take her to Gleneagles Hotel for a night. That was a classy option to have up his sleeve.
