I'll Keep You Safe

by Peter May

  We hurried from the air-conditioned bubble of our stretch limo, through the hot, wet, slap-in-the-face air on the sidewalk, and into the almost chilly atmosphere of the hotel itself. Up steps and into a vast marbled area of lobby and lounge. Our room was huge, but to my mind gently disappointing. It had all the trappings of grandeur. Heavily embroidered curtains, a gold-braided bedspread, antique furniture. And yet there was something tired about it all, careworn. Rotting wooden window frames, tashed wallpaper and worn carpets. But nothing could take the gloss off our excitement.

  We were in our room only for as long as it took to deposit our luggage and slip the bellboy an extravagant tip, and then it was off again in the limo to Central Park, where Mr. Steiner had arranged a horse-and-carriage tour.

  “You wanna get to know me?” he said. “First you gotta get to know my city.”

  For the second time in my life I felt like royalty. This time in the kind of open horse-drawn carriage I had seen convey the Queen and visiting heads of government along the Mall on State occasions. Steel-rimmed wagon wheels clattered over the metalled surface of roads that wound through this extraordinary rectangle of greenery in the heart of urban Manhattan. There was something timeless in the clip-clop of our horse’s hooves, and startling in the red-trimmed livery set against the shining chestnut of its flanks.

  Mr. Steiner told our driver that his spiel was not needed, and he gave us his own running commentary as we rounded the Pond and passed the Wollman Rink, which in winter, he said, would be alive with skaters in scarves and hats, wrapped against a cold which was unimaginable in this heat. Past the carousel and the children’s zoo. Skirting the literary walk, the sun slanting off all the angles of Shakespeare’s bronze. The Angel of the Waters Fountain, Cherry Hill and then, most poignantly, Strawberry Fields. This quiet area of the park dedicated to the memory of John Lennon, fresh flowers laid with love on the black and white circle of stone marquetry with the legend, Imagine, at its heart.

  Only two-and-a-half miles long and half a mile wide, wherever you were in the park you could almost always see the skyscrapers pressing in all around its perimeter. And now, here we were, right opposite the distinctive Dakota Building where Lennon had been shot by a deranged fan. I was, I think, only four years old when it happened, but my dad had been a big Beatles fan, and we had watched all the VHS videos of The Beatles’ movies. A Hard Day’s Night, Help!, Yellow Submarine. I knew every song, and had treasured the twinkling-eyed John Lennon like some kind of big brother. I cried when I heard he was dead.

  Mr. Steiner took us then to Gold’s on Fifth Avenue, in Midtown. I’d had no real sense of what exactly to expect of Gold’s, and found all my preconceptions swept away by the discovery that it was actually a luxury department store. Its various departments occupied seven floors, with galleries that ran around a central well at the heart of the building.

  The tailoring department was on the fifth floor, and staff had been expecting us. They lined up inside the door to shake our hands, each one meeting our eyes with such warmth that I have rarely been made to feel so welcome. Mr. Steiner took us on a whistle-stop tour of the facilities. “We’ll come back tomorrow for the real work,” he said. “But right now we gotta hurry. I’ve got us tickets to a dance musical at the Marquis Theatre on Broadway.”

  Neither Ruairidh nor I were affected by the heat or the jet lag. Such was the adrenalin rush of our first day in New York, that we could have stayed up all night. And now we were going to a show on Broadway! I felt like I had just stepped into my own private movie.

  The show was called Come Fly Away, an exuberant production starring people I had never heard of. Keith Roberts, John Selya, Ashley Tuttle. The story followed four couples as they searched for love. Amazingly, it was built around a selection of Frank Sinatra songs featuring his actual voice backed live by an orchestra of eighteen instrumentalists. Mr. Steiner had reserved us the best seats in the house. Neither of us was a big Sinatra fan, nor particularly interested in dance, and we would never have bought tickets for a show like this, but I was totally spellbound by the spectacle. And when I glanced at Ruairidh I saw that he was, too.

  Afterwards, Mr. Steiner took us backstage to introduce us to the perspiring performers, radiant and animated, breathless among the flowers that bedecked their dressing rooms after another successful show. They all seemed to know him, and greeted us as if we, too, were stars.

  As first days in New York go, this one must have been up there among the best. And it wasn’t finished yet.

  After the show it was on to dinner. Torrisi’s was a little Italian restaurant in Mulberry Street at the top of Little Italy. As we got out of the limo Mr. Steiner said, “This city is full of great and expensive restaurants. But Torrisi’s? For good Italian-American food you can’t beat it. Hard to believe, but it’s a sandwich shop during the day. They do great chicken parm, or turkey hero, and they got some cool beers. Then at night, it transforms itself into this classy little restaurant. Twenty seats. Fixed price. Impossible to reserve a table. You just gotta turn up and hope.” He grinned. “Except that I reserved us a table.”

  Inside, booths and tables were set around a red-painted brick wall, with more plain wooden tables and tubular chairs pushed into the centre of the floor. A black-and-white portrait of a young Billy Joel clutching a pair of boxing gloves jostled for wall space with shelves laden with cans of peeled tomatoes and bottles of Manhattan Special espresso soda.

  We had just squeezed into our seats beneath Billy Joel, when a voice called a loud greeting from across the room. “Hey Jake!” Mr. Steiner turned and looked towards a booth at the far side. Four men wearing expensive haircuts above tanned faces and designer suits that folded neatly over Gucci shoes sat around a table eating pasta and drinking champagne. Amazingly, even though it was dark by now, two of them wore sunglasses and looked like extras from The Godfather.

  Mr. Steiner excused himself and stood up to hurry over and shake their hands. He almost bowed as the one to whom all the others deferred stood up to shake his hand and slap his shoulder. He was an older man, dyed hair receding, belly expanding into his waistcoat. But no shades. After a few words, Mr. Steiner turned and waved us over. It was only as we got nearer that I saw that all their suits were cut from one of the darker and more conservative weaves of Ranish Tweed. Mr. Steiner said, “Mr. Capaldi, meet Niamh and Ruairidh. These are the good folks that made the cloth you’re wearing. In fact, as I understand it, Ruairidh himself might well have woven the very stuff you got on your back.”

  Capaldi shook our hands vigorously. “Well that just doubles the pleasure in meeting you,” he said. He felt the cloth at the cuff of his jacket between thumb and forefinger. “This is just the most amazing material I’ve ever worn. Like silk with balls. It’s got class. When we was ordering our suits, Jake here suggested we try it. And hey . . .” He spread his arms wide. “Look at me now. Best-dressed man in New York City. This calls for more champagne.” He waved a hand in the air, and somehow, as if by magic, fresh chairs appeared and we found ourselves wedged in around their table.

  Glasses foamed, and we drank toasts. To Ranish. To Scotland. To Jake Steiner. “One day I gotta get to Scotland,” Capaldi said. “But I hear the weather ain’t so good.”

  I said, “Well, if you ever got too hot, which is most unlikely, you could always cool yourself down with some Capaldi’s ice cream.”

  There was a strange and immediate silence around the table. Mr. Steiner looked uncomfortable, and Ruairidh jumped in quickly to explain. “You’ve heard of the Scottish actor Peter Capaldi?”

  “Sure,” Capaldi said uncertainly.

  “Well his grandfather came from Italy. Bought a ticket to New York but somehow ended up in Glasgow, where he set up an ice-cream company.”

  I held my breath, feeling that in some way I had managed to put my foot in it. Then to my relief Capaldi burst out laughing. “Made a big mistake then, didn’t he? Should have come to New York as he planned. Then maybe he woulda en
ded up wearing a jacket like this instead of peddling the cold stuff like some back-street nobody.” And he tugged at his lapel.

  “There’s a big Italian community in Scotland,” I said, but it was clear that Capaldi had already lost interest.

  “Is that so?”

  Mr. Steiner got to his feet, all smiles. “Well, we should leave you good folk to it.” And he shook Capaldi’s hand. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Tony, as always.”

  We thanked him for the champagne and retreated with Mr. Steiner to our table, where a waiter immediately delivered warm mozzarella on garlic toast, sprinkled with salt and drizzled with olive oil beneath a garnish of sun-dried tomato. Mr. Steiner ordered red wine, and when the waiter had gone he leaned confidentially into the table, lowering his voice. “You know who that is?” he said, tipping his head discreetly in the direction of the Capaldi table. “That’s Antonio Capaldi. Otherwise known as Tony C. Just about the most notorious mafia crime boss in New York City.” He pulled a little smile. “We make suits for all sorts at Gold’s.”

  “He seemed nice,” I said.

  “Yeah.” Mr. Steiner raised one eyebrow. “Nice.”

  We had only just finished our pasta dish when a rammy at the door drew our eyes from our plates. Two men who had just been told that the restaurant was full pushed the maître d’ aside and split up as they weaved among the tables towards Capaldi’s booth. I suddenly realized what it was about them that seemed so out of place. They were wearing coats. In this heat.

  The men at Capaldi’s table started to get up as they arrived. But as if by magic, handguns, barrels extended by silencers, appeared from beneath the coats. A flurry of strangely muted shots left all four men at Capaldi’s table blood-spattered and dead. Their assassins turned and walked out of the door as if nothing had happened.

  Chaos broke out as soon as the shots were fired, tables overturned, diners diving for cover on the floor. Screams filled the air, even as the killers disappeared out into the night.

  Me and Ruairidh and Mr. Steiner were left stunned in our booth, food half-eaten on the table. One glass of red wine overturned and dripping on to the floor like blood.

  At first I could barely process what it was I had just witnessed. Like a scene from a movie. Lurid and unreal. As if I half expected the director to call, “Cut, let’s go again,” with everyone dusting themselves down and retaking their places. But as the truth of it dawned on me, I began to understand that had these assassins arrived just ten minutes earlier, we would have been sitting at that table with Capaldi and his associates, and would almost certainly have been shot too, lying dead on the floor or spreadeagled across the table.

  Screams still filled the restaurant, and somewhere far off in the night I could hear a police siren. I glanced at Mr. Steiner. His face was pale but his eyes were shining. “You realize,” he said in a small voice, “that the biggest mafia boss in New York has just been shot dead wearing Ranish Tweed.” He pushed his eyebrows up to wrinkle his forehead. “That’s a rare distinction.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Niamh and Steiner lounged in soft chairs looking out at the Minch, sunlight playing in burned-out patches on the water, dazzling briefly before vanishing to appear somewhere else, like spotlights shining through breaks in the cloud. Successive headlands to the south faded in silhouette into the mist of rain and late afternoon sun.

  Steiner was on to his second whisky soda, and Niamh was troubled. She said, “You don’t really think that the mafia would have killed Ruairidh in revenge for telling that story in a newspaper?”

  Steiner shrugged and sipped thoughtfully on his whisky. “The truth of it is, the thing that happened with Capaldi and his guys . . . it was just one of life’s little brain-fuckers. Comes out of the blue, and you can’t quite believe what it is you’ve just witnessed. I mean, hell, it happened so fast I never even had time to shit myself.” He grinned, then the smile slowly faded. “But damnit, Niamh, it’s the kind of story you tell in smoke-filled rooms with old friends or trusted customers when you’ve had a drink or three. It just ain’t something you brag about in the national media. Know what I mean? Even though it was a long time ago. Jees, someone out there might just have thought that Ruairidh was trying to profit from it. And you don’t tell tales about the mafia for commercial gain. These guys have got long memories and hold grudges for even longer.”

  It was something that would never have occurred to Niamh. And it was disconcerting. “That would seem like a lot of trouble to go to for very little.”

  “What you and I think of as very little, Niamh, ain’t always seen that way by others. And it’s classic mob MO. Bombs and cars.” He finished his drink and stood up. “But who the hell knows? If it was them ain’t nobody ever gonna tell.”

  He crossed to lay his glass on the breakfast bar and collect his coat and hat.

  “I better go. Get myself checked in.”

  Niamh crossed the room to help him on with his coat and give him a hug. “Take care on the road. I know you’re not used to driving on the left.”

  He shook his head. “Gotta think it through at every junction. Crazy thing you Brits do, driving on the wrong side of the road.” He kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow, at the funeral. I guess someone at the hotel can point me in the right direction.”

  She nodded and stood by the open door to watch him turn the Shogun and lurch off up the track towards Bilascleiter. This brief moment of animation and unexpected laughter, memories shared with an old friend, had passed too quickly and left her feeling bereft and lonely again. In her heart she didn’t really believe that the mafia had anything to do with Ruairidh’s death. That was just Jacob Steiner being dramatic. After all, why would the mob have sent her and Ruairidh emails? What did they know of, or care about, Irina Vetrov?

  She looked at her waterproof jacket hanging on the rack by the door, mud-caked wellies on the floor beneath it, and decided she would rather walk out along the cliffs in the hope of a good strong wind to blow away her mood, than sit festering in an empty house.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Braque came down the carpeted staircase from her room and found Gunn sitting at the bar in the lounge where she had left him. He was nursing the same pint, and she thought that probably alcohol was another item on the banned list that the doctor had given to his wife.

  “Sorry about that,” she said. Condensation from her glass of Chardonnay lay in a pool around the bottom of it, and the wine had lost its chill.

  Gunn glanced at her and said, “What’s wrong?”

  She darted a quick look in his direction. She was, it seemed, an open book to everyone but herself. “It’s that obvious?”

  “I’ve been interviewing folk for nearly thirty years, Ma’am. I think I know when something’s amiss.”

  She shrugged helplessly. Confiding in others was a habit she had lost in these last years. But maybe it would be easier with a stranger, and certainly after a glass or two of wine. “Do you have children, Monsieur Gunn?” And she immediately saw disappointment in the set of his mouth.

  “Afraid not, Ma’am. Something we were never blessed with.”

  She shrugged, toying with her fingers on the bar in front of her. “They can be a blessing. And a curse.” She glanced across at him. “No doubt your wife would have stayed at home and looked after them.”

  “Probably.”

  “But, you see, I couldn’t stay home. I had a job. And not the kind of nine-to-five job my husband had. It was a job that could call on me at any time, keep me out half the night, make me give up my days off. And Gilles was the one who ended up looking after the girls.” She paused to clarify. “Twins.”

  “Gilles? That’s your husband?”

  “Was,” she corrected him. “We split up a couple of years ago. He found someone else. After we broke up, he claims. But I figure it started long before.” She glanced at him again and saw his discomfort. This was personal, not professional. But it felt good just to talk. She drai
ned her glass and waved at the barman to refill it. “I got custody, but the truth is that they spend more time with him than me. I just can’t seem to be a mother and a police officer at the same time. And do you know what day care costs?”

  Gunn didn’t.

  “Much more than I can afford. So Gilles takes them. All the time. And now he wants to revisit the custody agreement.”

  “Would that not be for the best?”

  She gazed gloomily into her glass. “For the girls, maybe. Not for me. I can’t bear the thought of my babies looking on someone else as maman. Which is what would happen.” She took several swallows of wine. “I’m just off the phone to Gilles. Been trying to get him for two days. It turns out that Claire is not well.”

  “That’s one of the twins?”

  She nodded. “She’s got a fever of some kind, and he’s had to call the doctor.” She turned imploring eyes on Gunn. “I should be there.”

  “Aye, Ma’am, you probably should.”

  “But I’m here.”

  “Aye, Ma’am, you are.” Gunn pursed his lips and drew a long slow breath through his nostrils. “But you know, sometimes you just have to make choices. It wouldn’t make any difference to Ruairidh Macfarlane if you were to go home now. He’ll still be dead. And as for whoever killed him, they’ll just put someone else on that.”

  “Yes, and I’d probably lose my job.”

  Gunn shrugged. “Choices again, Ma’am.” And she heard the echo of Madeleine’s voice in his. He sipped on his beer, but he was still less than halfway through it. “When I had my heart attack in March, there was a time I thought I wouldn’t see the year out. There’s nothing quite like death, or the threat of it, to bring home to you just how precious and precarious life really is. It made me think about what was most important to me, about where my priorities should lie. With my wife or my job.” He scratched his head. “I know it’s different for me. Being a policeman in Stornoway is quite another thing from being a policeman in Paris. And I was lucky, I was able to keep both. But, believe you me, if I’d had to choose between this”—he took out his warrant card and slapped it on the bar—“and my good lady . . . being any kind of a policeman would have come a very distant second. Because in the end, people matter more than jobs. Your heart is more important than your pay packet.”