by Colin Garrow
Sliding his fingers along the underside of the worktop, he finds the catch and pulls it towards him. Leaning in and pushing against the laminated edge, he waits for the click, then steps back to allow the top to swing upwards. In the space between the worktop and the false drawer, are his tools. Taking each item out, he lays them on the electric hob - 1 pair of Ray-Bans, 1 bag of Maltesers, 1 gun.
The woman comes up behind him. 'Sunglasses? In November?'
He turns, sniffs. 'So?'
She shrugs. 'You want look like movie star?'
'It's part o' ma cover.' He slides them into his top pocket.
She touches his arm. 'You could still change your mind.'
'I've telt ye - it's the last one. Anyway, I've said I'll dae it.' He drops his head. 'Why don't ye go home? I'll see ye later.'
She bites her lip. 'When?'
'For fuck's sake, Khim. Later, okay?'
She nods and moves away, turns, watches him. 'Don't take the gun.'
He rolls his eyes. 'What am I gonnae do - point my fuckin finger at the guy an ask him to take me out to sea so I can throw him off the boat?'
'Just be careful.'
'I'm always careful. That's why I'm still here.' He sighs, steps forward, takes her head in his hands. 'It'll be fine.'
'So you know - if he kill you, I kill him.' She grins.
'Thanks doll, but ye won't have tae - he's gonnae be like Luca Brasi - sleepin with the fishes.'
She frowns. 'What?'
He shakes his head. 'Disnae matter.'
Relic Black pushes through the revolving door and steps into the lobby. He stands for a moment, puts down his bag, rubs his hands together. His gaze slides around the room, taking in the surroundings: the main entrance that leads into a small gathering area, the strategically placed sofas and potted palms, the original Jack Vettriano hanging off-centre over the unlit fireplace, and the tacky display racks offering guest-related gifts and last-minute buys. And finally, the reception desk - a long, slightly triangular structure away off to one side, set back from the lobby itself as if the tradition of actually paying for one's stay might be deemed vulgar.
Hefting his bag over his shoulder, he sidles across to the painting and makes like he's admiring the artist's technique, while keeping a close watch on proceedings at the desk. There's a queue at reception, which is good, since it gives him the opportunity to scrutinize the hotel's protocol and, more importantly, the level of staff awareness. He notes the handing over of cards, the signing of registration sheets, the jingling of keys. Nothing to worry about there.
Approaching the desk, he falls into line behind the last guest. Then, sliding his bag to the floor, smoothes one hand through his dark hair. With the other, he lifts a toothbrush and three of those cute little bottles of shampoo off the display rack. Slipping them into his outside pocket, he allows himself a pat on the back. Hardly the crime of the century, but it's good to keep in practice.
'Good evening sir. Have you stayed with us before?' She glances at his booking form and does a two-finger tap dance on the keyboard.
'No, I don't think so.' He gives her his winning smile. She gives him her customer-focused smirk.
'Are you in Inverness on business?'
'Pleasure, actually.' He forces his lips into a smile.
'And will you be wantin wi-fi?'
'Yes, please.'
'Great. So I'll just need your card and a wee signature...'
He takes his time. Have to get it right or the whole thing'll turn to crap. He hands her the card and takes a pen from the counter, puts it down again. Relax. She passes him the machine. He keys in the number, hands it back, picks up a brochure from the desk, as if he's interested. The card goes through. She smiles, then pushes the registration sheet across to him. Careful. Don't rush it. A long slow swirl and the name slides across the paper: Carl Edward Palfreyman.
She hands him the key and a card showing the wi-fi log-in, then gives him that smile again. 'You're in 602, the lift's through the double doors and over to the left. Enjoy your stay.'
He thanks her, picks up his bag and heads for the elevator. Easy as pie.
In the lift, his eyes watch the little round light slide up through the numbers. He fingers the key in his pocket - it's attached to an oval disc with the room number printed across it in Roman numerals. Nice to see a bit of tradition, instead of one of those electronic things that never seem to work properly.
The room itself is generic: not luxury, not cheap, just standard. The layout is the usual thing - L-shaped, with the bathroom on the right, opposite a wardrobe and an arrangement of laminated chip-board that passes for a dressing table, then the room widens out for the bed and a couple of easy chairs. He drops his bag on the divan and walks to the window. Car park's a bit of an eyesore, but at least he's got a view of the river. Might go for a stroll later. He turns and looks at himself in the mirror. Suit's okay for now, though if he's going to make the most out of this one, he'll need to do some shopping, and do it quickly - the window of opportunity won't stay open for ever. He pulls out his phone and checks the diary. Nothing in for tomorrow except the meet with Phil and the gang in the evening. One more day, maybe two then he'll have to ditch Mr P and move on.
It takes only a minute to fire up the laptop and access the site. Seconds later he's working through the files detailing Palfreyman's recent emails and text messages. Nothing new here: still planning to go to his boat for the weekend, meet up with the guys on Saturday...blah blah blah. He logs out and goes on to Amazon, orders a couple of laptops, the boxed set of Prime Suspect and that pair of Yukon night-vision binoculars he's been after. It's okay, Palfreyman's good for it.
He flicks the TV on and kicks off his shoes. The mini-bar’s overstocked with crisps and half bottles of cheap wine, so he picks out samples of both and gets comfortable on the bed to catch up. Flicking through the channels, he finds the local news. Usual guff - some wally arrested for taking a dump in the High Street, break-in at a caravan park in Nairn, local councilor caught shagging his neighbour's wife, another missing husband and a new play at Eden Court about Scottish trolls. In other words, the usual boring shite. He checks his mobile. Texts from his mother, Dave at the pub, and Lindsey. He sighs. Now or later? Probably best not talking to her after he's had a few. He taps the contact and waits for it to connect.
'Hey.'
There's a pause, a sigh, then 'Relic.'
'Who else? How are you?'
'Fine.' She's clearly not.
'You doing anythin?'
Her voice sounds tight. 'Why, you wannae take me out for dinner? Like you didn't last weekend?'
'Aw, look Linds, I'm sorry, yeah? These things happen...'
'Aye, they happen to you. All the time, and it's always me that's left hanging around in the rain.'
'I've told you how things are at work. I can't just let folk down, can I?'
She half laughs. 'At work? Oh aye? And what work is that, Relic? Because it's funny, but when you didn't text me back yesterday, I called in at McCardle's. I was gonnae suggest we meet up for lunch. Thought it'd be a nice surprise. Funny thing is - they sacked you last month. Apparently you haven't shown your face there since August.'
Ah. 'Really? That's...'
'Yeah, there's me thinking it'd be great to actually spend a bit of time together or whatever, and you don't even have a job.' She pauses. 'Anything else you want to tell me?'
He considers this for a moment. 'Lindsey...'
'What's going on, Relic? Cos, you know, I'm...' A catch in her throat. 'I'm not putting up with any more liars.'
There's a silence while he tries to come up with a worthy reply, before she asks the inevitable 'Where are you?'
'Where d'you think?' Silly question. 'Aberdeen. Look, we can meet up tomorrow and I'll explain everything, okay?'
He can hear her breathing. Eventually, she says 'I'm going out with Jenny and Phil tomorrow. At the Hammer - ye know, like we normally do. Be there at seven o'clock, or forg
et it.'
She hangs up.
He leans his head against the wall. Sure, he can go and explain it all. Every last detail. And then what? He almost wants to do that nerdy mime thing of shooting himself in the head, blood and brain splattering across the room. Almost.
The car pulls up at the side of the road. The man in the Ray-Bans checks his mobile again, digests the new message and sends a one-word reply. Bit of a bugger he's had to traipse back into town, but it can't be helped. Doing this shit on your own doorstep never feels right. Still, could be worse, and while Inverness wouldn't have been his preference even on a good day, maybe it'll be okay.
He peers across the street, clocks the hotel, the car park, the river. Any number of possibilities here, he thinks. He tilts the interior mirror and takes a good look at himself. Suit's okay but Khim was right about the dark glasses - they'll hae to go. Dinnae want tae look like one of those pricks from Men in Black. Suspicious - specially given the time of year. More likely to be remembered when the fuzz come sniffin round. He takes off the shades and slides them into his inside pocket.
Five minutes later he's left the Audi in a supermarket car park and heading back on foot. The gun's in the boot - no point taking risks. Plenty time to pick it up later when he moves the car. As he nears the hotel, he checks out a couple of side streets. One of them leads up the side of the Ramada into Church Street and a busy shopping area. He spots another entrance to the hotel. Even better. He lights a cigarette and hangs around, like he's waiting for someone, watching people come and go. Gazing skywards, he counts the floors. The original plan’s out the window now, but maybe the roof's an option. Location might be better too - place'll be crawling with folk later on, so no problem getting lost in the crowd. He flicks his cigarette across the road and heads up one of the narrow lanes.
It takes him ten minutes to find what he's looking for. The young female assistant helpfully offers to wrap them up. There's no need for the whole gift thing of course, but it's one of his rituals - reminds him of that old advert he used to love as a boy, that all-because-the-lady-loves-Milk-Tray shite, like anyone'd ever go to that much trouble. But it appealed to his sense of humour, so after the first one, he'd left one of those daft cards with the body, just to annoy the fuzz, but then some prick at The Sun started calling him The Milky Tray Murderer. Not very classy.
'Would you like to write this yourself?' says the girl.
Why not. He nods and takes the pen. The gift tag is a nice touch, he thinks, another way of teasing the police. After all, there's no point having a reputation if you can't follow through. He writes it out then the girl ties it onto the box with a piece of gold ribbon. Back outside, he makes his way round to the place he noticed near the hotel. Give it a couple of hours.
There are three Indian restaurants within the space of a few hundred yards. Relic chooses the one with the turquoise decor. Not that he especially likes turquoise, but it's more aesthetically pleasing to his semi-cultured eye than the others. The music's authentic too - not that meaningless poptastic crap most of these places pump out, but bona fide Indian melodies. Apart from the owner, the staff are mostly pure-bred Scots and make no pretence at Indian accents, though he'll forgive the cultural failing if the food's okay.
Waiting for his main course, he orders a bottle of JP Chenet Vin Blanc. Probably should have gone for the Indian beer, but the odd shape of the Chenet bottle always amuses him and he quickly helps himself to a second glass. Gazing around, he studies the other customers: the young couple at the next table who're already half-cut, the elegant dark-headed woman on her own in the booth who keeps glancing at the door (probably a blind date), and the smart-looking table-for-one guy over by the window, staring intently at his phone (Billy-no-mates, for sure).
When the main course arrives, Relic allows the waiter to serve, noting the slight tremor of the young man's hand as he transfers food from the hot plate. The chicken smells amazing and he vows to take his time, savouring every mouthful. He starts to eat, grateful Lindsey isn't sitting opposite him, banging on about all the reasons why they should call it a day.
Two women come into the restaurant. He watches them surreptitiously, while they wait to be allocated a table. One of them looks over and gives him a shy smile. Maybe they'd be up for a threesome? Aye, right. Might do for a fantasy later, but let's be honest, it ain't ever going to happen. Not with his luck. And now he feels bad for even considering such sordid behaviour when he's got a perfectly good woman ready and willing to go the whole nine yards with him, if he'd only get his act together.
He takes his time, enjoys the food. Wonders if he should use the card or pay cash. Nah, Palfreyman's good for it, and as he's leaving a trail anyway, he might as well leave a good one.
The guy by the window is drinking water. Or vodka. No, definitely water - he'd be rolling in the aisle by now the way he's chucking it back. He's dressed expensively. Armani suit? Maybe an executive. Could be just finished work, or a left-over from a wedding party (who gets married on a Friday?) Relic speculates further, wondering what lurks behind the silent facade. As he watches from behind his half-full glass, the man stands, looks directly at Relic and heads towards him. Relic turns his head and studies the patterns on the wallpaper. The guy walks past and on into the toilets beyond.
He relaxes a little, wondering why he's worrying about a stranger who happened to glance at him. Leaning back, he stretches his legs and finishes off the wine.
The waiter with the tremor comes over and asks if sir would like anything else. Relic shakes his head and says he'll just have the bill, thanks. As the young man starts around the table, the guy from the window comes out of the toilets and trips over Relic's outstretched leg, pitching forward, sprawling in a heap on the ground.
Relic half stands. 'Christ, sorry mate...' he starts. But the man's on his feet in an instant, glaring at him.
'Watch yer boots, mCarol, or I'll gie yer sumtin ter think aboot, right?' His voice is hard and tense, with a fair spoonful of aggression thrown in. Definitely not the cultured executive Relic imagined.
'Aye, I'm sorry...' he says again.
Window Man strides away, giving him a caustic glance over his shoulder before sitting back down.
Relic manages a dopey grin for the waiter, who's clearly not experienced in dealing with such outbursts.
'Sorry, big feet.'
Later, he'll recall this incident as some kind of omen, and wonder if that few seconds of eye contact is what saved his life.
Carl Edward Palfreyman lies back and thinks of Scotland. The young blonde giving him what she calls reflexology (what he calls rubbing his feet), is definitely helping his stress levels. He should do this more often. He takes a look at his watch - almost 7.00pm. His guest will be here soon.
The young woman gives his feet a final stroke and straightens up. 'That's about it now, Mr Palfreyman. Anything else I can do for you tonight?'
He cranes his neck forward. Is she talking about a blowjob, or just being polite? He guesses it's the latter. 'No thanks love, that were bloody marvelous. How much do I owe you?' The Yorkshire accent makes her smile. Or maybe it's just the thought of 50 quid in her pocket.
After he's signed her invoice, he watches her pack the table and struggle up the gangplank with it. He'd normally have offered to help, but that'd be kinda defeating the object of his newly-relaxed state. No, best thing to do is to have a little word with Jack Daniels, get comfy and wait for his guest.
Window Man puts on his best smile as he approaches the reception desk. Thankfully, he's recovered himself after that little contretemps over the road. Can do without all that seething anger on a job like this. Don't wannae screw it up. Keeping his back to the CCTV camera, he slides the box onto the counter and waits for the girl to finish what she's doing.
'Good evening, sir, can I help?'
'Oh yes, I hope so.' His voice slips easily into the Received Pronunciation that works so well with these people. 'I've a small gift for a friend of mi
ne, but I've forgotten which room he's in.' He cocks his head to one side, grinning winsomely. The receptionist struggles to drag her eyes away from his gaze.
'I'll just check. What name is it?'
He tells her. She does a quick scroll and a couple of clicks before confirming the number for him.
'Would you like me to buzz him for you?' she asks, giving her best wanna-fuck-me smile.
'No, thank you, it's a surprise,' and he's already walking off towards the lift, grateful these stupid people never give a thought to terrorist plots.
He takes the lift to the top floor and steps out onto the landing. There are six doors up here. He takes note of where 802 is, then walks along to the end of the corridor to the fire escape. He checks his watch and walks slowly down to the seventh floor. A quick glance round and he's back on the stairs down to his destination. Before stepping out into the passage, he takes what he needs out of the bag, slings it back over his shoulder and pushes it round so it's resting lightly at the base of his spine. Don't want the damn thing swinging down and getting in the way. He glances round - might be easier to leave it somewhere.
602 is where it should be - right opposite the lift. He notes which level the lift is on right now - ground floor. Perfect. Striding forward, he slips the bag away from his body and leans it against the wall. Then he raps on the door. The TV's chuntering faintly in the background. He waits a moment then knocks again. This time there's movement.
The knock at the door is unexpected to say the least. Relic sits up on the bed, alert. Mentally, he runs through his ticky list for such occasions:
1. Room service
2. Lindsey
3. Wrong door/house
4. Police
He hasn't ordered room service, Lindsey doesn't know where he is, so unless someone is lost, there can only be one possibility. He jumps up and tiptoes carefully to the door. Splaying his fingers either side, he leans forward and looks through the eyehole. What he sees is disconcerting to say the least. The aggressive guy from the restaurant is standing there, a couple of paces back from the door. He knocks again. Relic takes in the gift-wrapped box in the guy's left hand. And the gun in the other.
