by Ian Rankin
Don’s shoulders and arms were tensed as they stepped outdoors. The crane, the one with the big magnet swinging from its arm, had finished work for the day. The compactor sat in silence. In the past, it had crushed its fair share of cars. Sometimes those cars had contained evidence . . . and sometimes body parts.
‘I’ve told you,’ Don said to his boss, ‘I’m getting too old for this. World’s changing too fast. It’s younger guys like Sam and Eddie you should be relying on.’
‘But it comes down to trust in the end, Don,’ George replied, ‘and I wouldn’t trust either of them the way I trust you. My dad always told me, “Don’s the guy. Any problems, Don’ll sort things out.” ’
‘All in the past, George.’
George had slung an arm around Don’s shoulders. They were walking past the German Shepherds. The two huge dogs stared at them, tongues lolling from their mouths. But they didn’t bark. They knew better than to bark at George. If Don was on his own, they’d be straining at the leash, keen to sink their teeth into a leg or an arm. But right now, George was protecting him.
The two men were heading into the heart of the scrapyard. Cars and other vehicles were piled on top of each other. Many had been hauled here from the scenes of accidents. People would have died in those accidents. People would have lost limbs and loved ones.
‘So tell me again,’ George said. ‘Tell me how it all happened.’
Don thought for a moment and took a deep breath. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I drove into the garage, like you told me. Hanley wasn’t there yet, so it was just me and Raymond. Raymond was working on a Bentley, polishing the dashboard, really doing a thorough job . . .’
‘He’s a car valet.That’s what he does.’
‘Not any more.’
George managed a sympathetic look. ‘Not any more,’ he agreed.
‘So anyway, I was talking to him, just the usual stuff . . . and then Hanley arrives. He drives on to the forecourt but leaves his car there, keeps the engine running. He wasn’t planning on sticking around. The bag was in the front seat of my car. Should only have taken us two minutes . . .’
‘So when did the bandit arrive?’
‘He came out of nowhere. Balaclava pulled down over his face. Just a couple of holes for the eyes and one for the mouth. He was carrying a pistol. Funny thing is . . .’
‘What?’
‘Well, I had this wild thought when I saw him. I wondered if you’d sent him.’
‘Me?’
‘That way you’d get your money back, and Hanley couldn’t complain. He’d still have to keep his side of the deal.’
George was shaking his head. But he was thinking too. Don reckoned he knew what he was thinking, Wish I’d thought of that . . .
‘And you just handed the cash over to him?’ George asked.
‘I’m not a martyr, George. The gun was real.’
‘So how did the shooting start?’
‘There were the three of us, me, Hanley and the mask. Nobody was paying attention to Raymond. He must have had the gun tucked away somewhere. He shot twice. It was deafening. ’
‘And he got the guy?’
‘First bullet went wide, second one hit him in the chest.’ Don paused for a moment. It was painful for him, remembering this. He made a show of clearing his throat. ‘But by then he’d fired back at Raymond. Went straight into his skull and he dropped. The money was still in my car, so the mask got into the driver’s seat and backed out of the garage. Headed across the forecourt and was gone.’
‘Before you could pick up Raymond’s gun?’
Don just shrugged.
‘What did Hanley do? Besides wetting himself, I mean.’
‘He ran back to his car and hightailed it.’
‘Same direction the bandit took?’
Don shook his head. ‘You reckon Hanley . . . ? But he was going to get the money anyway.’
George thought about this and nodded. He folded his arms. ‘This isn’t good, Don. How did you get out of there?’
‘Well, the Bentley had its keys in.’
‘Where is it now?’
‘Parked up behind the Portakabin. Reckon it needs to go in the compactor?’
‘Of course it does!’
‘Shame. Raymond did a beautiful job of cleaning it.’
‘Well, Raymond was a pro, wasn’t he?’ George gave Don a look, as if to say, And I thought you were too.
‘I’ve never shot anyone in my life, George. In the old days, fists were enough, maybe a bottle or a knife now and again.’
‘These aren’t the old days.’ George thought for another moment. ‘I need to talk to Hanley, make sure he’s okay. Meantime, you need to find your car. And there’s still that other little matter to be taken care of.’
Don nodded. ‘What about our bandit friend?’
‘He’s wounded, maybe badly wounded. He’s got to have ended up in hospital.’ George jabbed a finger at Don. ‘So start making some calls.’
‘Then we pay him a visit?’
George just nodded. ‘Was Raymond married? Is there someone we should send flowers to?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Find out, will you?’
‘Before or after the other matter?’
George glowered at him. ‘What do you think? No, never mind what you think. Whoever was wearing that mask, they knew the cash was being handed over. That means it’s someone we know, or someone Hanley knows. It means someone somewhere has blabbed or else got greedy. It means they’re close, Don. And if they’re close, we’re going to have no trouble finding them.’
Don nodded his agreement. Thing is, George, he thought to himself, you don’t know how close.
‘When do we tell Stewart?’ he asked.
‘When I’m ready,’ George snarled, marching back towards his dogs and the Portakabin.
Don waited for another minute, then headed in the same direction. The German Shepherds snarled and spat, baring their teeth. They were up on their back legs, front legs off the ground and pawing at the air, willing their studded collars to break. Don ignored them and headed for the Bentley. He didn’t know whose car it was. There was some dust on the windows and a bit of mud on the tyres. Plus some of Raymond’s blood and brain matter on the right-side wing. A wipe would get rid of it. Or a hose, if you wanted to be really careful. But the inside of the car was clean, immaculate in fact. He considered his options. But if he kept it, it would be noted as missing, and the cops would assume Raymond’s killer had taken it. No, Gorgeous George was right, it had to be turned into scrap. Shame, though.
But Don had plenty of other problems. He knew he should be angry, but all he really felt was sorrow. There was no way out, that was the truth of it.
No happy ending.
Chapter Three
Gravy’s Story (2)
It took me a while to find her house. I don’t know that part of the city. Benjy’s car had one of those little map-readers, but I didn’t know how to work it. I can drive a car, though, not much different from dodgems. Benjy’s was an automatic. Those are the cars I can drive. So I drove to her address. The piece of paper was in the glove box. Why is it called that, a glove box? I tried it with my own gloves, but they wouldn’t fit without squashing them, and I didn’t want to do that. But I found the piece of paper and it had her name on it, plus her address. She was called Celine Watts. I stopped the car beside some kids on bikes and showed them her address. They shook their heads. Then I tried at a bus stop and a man pointed up the road. So then I got lost a few times but a woman on her way home from the shops told me exactly what to do. Right, and right again. I write with my right hand, that’s a good way to remember left from right.
Ten Merchant Crescent was a council house on a council estate. But there wasn’t too much graffiti and no supermarket trolleys or burned-out cars. It was quite nice, really. I parked the car by the kerb and had to work out how to use the hand brake. Then I walked up her path and pushed the bell. I didn’t hear an
y noise from inside, so I tried again. Then I knocked instead, and a voice called out from behind the door.
‘Who’s there?’ It was a woman’s voice.
‘I’m Gravy,’ I called back. ‘I’ve come about Benjy.’ See, the thing was, I needed to tell someone. I needed someone to know what I knew.
‘Who?’
‘Benjy. Your friend Benjy.’
‘I don’t have a friend called Benjy.’
I looked at the piece of paper. ‘It says Celine Watts.’
‘It’s pronounced Se-leen,’ she called out. Then the door opened an inch and I could see a bit of her face and one of her eyes. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Gravy. A pal of Benjy’s. Look.’ I held the paper up so she could read it. ‘It was in his car, and now he’s . . . he’s had a bit of an accident.’
She stared hard at the piece of paper, and then her eyes met mine. ‘Who sent you?’ she asked. She sounded scared.
‘Nobody sent me.’
‘Are you going to kill me?’
‘No.’ I think I sounded properly shocked.
‘You don’t look like you are.’
‘I’m not.’
‘But I don’t know anyone called Benjy.’
‘He had your name in his car.’ I pushed the piece of paper closer to her.
‘So I see.’ The door had opened another couple of inches. I could see more of her now. Her hair was brown and short. Her face was round and shiny. Her eyes were green. ‘So this friend of yours called Benjy, he had my name and address in his car?’
I nodded, and she looked over my shoulder.
‘Is that his car or yours?’ she asked.
‘His, I suppose.’
‘You suppose?’
‘Well, it’s not his usual car. His usual car is green, a bit like your eyes.’
She almost smiled. ‘And what’s happened to Benjy?’ The door was all the way open now.
‘He’s not very well.’
‘Who is he? What’s his last name?’
‘I don’t know his last name.’
‘Do you work with him?’
‘No.’ I paused while I had a think. ‘I don’t know where he works. But he must have a job because he always has money.’ Then I corrected myself. ‘Always had money, I mean.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you saying he’s dead?’
I sniffed and rubbed my nose. ‘I suppose so,’ I said. Celine Watts lifted the piece of paper from my fingers.
‘And you found this in his car?’
‘Yes.’
‘But it’s not the car he usually drives?’ She was looking over my shoulder again. ‘How did he die?’
‘I don’t know.’ I think she could see that I was lying. ‘Do you mind if I take a look?’
‘A look at what?’
‘A look at the car.’ She squeezed past me, leaving her door wide open. I wanted to tell her that all the heat would escape, it was the sort of thing my mum would say. But instead, I followed her. She opened the passenger door. ‘Area like this, you should have locked it,’ she said. She was opening the glove box.
‘My gloves wouldn’t fit,’ I explained, but she wasn’t listening. She took out a book and started turning its pages. It had drawings of all the parts of the car. But at the back there was another piece of paper, folded in four. She opened it up.
‘It’s a bill,’ she said, ‘for fixing the car.’ Then she stopped speaking. There was a gurgling sound in her throat. Her mouth stayed open.
‘Gravy,’ she said, ‘do you know a man called Donald Empson?’
I shook my head. ‘Is this his car?’
‘I think so,’ she said. ‘It’s his name on the bill.’
‘And you know him?’
She placed a hand to her chest, as if to check her heartbeat. Warm heart, cool head. ‘I know who he is,’ she said quietly. ‘Are you sure you don’t know how your friend Benjy died?’
‘I think someone killed him.’ Tears were coming into my eyes. I wiped them away.
‘He was a friend of yours?’
‘Yes.’ I repeated it four more times for luck. She seemed to be thinking about things, staring into the distance. Then she turned her attention to the open door of her house.
‘Police told me I’d be safe,’ she said. She shook her head slowly. We stood together in silence for a minute, and then she asked me what was in the bag. It was on the floor in front of the passenger seat.
‘It’s not mine,’ I said.
She was already unzipping it. When she looked inside, she saw my gloves first, but then she saw what was beneath them and she placed the hand to her chest again.
‘It’s Benjy’s money,’ I explained. ‘I don’t know what to do with it. I was hoping you’d be a friend of his . . .’
She looked at me and then smiled. It was a big, beaming smile, and it was followed by a laugh.
‘I am a friend of Benjy’s,’ she said, taking my arm and squeezing it. ‘This was supposed to be my surprise.’ She nodded towards the bag. ‘And now you’ve delivered it. Thank you, Gravy!’
I was a bit confused. ‘The bag’s for you?’
‘It’s money for my holiday.’
I thought about it, but it still wasn’t clear. It seemed all fuzzy in the middle.
‘I need to be going,’ she was saying. ‘Quite soon, Gravy.’ She was looking at the open door again. ‘I just need to pack a few . . . no, maybe not. I can buy whatever I need. No passport, though.’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘Passport’s at my flat.’
‘Is this not your house?’
‘My cousin’s. Police called it a “safe house”, fat lot they know. I’ve only been here two days, and Don Empson’s got the address.’ She looked around us, suddenly fearful. ‘Need to get out of here, Gravy,’ she decided. ‘Somewhere safe. Can you drive?’ She realised what she’d said and laughed a short laugh. ‘What am I saying? You drove here, didn’t you?’
‘I did,’ I said.
‘So maybe you can give me a lift?’
‘The bus stop?’ I guessed, but she shook her head.
‘Edinburgh.’
‘That’s miles. We could run out of petrol.’
‘We’ve got money,’ she said, grabbing my arm again. ‘Plenty of money, remember? My holiday money.’
And with that, she lifted out the bag, then got into the car, resting it on her lap.
‘Are you going to leave the door open?’ I asked, pointing towards the house. ‘The heat will get out.’
‘Let it,’ she snapped. But she could see I wasn’t happy. ‘The rooms need airing,’ she explained. ‘Place gets stuffy otherwise. Now come on.’ She patted the driving seat. ‘I want your best Jeremy Clarkson impression.’
‘Who?’
She sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘Just get in and drive, Gravy.’
‘I don’t know Edinburgh. I’ve never been there.’
‘We’ll take the motorway. Don’t worry, you won’t get lost.’ Her face went sad again. ‘Unless you don’t want to help a friend of Benjy’s. If you don’t want to help me, just say so.’
But I did want to help her. I wanted to see her smile again. It was a good smile. A smile like my mum’s.
‘Okay,’ I said.
Chapter Four
Don Empson is Hunting
Jim Gardner was Benjy’s best friend. When Don Empson left him, he was bleeding and weeping. Don didn’t think Jim knew anything about anything. But he’d asked him questions all the same. Who else did Benjy know? Who might he go to for help? And Jim had done a lot of talking. Don felt bad about it, felt he’d worked out a lot of his own anger on Gardner. That was hardly professional.
Don had been busy since leaving the scrapyard. He’d borrowed one of the cars. It made noises that warned him it was dying.
‘You and me both,’ he’d told it. In his case this was certainly true. Six months, the hospital had told him. Maybe a year with treatment, but his quality of life would suffer. He’d spend half his time on
a trolley in the hospital corridor.
‘No thanks,’ he’d said. ‘Just give me painkillers, lots of painkillers.’
There were some in his pocket right now, but the only things that hurt were his knuckles. Jim Gardner had told him there was this graveyard, out by the old blocks of flats. Some bloke there, Benjy said he was useful. He would hide things for him.
All sorts of things.
Gardner didn’t know the man’s name, but that didn’t matter. On his way to the graveyard, Don called his friend in the police. For the price of a few drinks, his friend would put out a call to all patrol cars. They would keep their eyes open for Don’s car, the one Benjy had taken. For another few drinks, this same friend would ask all the hospitals in the area if anyone had been brought in wounded.
‘Wounded?’ the cop had asked.
‘Don’t worry,’ Don had told him. ‘It’s not anyone who didn’t deserve it.’ He didn’t want to spook the cop.
But when Don called from the car, there was no news. He reached the graveyard in twenty minutes. It was even closer to Raymond’s garage, maybe twelve or fifteen minutes. No distance at all. The gates were closed. He got out and checked them. They were held shut by a chain. Don peered through the bars but couldn’t see any signs of life.
‘Just signs of death,’ he said to himself. He had already planned his own funeral, a cremation with music by Johnny Cash.
If he lived that long. He thought of the compactor and had to shake the image away. He looked around him. There were some kids further up the hill, gathered around a couple of bikes by a lamp post. Don drove towards them and stopped the car. He got out again. Twenty pounds, a fiver for each kid, and he had some more information. The guy who worked in the graveyard was called Gravy. He was ‘not all there’. Don listened, and then described his own car. There were nods. Then he described Benjy. More nods.
‘Did you see the car leave?’ The boys couldn’t really remember, until another twenty had changed hands.
‘Never seen anything as funny in my life,’ one of them said. The others were smiling at the memory.
‘Gravy, trying to drive!’ He burst out laughing, and his friends joined in.
