It was Sally. She had the number.
"Hang on," Joe said. The penholder normally sat next to the phone. He had a look in the chest of drawers. Each drawer was empty. The bastards had completely cleaned him out.
In the hallway, Monkman groaned. His eyes were open. He looked like a baby that had just woken up. With a bemused expression, he watched as Joe stuck a hand in the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a ballpoint pen. "Back in a minute," Joe said.
Sally read out the number. Joe ransacked his wallet for a scrap of paper. All he had was a couple of photos. One of Ruth, the other of Gemma. He removed the picture of Ruth and wrote the number on the reverse. He read it back. Sally confirmed he'd taken it down correctly and made him promise not to tell Cooper how he'd got it.
"I understand," Joe said. "I wouldn't want him knowing I'd been rummaging about in his drawers." He could hear Sally chuckling as he hung up.
Joe returned to the hallway. Monkman's eyes looked slightly less glazed. Joe picked up the bucket of water and poured it over the policeman's head.
Monkman performed a series of whoops, took a few rapid breaths and said, "Aaagh." He shook his head and moaned. Licked his lips. Frowning, he spat blood on the floor.
Joe said, "Use the bucket," and propped it on Monkman's lap.
Monkman spat into the bucket. Half a dozen times.
"Thought I might bring some mates round," Joe said. Monkman glared at him. "See if anybody else wants a shot."
"You could charge an entrance fee." Monkman pulled a face. "My fucking tongue hurts."
Joe touched his side. "Makes us about even, then."
"You got a towel?"
"If your colleagues haven't nicked them." Joe went to the bathroom and returned with a clean powder blue hand towel. "You going to charge me?"
"With what?" Monkman rubbed his scalp with the towel.
"Assaulting a police officer."
"No point." Monkman grimaced as he touched a tender spot. "No witnesses."
"That's what I thought."
"Fuck, my head hurts," Monkman said, wiping his mouth. "Fucking tongue hurts." He spat into the bucket. Joe turned his head in disgust. "Fucking chin hurts." Monkman spat again. "Hope," he said. "Can I ask you a question?"
Joe faced him. "I want you out of here."
"I don't feel too good." He placed the bucket on the floor beside him. "Seriously." He stared at his shirtfront. "Bloody soaking," he muttered. In a louder voice, he said, "I'll head as soon as I can move. That okay with you?"
Joe made a small gesture with his hand. "Ask your question," he said.
The policeman hesitated, then said, "We both know your alibi's fake." He plucked his wet shirt away from his chest. "So, since there are no witnesses, why don't you tell me why you killed your wife?"
"Off the record?"
"What, you think I'm wired?" The policeman spread his arms. "Search me."
Joe looked at the ceiling. He looked back down again. Monkman's hair was sticking up in the middle. Joe spoke quietly. "I didn't kill her." He folded his arms. "I was framed."
"Why?" Monkman loosened his tie. "I don't understand." He whipped his tie out of his collar. "Who framed you?"
"Promise I'll tell you as soon as I find out. You feeling better?"
"Getting there." Monkman stuffed his tie in his pocket. He opened the top button of his shirt. And the next one. "Get me a glass of water, would you?"
"You know where the kitchen is," Joe said. "Get it yourself."
TWENTY-FIVE
The phone was ringing. Might be important. Joe straightened up and reached over the side of the bath to pick his towel off the floor. Which would have been fine, if he'd remembered not to lean against the side of the bath. It was as if Monkman's boot had driven into his ribcage once again. The blood drained from his face. He held on to his side, taking a series of shallow breaths, sweat making his forehead prickle. After a moment, he braced himself and sucked in a lungful of air. Okay. He exhaled. Another breath. Okay.
The phone was still ringing.
Monkman had left after half an hour or so, still unsteady on his feet. Joe had called him a taxi. Hoped it crashed. He hoped Monkman was an unidentifiable mess in the mangled wreckage.
Slowly, taking care to avoid the side of the bath, Joe reached over and once again tried to pick up his towel. This time he succeeded. He wiped his face. The phone stopped ringing. Joe sighed, wondering whether to drop the towel on the floor and sink back into the water. Close his eyes. Relax. Think nice thoughts. Mind you, he'd already tried that and hadn't been able to think of anything remotely pleasant.
It wasn't that he never had nice thoughts. He wasn't such a bad guy. He was no saint, either, admittedly. Like most people, he was somewhere in the middle. If anybody asked him what he did for a living, he'd tell them. It didn't bother him. If he didn't do it, somebody else would. And if somebody else did it, they'd enjoy it a lot more. It was a job. It paid well. It wasn't hard work. So piss off, you judgemental fuckers. He wasn't a bad guy.
When he tried to think of something pleasant, his thoughts kept returning to Gemma. Gemma as a young kid. Gemma as a toddler. Gemma as a baby. He remembered how he felt when Ruth got pregnant. Christ, was he angry. Like he'd told Tina, he was too young. Too irresponsible. He didn't want a baby, didn't want a job. Didn't want, didn't want. Listen to it. Negative rhythm pounding away in his skull. His hand struck the bath water. Didn't want. Incessant. Well, he fucking had, whether he wanted or not. A baby. A girl. A gem. He had a baby daughter.
At the time Ruth announced her pregnancy, Joe had been thinking of becoming a teacher. Another couple of years, he'd graduate. Then a year of teacher training. Three years more study. No money. A baby to support.
Cooper had given up his law studies to devote himself full time to his lending business. He invited Joe to work for him. Joe accepted. Until he graduated, Joe worked part time for Cooper.
Ruth said, "I'm going to be so proud of you when you become a teacher. I can't wait."
Cooper said, "This teaching shit, how much you going to earn?"
Joe told him.
Cooper laughed. He said, "You carry on working for me, I'll double that."
No contest.
The phone rang again. So much for lying down and thinking nice thoughts. Carefully, Joe clambered out of the bath and stood for a minute, dripping. Dabbing himself with the towel, he strode through to the sitting room. He draped the towel over his shoulder and picked up the phone. "Speak."
"Joe?" Ronald Brewer's voice said. "It's not looking good."
Another problem. Just what Joe needed. "What's happened?"
"Witnesses. They can place you outside Cooper's flat the night Ruth was murdered. Prove you weren't cozily tucked up in Tina's bed."
"They reliable?"
"As reliable as Tina. Listen, I'm in the car. On my way over."
"Who are they?"
"A bunch of football fans were making a racket. Sound familiar? The din caused some irate neighbors to look out their windows. One of them phoned the police."
"It was dark. No way anybody could identify me."
"What about the football fans? They get close enough for a good look?"
"You're right," Joe said. "If the police trace them—"
"That's the point. Two of them were arrested for urinating in the doorway of Gayfield police station not long after you bumped into them. They admitted to causing a breach of the peace earlier in the evening. The police are on their way to ask them if they remember seeing a man in Cooper's doorway. The police will show them pictures. They're the witnesses, Joe. Think they'll identify you?"
"Doesn't matter. They were drunk."
"That's your defence?"
"Tina—"
"Tina's a prostitute. It's her word against theirs. And they had four other mates with them. If they all identify you, you're fucked. I told you—"
"What should I do?"
"Get out of the house. Now."
> Joe glanced down at his bare legs. "Don't think that's a good idea."
"In a very short while you're going to get arrested."
"And I'll avoid that by running outside stark naked?"
After a moment, Ronald said, "Well, get dressed and get fucking serious. Meet me outside in five minutes."
"What's the point? If I run, it'll just look worse."
"Can't believe I'm hearing this." The line crackled. The lawyer's words faded in and out. Something about a frame-up. Something about taking it lying down. Joe chuckled. The lawyer said, "Well?"
"What am I going to do, Ronald? Fuck off to France?"
"Good idea. You'll need a false passport."
"I'm not serious. You think I'm going to hide for the rest of my life?"
"Did you kill Ruth, Joe?"
"Fuck off."
"Well it looks like you did. If you want, you can get GUILTY tattooed on your forehead. Then in prison you can have TWAT tattooed on your buttocks."
The line went dead.
Joe stared at the phone, wondering how his life had reduced to a single decision: Stand and fight like a man, or run. Not much choice, was there? He glanced around him, examining his home. Well, what was left of it. When he'd gone into the bedroom, he'd discovered the police had taken all his clothes. He felt dirty. Even after his bath, he felt dirty. Putting on his old clothes wasn't going to help. The air was stale. He ought to open a window. He couldn't blame the police for messing up his life, though. Assuming his suspicions were correct, the person he really had to blame wouldn't be seen dead in a policeman's uniform. And if he was right? Jesus. He didn't want to think about it. The sensation of a spider crawling across his skin was so vivid he slapped the back of his neck and then he looked at his palm. There was nothing there.
Granted, Cooper wasn't the most warm-hearted man in Edinburgh. But Joe had always considered loyalty to be one of his best friend's redeeming features. Loyalty to his family. Loyalty to his friends. Loyalty to Joe. The idea that Cooper was a traitorous bastard was almost as incomprehensible as the news of Gemma's death.
Joe had to run. No matter what it looked like. He had to meet Ronald, maybe even tell him what was going on. What might be going on. Joe still had no proof. But he was going to see about getting some.
He dried himself hurriedly and draped the towel over the side of the bath. He pulled on his old clothes, grabbed his coat and ran outside.
The wind chilled the back of his neck where his hair was still damp, but at least the sensation of insects crawling over him had vanished. For a minute back there he'd thought he was wimping out. He jogged to the corner of the street.
Almost immediately the lawyer's car pulled up alongside him.
Joe opened the door and jumped in. "Where we going?"
"Somewhere nobody'll think to look for you," Ronald said.
TWENTY-SIX
Ronald Brewer's sitting room window looked out over the Meadows. Groups of book-laden university students returning from classes intersected a jackets-for-goalposts football match. Kids. Joe couldn't bear to look at them. "You got a spare set of keys?" he said, stepping away from the window.
"Stay here," the lawyer said. "Sit down. Have something to eat."
"Got to go out sometime. No point postponing the inevitable."
"I don't think it's wise to go out, Joe. Not at the moment. The police are looking for you."
"You going to hold me prisoner here, Ronald? You know that's against the law."
The lawyer approached the fireplace. "The police will be watching your house. And stay away from your friends. Especially Cooper. The police will have his house under surveillance, too."
"They don't have the manpower."
"You're wanted for murder, Joe. Not shoplifting. They'll find the necessary resources." He dug a bunch of keys out of a plastic jar. "One with the red cap opens the outside door."
"Think I'll figure it out," Joe said. "You got an alarm?"
"Waste of money. Nothing worth stealing."
Joe took a quick glance round the room. No TV, no DVD player, no CD player, no video, no Playstation, no computer. The lawyer was right. Joe nodded at the floor to ceiling bookcase. "Those must have cost a lot."
"I can just see your average hood from Craigmillar going out of his way to rip off a pile of legal textbooks." Ronald strolled over to the settee and sat down.
Joe said, "You got some Chomsky and Pilger there. Probably get a few bob for them."
"Not highly coveted, Joe, by the criminal fraternity. Not even signed first editions."
"Not much in the way of fiction."
"Some Zola on the bottom shelf. He's about the only novelist I have time for."
"I read The Earth once. Good socialist stuff, if you like that sort of thing."
"I'd recommend Nana," the lawyer said. "More your cup of tea, I'd have thought. It's about a prostitute."
Joe laughed and felt himself relax. "What do you do in the evenings apart from read?"
"Answer my emails."
"So you do have something worth stealing. Where do you hide the computer?"
"I don't. I normally work at the office. Get home pretty late. I don't need much here."
"Answering emails keeps you busy all night?"
"I do a spot of pro bono — voluntary work."
"Who for?"
"A handful of human rights groups. And, more recently, a non-aligned left-wing coalition group. They contact me mainly by email. Sorting out their legal problems keeps me pretty busy."
"Your firm's happy to let you do that?"
"Yeah. Makes it look as if they care."
"Well, Ronald. It's good to know somebody gives a shit."
The lawyer shrugged. "I have to leave in a minute. Meet a friend of yours. I can't help you if I stay here chatting."
"Off you go. I'm long past needing a babysitter."
"Help yourself to tea, coffee, whatever."
"Don't need a waiter either. Just fuck off, Ronald. I'll put my feet up and watch some TV."
"I don't have—"
"I know. I noticed."
"I'm slow. Sorry. I better get going."
"What friend?" Joe said. " I didn't know I had any."
"Adam Wright."
"What's he doing in Edinburgh?"
"That's what I'm about to find out."
After Ronald left, Joe waited a few minutes, then located the lawyer's phone (at least he had one) on a table in the hallway. Joe dug out the photo of Ruth and dialed the number he'd written on the back.
A young male voice answered. "Florida Al's Tanning Studio."
"Who am I speaking to?"
A slight pause, then the voice said, "This is Dom."
"Pleased to meet you, Dom. I'd like to speak to Mr. Park."
Another slight pause, a little longer than the previous one. "Don't know anyone by that name."
"I don't believe you, Dom. I'd like to speak to Mr. Park."
The line went dead.
Joe redialed. After half a dozen rings Dom answered. This time he just said, "Hello?"
"Me again."
"Look, I told you. I don't know anybody named Park. Nobody works here with that name."
"Can I speak to Florida Al?"
Dom laughed.
"I say something funny?"
"There's no Florida Al. It's a made-up name."
"Hilarious," Joe said. "So let me speak to Sunshine Jim, then, or whatever the owner wants to call himself."
The silence lasted a long time. At last Dom said, "He's out."
"Does he have a mobile number?"
"Can't let you have it."
"When will he be back?"
"Back where?"
"In the studio, Dom. You told me he was out. That suggests that he's been in and will be returning later. I'd like to know when."
"Not today."
"Then why don't you give me his number?"
"Can't do that."
"His name, then. Can you g
ive me that?"
The line went dead again.
Joe tried ringing the number a few more times. Each time it rang out. He yanked the yellow pages from underneath the table the phone sat on. The list of tanning studios was longer than he imagined. He found the address of Florida Al's. It was in Bruntsfield. Ten minutes walk round the corner.
Joe had to get to the tanning studio before it closed for the day. He was hoping he hadn't spooked Dom. Probably shouldn't have called. No, he should have pretended to be a customer and asked for the address. Or just hung up once Dom had answered and done what he ended up doing anyway and getting the address from the Yellow Pages. If only he hadn't smashed his mobile in that fit of rage with Adam, he could have tried phoning again. Maybe Dom would have answered, assuming the anonymous caller would be fed up of pestering him by now.
A pleasant afternoon was turning into a pleasant evening. Low in the sky, the sun burned brightly. Much more of this kind of nonsense and Florida Al's would be out of business. Classes over for the day, the Meadows teemed with students. Hanging around in groups, walking in pairs, in threes, on their own. For a moment, he thought he'd spotted Gemma. But it was just a girl, laughing with her friend, who wore her hair the same way. Same color, too. They could have passed for sisters. There she was, this student, strolling in the park with not a care in the world while Gemma was dead. Didn't seem right. Joe knew it wasn't the girl's fault, but he still wanted to run across the road and wipe the grin off her face. It seemed disrespectful.
A police car passed, siren screaming. Joe turned his head to follow the sound and bumped into a fat guy carrying a couple of shopping bags. Joe apologized. The fat guy was sweating and said, breathlessly, "My fault." The police car disappeared, heading towards town.
Joe followed a footpath that cut through Bruntsfield Links, breathing in the smell of freshly cut grass. Within a few minutes he was standing outside Florida Al's Tanning Studio.
A hand-written sign on the window said, "New — nipple piercing." A sign on the door said, "Open."
Joe walked in. Behind a bright red reception desk, a couple of tanned young men looked at him, their eyes widening as they watched him flip over the card on the back of the door. One of the men had jet-black hair. The other's was straight and shoulder-length and pink where it wasn't blue. Neither of them looked a day over twenty.
Kiss Her Goodbye Page 13
