by James Oswald
There was something about the woman, an inner strength maybe, that was utterly fascinating. Janie had tried to stop herself from staring, knowing it was both rude and unprofessional. But she hadn’t been able to, and had hung on every word the woman had said. Even the nonsense about witches. Better not tell Manda about that, or she’d come home one day to find her flatmate had bought them both pointy hats and decorated the place with pumpkins.
A light knock at the door stopped her before she reached the kitchen. Janie peered through the peephole to see who it was, then quickly opened the door.
‘Hey, Izzy. Thought you’d gone back to stay with Madame Rose.’
Izzy still wore her funereal clothes, although she’d pulled on a coat that was so large it must have belonged to the medium.
‘I have. Just popped round to pick up some things. And to give you this.’ She held up a bag with the logo of a very expensive local delicatessen on it. ‘And this, if you can manage it.’
Izzy stepped aside to reveal a case of wine on the landing behind her. And not a cheap cardboard box either. This was one of those wooden ones with French writing stencilled on the side.
‘Wow. Thank you. Thought you didn’t have any money?’ Janie ushered the young woman into the hall, then fetched in the case. It was reassuringly heavy and the words ‘Château Pétrus’ sparked a memory.
‘Stuck it all on Charlotte’s credit card,’ Izzy said, with all the innocence of a teenager. ‘Sure she won’t mind. Probably won’t even notice.’
Janie laughed as she grabbed the kettle. If Manda had been home already she might have been tempted by wine – although probably not the bottles Izzy had just brought – but she was parched and tea would slake her thirst without getting her drunk.
‘I take it Doctor Downham’s gone back to Burntwoods now,’ she said, as Izzy opened up the bag and started putting things from it into the fridge.
‘Yes. She and Rose don’t exactly get on. I mean, they’re not enemies or anything. They’re civil. But you can tell neither of them particularly want to be in the same place. Like they’re the wrong side of a pair of magnets, if you see what I mean.’
Janie stopped in the act of filling the kettle. ‘Actually, yes. I do. That’s a very good way of putting it. They both seem to have a lot of time for the boss, though.’
‘He’s weird, and they both love weird. Like, I never expected him to be driving around in a piddly little electric car, but he does. It’s like he doesn’t care what anyone thinks about him.’
‘Well, you’re right about the not caring bit, but not the car. His got nicked a week or so back. That’s his other half’s he’s just borrowed.’
‘So what’s he drive then? BMW, I bet.’ Izzy went through the cupboards, fetching out pot, teabags, mugs, as if she had lived here all her life.
‘Alfa Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio.’ Janie watched Izzy’s face for any reaction. It was highly unlikely a nineteen-year-old woman would have any great interest in or knowledge of cars, but she had asked.
‘Sounds a bit weird and posh. Much like your boss, I guess.’
‘Well if you think that’s weird, he used to drive around in a fifty-year-old classic until it got smashed up a couple of years ago.’
‘Really? Like that bloke on the telly?’
‘Well, it was another Alfa, not a Jag, but aye, I guess so.’ Janie poured tea into two mugs, handed one over.
‘Mirriam liked him, anyway. And she doesn’t have much time for men.’
‘You surprise me. Is she really a witch? Like, black cat as a best friend, riding around on a broomstick, pointy hat?’
Izzy giggled like a little girl. ‘She looks a bit like that, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her with a cat, and certainly not a broomstick. That’s not what witches are about, Janie. We’re about balancing forces, life energy, keeping tabs on the spirits that most people don’t believe in any more.’
‘We?’ Janie blew on her tea, took an unladylike slurp.
‘Figure of speech. I stayed there a while. Burntwoods, that is. Learned a lot of stuff. Probably should have stuck at it. Would have saved my half-sister a world of trouble if I had.’
Harrison knew the story. No need to ask. She sipped her tea again, enjoying the chance to relax. Enjoying Izzy’s company too. She’d miss her, even if the flat wasn’t really big enough for the three of them.
The moment was spoiled as her phone buzzed in her pocket: a text. Probably Manda asking if they wanted anything picked up for supper. Janie pulled it out, thinking pizza might be good, then frowned when she saw who it was actually from. What it said.
‘Something up?’ Izzy asked.
‘The boss. He does this. Quite often.’ She tapped the screen to show the full message, read it a couple of times, then clicked the phone off and put it away again.
‘Looks like something important,’ Izzy said.
‘Possibly. Could probably wait until morning, but I think I might go and have a quick drink. There’s a bar not too far from here might be worth my while visiting.’
‘Drink? But you’ve just made tea.’ Izzy lifted her mug to prove the point.
‘Aye, but it’s a bit late for tea, really.’ Janie went out to the hall and started pulling her boots back on. Izzy followed, fetching both their coats from the hooks.
‘I should do this on my own. It’s sort of police business.’
Izzy was about to say something, but the noise of a key in the lock distracted them both. The door swung open to reveal Manda Parsons fumbling with her bag. She looked at them both for a second. ‘Just in or going out?’
‘Janie’s off to the pub,’ Izzy said, and a broad smile spread across Manda’s face.
‘Pub? Excellent idea.’
It was just as well there was an entrance to the Walter Scott bar direct from the street. As Janie led Izzy and Manda inside, it occurred to her that Izzy’s last visit had involved being taken away by uniformed police officers, so coming in through the foyer and past reception might not have been the smartest move. Even with a hat pulled down over her scrappy red hair, she was quite striking to look at and easily recognised, although the funeral clothes might throw people. Janie scanned the room quickly, spotting an empty alcove to which she shooed them both as swiftly as she could.
‘Christ, I’ve not been in here in an age. It’s fair changed a bit.’ Manda paused halfway there, gawking at the decor like a tourist in the Sistine Chapel.
‘Come and sit down.’ Janie grabbed at her forearm and got her hand, then pulled her to her seat. ‘OK. What’s everyone drinking?’
Orders taken, she went to the bar, looking around to see if Tommy Fielding was about. It was a long shot, but she knew he lived across the road in one of the anonymous modern apartment blocks that had sprung up around Fountainbridge, and she knew from her conversations with some of the guests at his fathers’ rights seminar that he held regular meetings here at the Scotston with smaller groups. If they were meeting tonight, then there was a chance she might see him. And then what? Ask him about Cecily Slater’s will? Coming to the hotel had seemed a good idea half an hour earlier, but Janie was beginning to wonder what had come over her.
‘What can I get you, love?’
The arrival of a smartly dressed bartender interrupted her thoughts. Janie reeled off the order. Pint of Stella for Manda, red wine for her and Izzy. They should all probably get something to eat too, but when the drinks arrived and she learned how much they were costing, she hastily revised her plans to ask for a bar menu.
‘Make them last, OK? Need a second mortgage to drink in this place.’ She put her spoils down on the table, complete with a couple of bags of crisps that should have been family sized packets given their price.
‘Why’d you drag us all the way here then? There’s plenty better pubs on the way.’ Manda expertly prised open the first crisp pa
cket and folded it out so they could share.
‘Wanted to see if someone was here,’ Janie said, then turned her head swiftly away as Tommy Fielding came in through the door from reception. ‘And it seems like he is.’
Manda stared shamelessly. ‘Reckon he’s a bit old for you, Janie. Dresses well, mind.’
Janie risked a look, and saw Fielding talking to the barman who had served her, ordering a round for the three men with him. She recognised one of them from the last time she’d been here. The young lad with a thing for seventies horror movies. The other two had their backs to her, but she could tell they were older and richer. More like Fielding himself.
They took their drinks to a table on the far side of the bar. Fielding sat with his back to Janie, the young lad next to him and the other two men facing her. She didn’t recognise either of them, but her attention was mostly taken up by the young man anyway. His body language was fascinating. He held himself awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable in the company, but also desperate to be there. He almost clung to Fielding, hanging on the older man’s every word. Standing, the young man was the taller of the two, but seated he bent his back, almost crouching down so that he could look up at the lawyer. A strange dynamic indeed.
‘So what’s the story with them?’ Manda asked.
‘The one with his back to us is Tommy Fielding,’ Izzy answered before Janie could say anything. ‘I think the two older guys are Anthony Swale and Jeremy Scobie. They’re both lawyers and scumbags like Fielding. The young lad? No idea.’
‘How on earth . . . ?’
‘Know your enemy is the first rule of war, isn’t it? We weren’t just standing outside shouting slogans and waving signs, you know. If you’d asked, we could have given you intel on these MRA idiots that’d keep you busy for months.’
‘Might just take you up on that.’ Janie sipped at her wine, trying to keep herself inconspicuous while watching Fielding and his little group of sycophants.
‘My round,’ Manda said, her beer finished long before either Janie or Izzy had got far with their wine. She forced Janie to swap seats and headed to the bar. While she was gone, Janie watched as Fielding pulled out his phone and stared at the screen. He seemed to stiffen, then relax, before putting the phone away and saying something to his friends. They swiftly downed their drinks, got up and left, the young man hanging back until Fielding dismissed him with a wave. Then the lawyer pulled out his phone again, tapped away at the screen to send a message, and put the handset down on the table in front of him.
‘Jesus wept. How can anyone afford to drink in this place? I could’ve got myself drunk for a week on the price of that one beer. Daylight fucking robbery.’
‘It’s night-time, Manda,’ Izzy said.
‘That just makes it worse.’
‘Well, cheers anyway.’ Izzy raised her glass and clinked it against Manda’s. Janie barely noticed, her attention focused on Fielding. He was drumming his fingers on the table as if waiting for someone. Then he stopped, looked up at the door through to reception. A figure had just entered, and of all the people it might have been coming to meet the lawyer for an evening drink, this was the last one Janie would have guessed.
‘Isn’t that—?’ Manda started to say, her hand beginning to point. Janie grabbed her and pulled her close in a pretend lovers’ clinch, desperate that neither of them be seen as the chief superintendent walked up to a now-standing Tommy Fielding and embraced him like an old friend.
50
Gary can’t understand what’s going on.
He’d been to one of Fielding’s meetings, same as he’s done every week since he first met the lawyer. This time it had been a smaller group, but it changed week on week, he was finding that. The two other men there looked like they’d known Fielding a long time, old friends. Both of them were lawyers and both were older than him but they’d not talked down to him. Far from it. They’d shared their experiences at the hands of the biased courts and the even more biased media, and with each new revelation Gary’s anger had burned brighter. When it had come to his turn, he worried that his own story of betrayal might seem pathetic, but they’d all been outraged on his behalf. One of the men, Anthony he thought his name was, had even promised to look into the lawyer who’d tricked Gary into signing that fateful document. The one that lost him his house, his child, his job and God knew what else besides.
And then everything had changed.
Some of them had gone for a drink after the meeting. More stories from the courts and the endless list of injustices done to men who were only trying to provide for their families. Gary was glad nobody asked him to buy a round. His money’s almost run out and he’s behind on the rent already. They were winding up anyway, but then Fielding gets a text that obviously means something. Gary can’t see what it says or who it’s from. Fielding tells them he needs to cut things short, and it’s only when the other two get up to leave Gary realises it means he has to go too.
That’s when he sees the redhead. The bitch from the protests. Sure, she’s dressed herself up a bit smarter, and she’s got a hat on to hide her hair, but he’d recognise her any day. She shouted in his face, accused him of being in league with paedos. That’s not something you forget in a hurry. Last he heard she’d been arrested and thrown in a cell. So why’s she sitting in a little alcove off the main bar along with a couple of young women who must be lezzies given how close they’re sitting together? He turns back to tell Fielding, but the lawyer’s on his phone and the other men have gone. It’ll have to wait until tomorrow.
But it bothers him, all the same. One of the lezzies looks familiar too, though he really can’t place her. Still, he knows that there’s something going on, so instead of heading back to his grotty little bedsit in Gorgie and the constant whining of the landlady, he finds a corner of reception to sit and watch.
It doesn’t take long for something to happen, but it’s not what he was expecting. Not at all. The flunky in the ridiculous uniform hurries to the front door, pulls it open just in time for someone to come in. Instinctively, Gary tries to hide, make himself invisible, even though the woman who has just entered has never seen him before. He’s seen her, though. On the news, in the papers, and in photographs Fielding’s shared with him and the others. This is the queen bitch, the one who runs the cops in Edinburgh. The cops who arrested him for assault when all he’d done was give Bella the slap she deserved for nagging him to go change Wee Mary. Fielding’s told him all about her, the things she did to him in London, the way she screwed her way to the top of the police and the men she shat on, careers she destroyed, on her way up. He hates everything about her.
So why is she coming to see him? Why here? Why now?
From where he sits, Gary has a good view through the open door to the bar and Fielding’s table. He can even see the little alcove across the room where that redhead bitch is chatting with her lezzie friends. That’s when it hits him where he’s seen the other one before. Here. In this bar. With that giant bastard who was so tall he had to stoop through the doorway. She’s a cop, for fuck’s sake. Not locking the bitch up in a cell but taking her out for a drink.
Gary’s anger is burning bright now. He’s on his feet, striding across the reception area towards the bar, ready to defend Fielding when the police corner him or try to arrest him. But they don’t do that.
The one on the far side of the bar looks like she’s snogging her girlfriend, but Gary’s not so easily fooled. She’s hiding from her boss, using the clinch to stop herself from being recognised like Captain America and Scarlett Johansson in that movie. It stops him in his tracks, and just in time too. The senior cop, the top bitch, sees Fielding at the same time as the lawyer spots her standing just inside the bar. Gary’s expecting angry faces, arguments. What he gets is Fielding standing up swiftly and embracing the woman like an old friend.
Like a lover.
They chat briefly, an
d then Fielding’s grabbing his coat from the back of the seat. Gary’s almost caught out, but he ducks down the little corridor that leads to the gents as the two of them walk out arm in arm. They’re so engrossed in each other, they barely notice the doorman opening the door and wishing them a good evening. And they certainly don’t see Gary as he darts out behind them to follow.
They don’t go far, just a couple of hundred metres down the road to where one of the new glass-walled apartment blocks glows in the night. Fielding taps at the keypad beside the door, the lock buzzes, and the two of them go inside. Only one reason Gary can think of for them to do that, and it makes no sense.
He hears footsteps on the pavement and shrinks into the shadows, unnoticed as the three women walk swiftly by, chattering away. They carry on down the road until the next set of traffic lights, cross, and make their way back along the other side. When they reach the apartment block, the one who’s a cop pulls out her phone and plays with it for a while. They’re arguing, but from where he is, Gary can’t hear what they’re saying. Then they set off again, back towards the Lothian Road.
He watches them go, then stares up at the building. It’s impossible to see into any of the apartments from where he stands, and he’s no idea which one is Fielding’s anyway. They’ve always met at the hotel.
It’s cold out, a fine drizzle working its way through his coat and deep into his bones, and yet he can’t stop staring up at the apartments. Out here is slightly less miserable than going home. Fucking damp little shithole’s not his home anyway. His home was taken from him and these fuckers pretended to care.
How long he seethes, Gary doesn’t know. The anger keeps him warm even as the smir slicks his hair to his head and drips begin to fall from the tip of his nose. And then the front door clicks open. She steps out, the woman, the copper, the witch. She looks one way, then the other, as if expecting someone to come and pick her up. Then with a little shrug, she heads in the same direction the three other women went.
In his mind, Gary rushes across the road and confronts her. Or he makes it to the door before it has swung shut, gets his foot in it at the last moment, goes up to Fielding’s apartment and has it out with him. Only he doesn’t know which one is Fielding’s apartment, and the door has already closed. The woman’s too far away to catch up with too.
