The Fix (Nightlong Series Book 2)

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  “Listen, you can still be their dad. You’re a great dad. They’ll still have you. That’s more than I ever had.”

  “Fuck off, Dante.”

  “Yep. Might wait a few days then, see if she calls home.”

  “Do that. And try to get some rest while you’re there, you could do with it.”

  “I’ll try.”

  He hung up and I tried to shut my eyelids, but every time I did, I saw Daltrey – still screaming for me to speak for him from the dead. Would his ghost ever be satisfied? I didn’t know.

  ***

  A couple more sleepless days passed. During that time, I looked at her credit card statements online. The day she left London, she withdrew £500 from a cash machine – and it had been a London cash machine. There had been no other transactions since. She was clever – and meant to stay hidden. But from me? Or an assailant?

  I called my insurance company and told them I’d had some emerald jewellery stolen. If anything she owned was worth anything, it was those emeralds. It was unlikely she would pawn them – they were her favourite – but in the event of needing instant, emergency cash the emeralds would work. Plus my thinking was that pawnbrokers didn’t come across that sort of thing everyday and so – if someone did try to pawn them – my insurance company would get a hit and the police would get involved. Then I’d find Ciara.

  A mate of mine at Scotland Yard had run both her passport numbers through the system and as far as he could tell, she hadn’t left the UK. She could have come to Ireland on her driving licence but he’d also ran that, too.

  I was in the dark and merely had to hope the bug I’d planted in the landline at her family home would produce something soon.

  Until then, my mind stewed on the past, the present – and a future I couldn’t see.

  I had no idea what I was going to do with my life.

  I walked the streets Ciara had grown up on, trying to put myself in her shoes. I ate the food she would have eaten, including some of the best seafood I’d ever tasted. I drank the drinks she liked and I breathed the air she once had. I realised I’d never asked her enough about her life here. I’d never asked her enough about anything. For as long as I’d known her, I’d been wrapped up in myself too much to notice she’d once had a life, too. Shame began to swamp me and I realised how selfish I had been over the years, asking her to give me what I wanted every night, when I never asked her what it was she wanted.

  ***

  A few evenings later, I lay stuffed with a belly full of fish pie the landlady had served for tea. It had been so deliciously baked and seasoned, with just a thin, crispy cheese top, I’d eaten the whole thing. For once I felt full and replenished and my bed hugged me as I dozed slightly, the Irish way of life finally making me relax.

  The laptop I’d had constantly on guard sounded with a recognisable series of beeps. I’d overheard a few conversations over the past few days – most of them from customers wanting to book a room. One night Bethan had phone sex with Kellan or whatever his name was – that was weird. The mobile phone service was dodgy round here at best.

  “Hello?” Bethan answered, because it seemed her father’s duties didn’t include answering the phone.

  “Bethan, it’s me.”

  I shot up in bed, racing over to the laptop.

  Flicking my finger over the tracker pad, I began tracing the call.

  “Ciara. Is that you?”

  “Yes. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  “We’re fine, but he’s been here.”

  “He has?” She sounded not herself. Worried wasn’t the word for it. More like petrified. What had I done to my feisty Ciara?

  “Tall and blond, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Bit of an arse, too?”

  “Right.”

  “He’s staying next door. He won’t go.”

  “WHAT?”

  “I reckon Jessie’s only letting him stay because she saw us turn him away and she’s just being a bitch, as usual. She keeps coming over in the morning, bragging about the big tips he keeps giving her.”

  “Gawd, what a curtain twitcher that woman is. Not changed, at all.”

  “No.”

  “Listen, he’ll give up eventually. As long as you didn’t tell him anything?”

  “No, I said you could be anywhere. I said you’re clever.”

  “Good girl.”

  “Everything else okay, Keer?” she asked, calling her sister by a sort of nickname.

  “I think so. I just need time to think, you know? I don’t think I’ve been myself. I don’t know.”

  “You’ll be all right. You’re one of those people. You always land on your feet, don’t you? Nobody else from round here could do what you did.”

  “That’s kind of you, Beth.”

  “It’s just true.”

  “Listen, I better go. As long as you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I love you, you know?”

  “I know,” replied Bethan, almost tearful it sounded.

  As they were about to hang up, I traced the call to Edinburgh.

  “I might not call again.”

  “That’s okay. Just send me a postcard.”

  “Bye.”

  I picked up my phone and dialled my pilot to come back and get me.

  Twenty-Five

  Ciara

  I’D FOUND A NICE PLACE to stay, an old B&B with tartan everywhere and pewter mugs, horse shoes and three dozen varieties of malt behind the heavy, wooden bar. Down an old alley near the parliament building, I was tucked away from the main rung. It was cosy and better yet, the landlady was letting me pay in cash. I’d fibbed and told her I was an author seeking some time away from it all to write, so she didn’t ask too many questions and believed me when I showed her all my precious notebooks and the superb laptop Dante had bought for me. I said nobody was to know I was there because I was famous. She believed that too, asking if I wasn’t a pupil of JK Rowling, who’d done something similar while writing the Harry Potter novels.

  Having quickly reduced my complementary drinks tray in the room to nothing, I decided to go down to the bar for the first time, around two weeks after first arriving there. It was better than ringing down and asking for more drink up in my room. I’d had all the bourbon and all the whisky and all the brandy, too. I didn’t want to look sad and lonely by phoning up for more liquor. Instead I’d decided it would be much better to look sad and lonely in a bar where drinks were kind of the only reason to be there – therefore, no judgment.

  Unfortunately I was noticed as I walked in and sat at the bar on my own. I was living on borrowed time because my cash was running out and the designer shoes I’d sold to some second-hand shopkeepers up on the Royal Mile had only earned me enough to get me to the end of the week.

  On my third vodka martini, a guy sidled up next to me.

  “I’ve been trying to think of a line for about half an hour.”

  I turned and saw a handsome, dark-haired man. “Half an hour, eh? I’m honoured.”

  “May I?” He gestured at the bar stool next to mine.

  “Free country.”

  He took the seat and went on, “I didn’t think one line would suffice. Maybe a volume?”

  I sniffed, trying to hide a smirk. “That’s probably the worst line I have ever heard!”

  We both burst out laughing. In his suit, his shoulders visibly shook inside them.

  “My name’s Paul Clark.”

  I thought about using my real name, then thought better of it.

  “Cleo,” I said.

  “Suits you.”

  “So people have said.”

  “You here to see friends? Family? Tourist?”

  Cradling my glass of vodka martini, I stared down into it to say, “Taking some time out.”

  “Hiding from the boyfriend? Won’t take the hint?”

  I turned to look into the man’s blue eyes. He was lovely, seemed wealthy mayb
e, educated. He was the usual sort of guy I attracted – one who thought he may have a slim chance. You’d have thought businessmen would stay in the big chain hotels but it appeared some preferred the backstreets of Edinburgh. Looking around, I quickly realised this was a bar where men and women hooked up. More subtle, I supposed – doing it off the beaten track where you were less likely to bump into someone you knew. All the women in the bar were made up, unlike me, and all the men drooled over every little thing the women said.

  “Paul Clark. Hmm…” I surveyed his face. “…you definitely don’t look like a Paul or a Clark. I’m imagining one uses this bar often, to pick up ladies like me?”

  He shrugged, obviously guilty.

  I gestured at the wedding finger where he had a clear indent.

  “Just because you take it off, doesn’t mean the married man label isn’t stuck.”

  He wiped his fingers over his forehead. “Wow. You’ve had this a lot, I’m guessing?”

  “Nope,” I said, still cradling my glass, knowing full-well that my drink was the only thing I could trust that night, “I just look with my eyes, that’s all.”

  “My name’s Robert Claremont,” he said, holding out his hand, which I shook.

  “Ciara,” I said, with a wink.

  He looked surprised.

  “What do you do, Ciara?”

  I laughed, a light chuckle. “You really want to know?”

  “I hardly think it matters. I’ll be gone tomorrow, so will you, won’t you?”

  I turned and drummed my fingers on the bar top. The barman seemed to be watching us out of the corner of his eye as he polished glasses, eager to find out whether this man – Robert (so he claimed) – would take yet another conquest up to his room during yet another business trip.

  Robert, with his perfect English accent, was about to get a shock.

  “I’m a dominatrix,” I whispered.

  I let the words hang there on my natural lips. Slowly, and very carefully, he turned on his stool and got off it. Then he left the bar sharpish.

  I sniggered.

  When he was gone, the barman asked, “I hope you told him something awful to get rid of him. He’s in here a couple of times a month, trying his luck.”

  “He realised I am beyond his nonsense. It seemed to work.”

  The barman grinned. “One more? On me this time.”

  “Why… thank you,” I said, and he poured me another. “Why don’t you suggest me a fine single malt. Seeing as though I’m in Scotland…”

  The barman poured me a drink and before long, we found ourselves discussing Jameson and Scotch, the differences, the pros and cons. It was that fine combination of bullshit chatter and drunken effluence which entirely made sense – but only at the time. Then we got onto Guinness and wine. There was a lock-in and I walked upstairs to bed that night – absolutely hammered. The barman had drunk more than me, still able to hold his liquor.

  Damn Scots.

  BREAKFAST the following morning almost killed me. Black pudding went down my throat like tar but I refused to be beaten and ate it all, swished down with dozens of cups of tea. Never one to lose my sauce, I kept my resolve and didn’t throw up. By around eleven am, I was feeling much better and decided to take myself off for a walk, finally feeling brave enough. Maybe I was still pissed.

  A film festival or something was going on in the city and I kept seeing advertisements for the Fringe in August. As I passed venues advertising advance tickets for the festival, I realised I probably shouldn’t stay much longer. I knew it was better to move on, maybe. Not put down any imprint on Edinburgh, in case he did come looking for me here.

  After a ghost tour underground and a look around the castle, I stopped at a café for some late lunch, a panini and another pot of tea.

  I had never really been the type of person to read newspapers. I caught the odd headline on Yahoo but never really read the hard news, as such – because it was always so depressing. However there was a newspaper on my table as I ate and in the small column to the right, I caught the name Sinclair in print…

  Unfolding the paper, I read the small article beneath Dante’s picture…

  Dante Sinclair, the notoriously reclusive owner of Import Clothes, this week sold his company for a princely sum rumoured at around £500million. Sources close to Sinclair refuse to comment but a representative for his father, the former owner Richard Sinclair, commented, ‘Good for him.’ The younger Sinclair, whose brother was mysteriously murdered in 2004, was allegedly seen boarding his jet yesterday and refused to comment on the sale of his business. More on page 34…

  I turned to page 34 and read a long, extensive article on the history of Import Clothes, which had been one of the first cut-price clothing giants. The article detailed the company’s fortunes, from minor to major, and mentioned how significant investment after Dante took over had boosted the company’s brand and profits. He’d taken the business to new heights after Dick sold it all to him, so maybe Dick was a crap businessman in comparison to Dante. I realised as I read on, the newspaper I was reading was far-right inclined and it was the news that the company had sold to a foreign investor that had apparently ‘dismayed many in the business world’. Nobody liked to see something British-made get bought out, but…

  It seemed to me Dante had wanted to get shot of it and had picked the biggest offer. And why wouldn’t he?

  “Can I take this away?” I asked the waiter as I got up to leave.

  “Sure, it’s late in the day now anyway. Old news soon.”

  I tucked the paper under my arm and walked towards the National Gallery, leisurely strolling around, enjoying Titian and various other works of magnificence.

  I wondered what it meant, though. Had he sold his company so he had some hard cash, finally?

  Had he discovered the perpetrator in the murder of his colleagues?

  Unable to stop my mind wandering, I went into a shop, bought a pay as you go phone and googled Edward Rayworth.

  Soon enough I was on the line with his secretary. “This is Cleo Patrick for Mr Rayworth. He’ll know what it’s about.”

  “A moment, I’ll see if he’s available,” she said.

  “Ciara?” he gasped down the line.

  “Yep, it’s me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “If I told you, would you promise not to tell him?”

  “It’s not even a promise I need to make. He’s gone and didn’t leave me with a forwarding address or number.”

  “What the hell’s happened?”

  “He took it bad when you left.”

  “I needed some headspace. I needed time to breathe,” I protested.

  “I already tried to tell him that, he wouldn’t listen.”

  “Well I didn’t go home, I came up to Scotland instead.”

  “I know. He found out, somehow… then he was looking for you. He lasted a week before he got frustrated.”

  I laughed internally. He’d always thought he was so clever and I’d proved him wrong. I’d got rid of my phone, bought new clothes without tracking devices stitched inside them – and I’d done something he never expected me to do:

  I’d gone and damn well survived without him.

  “He’s so maddening! Tell me it’s not just me?”

  “It’s not just you,” Teddy agreed, “he’s so fucking pig-headed.”

  “Anyway, why’s he sold up? I saw a newspaper and started thinking the worst. Has someone made him sell everything? Bribed him or whatever?”

  “Nobody made him do anything. As far as I know, he still doesn’t know who has it in for him. He did find out Ayda was in on it, the inside woman so to speak. And Sexton got shot. He’s gone.”

  “No, not… no. Oh… no.”

  I sat on a bench in the outdoors, in public gardens opposite Jenners. I didn’t want to cry, but Sexton…

  “I’m so sorry, Ciara. So sorry.”

  “I just–” I sniffed, catching my breath. “Sometimes, he was t
he only one I had, you know?”

  “I understand.” There was a pause before he said, “Listen, let me come up there. I can fly up at the weekend and tell you everything I know. Do you need some money? Some clothes? Anything?”

  “I need answers,” I said.

  “Okay. Well, I’ve jotted down this number you’re calling on. I’ll call when I know details.”

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  “He needs all the help he can get. I tried to help him in the past, but he scares me Ciara. He’s always scared me.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “Okay, speak soon.”

  “Yep, bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Twenty-Six

  Dante (Yesterday)

  “SHE DOESN’T WANT TO BE found,” I told Teddy, as I sat with him in his chambers office.

  I didn’t tell him I knew exactly where she was but I’d decided to leave her be. If this all started because of us getting together, then I was willing to let my enemy believe they’d won – for the time being anyway. Since Sexton had lost his life, I hadn’t heard anything and I grew more desperate by the day to know if Ayda would show up again – or if her partner would finally reveal himself.

  “You don’t know that. Something could’ve happened to her.”

  The man sat opposite me was one of the last men standing who’d known I was the fixer. The list of people who’d known about my job were:

  Ciara;

  Mum;

  Dad;

  Shay;

  Sexton.

  And Teddy.

  Shay knew because she was the Madam of Pernox, which I used to steal secrets. I told her she didn’t need to know how I was stealing them, just that I was and to keep her mouth shut or risk losing her position. She didn’t question me.

  Anyway, she’d let slip to Teddy five years ago that I was fixing and he called me up, telling me I was ridiculous and was going to get myself killed. I ignored him and said if he had a problem with it, there was still nothing he could do about it. I was anonymous and nobody would ever believe a clothing millionaire also capable of being a fixer.