‘I’m not police.’
‘I didn’t think you were. Doesn’t make me any less curious.’
‘Do you know Jason Scutter or not?’
The barman shook his head. ‘Can’t say I do.’
‘Then it doesn’t matter who I am, does it?’
‘Well, what if I do hear from him? Who will I contact?’
‘I can leave you my number.’
‘You do that.’
Abbott looked along the bar, to where another customer regarded him with interest. Over to his right were a man and a woman at a table. Both wore the florid faces of daytime drinkers. Both also looking at him with naked curiosity. He stared them out until they looked away.
The pint was in front of Abbott by now, the barman having moved off. Abbott looked at the drink, his little alcoholic voice, that wheedling AV, insisting that he should drink it. Just one, it told him. Just one wee little dram to take the edge off. You know what? You could maybe just have one drink a day. Why not do that from now on? Just one drink a day. That’s a plan.
And he let the AV have its say. He listened and almost capitulated before that other part of his brain reasserted itself and told the AV to pipe down, because when had one ever been enough?
If one was enough then you wouldn’t have a problem, would you?
What did you buy the booze for, then?
Because I like my enemy where I can see it.
So, although the full pint of lager glistened with coldness, and every aspect of it, from the curvature of the glass to the colour of the liquid, called out to him, he moved it away from himself and then indicated to the barman. ‘I’ll need a pen and paper for my number.’
The barman brought it. Other customers returned their stares to Abbott as he left the piece of paper on the bar and stepped off his stool.
‘My name is Alex Abbott, by the way,’ he announced, just before he left, addressing not just the barman but the whole pub. ‘And if you see Jason Scutter, how about you tell him that I’m looking for him? That I’m coming for him.’
And that was stupid, he thought, as he left the pub. Giving his name out like that. There was something in AA they called being a ‘dry drunk’. It meant that even though you were sober, you still carried on with some of your old reckless behaviour. He’d always thought it was a myth. Up until now.
In the car park, his phone rang.
It was her. It was Tess.
Ever since arriving in Derby, she’d been on his mind. Two days off the grog and while his head had not completely de-fogged, it had certainly cleared sufficiently for him to realise that he’d been an utter twat at her house and in doing so had destroyed everything that was good about their relationship. Everything that had been good. Everything that was good. Everything that might have been good in the future. All of it gone.
He’d been texting her.
‘Sorry.’
‘We need to talk.’
That sort of thing. Understanding completely that she might want to cut him out of her life altogether. Who could blame her?
And now she was calling him.
‘Where are you?’ she asked when he picked up.
Abbott might have hoped for concern or maybe even a rebuke. Funny that now he was sober he would quite happily have settled for the pity that he had hated so much when he was drunk. Instead, her voice was totally neutral. Dead.
‘I’m in Derby,’ he told her.
‘And what are you doing in Derby?’
‘Something tells me that you know the answer to that question.’
‘Oh, we’re back to that again, are we?’
‘No, no, we’re not back to that, I promise. I’m sorry and I’m sorry and I’m so, so, fucking sorry for what happened the other night. Sorry to you, sorry to Phil – he’s great, by the way – sorry to the kids.’
‘Look, I understand, and Phil understands. It’s not like you’ve made a friend, but he understands, because . . .’
‘Because what?’
‘God, I don’t know, Alex, because you’re probably suffering from PTSD. Alcoholism, too, I shouldn’t wonder. I mean, I knew you drank a lot, but not . . . that much.’
‘I’m doing something about it.’
‘Like what?’
‘I haven’t touched a drop since that night.’
‘Good. And now you’re sober do you understand why I lied to you?’
‘I think so.’
‘I did it for your own good. Because I didn’t want—’
‘Me to come to Derby. Because you know why I’m here, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I know. And I want you to stop.’
‘Stop and just let things be?’
‘Why not?’
‘Can’t do that, I’m afraid.’
‘You need to be careful, Alex.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because . . .’
‘Tell me what you know, Tess.’
‘Not much. Just that Scutter has links to some dangerous people in that area.’
He thought of the name Cuckoo had given him. Doyle.
‘I’ll be careful,’ he told Tess.
‘Jesus,’ she sighed. ‘Spare me the testosterone. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll speak to you soon, OK?’
The call ended. Abbott thought about Tess. How unwittingly she had set the wheels in motion.
Unwittingly?
Or wittingly?
Was it possible that there was some part of Tess that consciously or subconsciously had intended for all this to happen? Did she like the danger, perhaps? He’d spent years wondering what had attracted the beautiful and intelligent Tess Lacey to him back at school, when she could have had her pick.
Maybe he should take it at face value. She really was trying to protect him. But then why tell him in the first place?
Or maybe, on second thoughts, he should stop trying to figure her out and get on with the job.
He looked back at the pub. Was it his imagination or had there been a figure at the window?
Thinking about what Tess had said. Dangerous people.
Dangerous people to whom he might just have given his name.
CHAPTER 16
‘Mr Kilgore.’
‘Mr Doyle.’
Raymond Doyle lit a cigarette, relaxed into his voluminous leather desk chair and pictured Kilgore at the other end of the line. ‘And how is Juliet?’ He grinned.
‘Mrs Norton is quite well, thank you.’
‘Still playing the grieving widow?’
‘Mrs Norton is quite well, thank you. Now what can I do for you?’
‘There’s somebody in town. A bloke asking around after my nephew.’
‘I see. And by nephew you mean Jason Scutter?’
‘That’ll be the one.’ There was a silence. ‘And I thought that you – by which I mean you and Juliet – might like to know.’
‘Some kind of . . . what? A private detective?’
‘Search me, but if he’s said who he is then it ain’t reached my ears, and if it ain’t reached my ears, then he hasn’t said.’
‘And you’re sure he’s from out of town?’
‘If he was from round these parts, then he he’d know better than to be asking after my nephew.’
‘Is he staying in the city?’
‘Don’t know yet.’
‘Does this sort of thing happen often?’
‘Mate, it happens never. Even more surprising, the bloke’s hiding in plain sight. He told one guy his name.’
‘Go on.’
‘His name is Alex Abbott. And apparently he wants Scutter to know he’s coming for him.’
‘Leave this with me. I’ll be back in touch.’
***
The following day, Doyle’s phone rang.
‘Hello, Mr Kilgore.’
‘Mr Doyle. Does the name Chris Abbott mean anything to you?’
‘Something to do with our friend Alex, is it?’
‘His brother. I repeat, d
oes the name mean anything to you?’
‘Can’t say it does.’
Kilgore told Doyle the story of Chris Abbott.
‘So now big brother’s come looking for payback?’
‘Little brother. But yes, it would seem that way.’
‘I can only assume that he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.’
‘Chances are that even if he did know, he wouldn’t care. Alex Abbott is ex-special forces.’
‘Won’t make any difference what he is when I put him through the meat grinder. You tell Juliet that I’ll sort it.’
‘Wait, Mr Doyle,’ said Kilgore. ‘There is something I need to discuss with her.’
‘Oh yeah? And how long will that take?’
‘Remain by the phone. I’ll do it now.’
Sure enough, moments later the phone rang.
‘We have had an idea, Mr Doyle,’ said Kilgore. ‘Call off your men.’
‘You don’t want me to get rid of him? You don’t want him dead?’
‘Oh, we want him dead,’ said Kilgore. ‘But we’ve thought of a way to kill two birds with one stone . . .’
CHAPTER 17
A residential area in the south of the city, and Abbott walked into yet another anonymous, housing-estate pub. More having to resist the temptation of booze. More of that nagging feeling that he was getting further and further into something.
Sure enough, it felt as though the whole pub did An American Werewolf in London, the conversation dying, eyes turning his way as he walked in. Was it simply that kind of pub? Or was it him? Either way, he was reassured to feel the weight of the Glock at the bottom of his rucksack. A few days booze-free and he was hardly what you’d call combat ready, but even at half speed, he was still good.
He took a stool positioned in front of a tap, arranging himself. He wore the Finchley Sportsman T-shirt, black over-shirt, the normal drill.
‘You all right there?’ said the barman, predictably.
Abbott ordered a beer. ‘Just a pint of the cooking, please, mate,’ he replied, and steeled himself not to drink it. The barman, probably the landlord, lingered, and Abbott wondered if he should read anything into that. In his recent experience, most of them seemed to scurry away as soon as possible. ‘Actually, you might be able to help,’ said Abbott when he’d paid for the beer, fingertipping the glass away from himself at the same time. ‘I’m looking for an old mate. He liked a drink. Might be somebody you know.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said the landlord. Again, Abbott was used to these guys closing down and going into guarded mode. This one? Not so much.
Abbott told him the name. Jason Scutter. Again, where Abbott had learned to expect a shake of the head, this guy nodded.
‘Yes, I know him.’
‘He lives round here?’
‘He lives the other side of town, two doors down from my sister, as it happens. He’s a bad lot.’
‘Is that so?’
‘The kind who should be in jail or better still in the ground.’
‘Well, I guess you won’t want to help me find him, then?’
The barman leaned forward, lowering his voice. ‘Except that I don’t think you’re any friend of his, are you? You want to see him for some other reason, am I right?’
‘Yes, mate, you’re right,’ replied Abbott. ‘Me and him have business.’
‘Thought as much. I’ll tell you where to find him, but you need to give me your word that if anybody asks, you didn’t get it from me.’
Abbott looked around at what was more or less an empty pub. Just one old guy in a flat cap drinking at a table out of earshot. ‘Scout’s honour,’ he said.
The barman turned away. A moment later, he held out a scrap of paper. ‘Good luck,’ he said.
If this was a trap, then it was well laid, thought Abbott as he took himself outside and rang for a taxi.
And if it is a trap, then you’re walking right into it.
But that guy seemed like he had history with Scutter. And after all, wasn’t this why he was here?
If it’s true and he was being set up, well . . . let battle commence.
CHAPTER 18
The taxi took him to a newbuild housing estate on the edge of town. Looking around, this wasn’t what he’d expected. Certainly not the gleaming blue Audi in Jason Scutter’s drive. It hardly fitted with the image of the perspiring, fat and stubbled paedophile that he’d been carrying around in his head.
A man who had lured Chris to his eventual death.
He took a look around. Houses on all sides regarded him with blank-window stares. From somewhere came the hum of a lawnmower, the distant sound of hip-hop from some kid’s bedroom. Otherwise, curtains remained in place, nets were untwitched.
Using the rear of the Audi as cover, he stooped, fished the Glock out of his bag, complete with suppressor, and as surreptitiously as possible, unwrapped it and stuffed it into the back of his jeans.
Finishing, he glanced up at the sound of a car arriving, quickly adjusting himself. It was another taxi, drawing up into the road about 200 yards away. A guy got out, paid the driver and then, without so much as a glance in Abbott’s direction, trotted off along a driveway towards the houses. He carried a rucksack, just as Abbott did.
Abbott waited until he was gone then went to the door of number twenty-seven and knocked. Soon, it was opened by a tall guy who looked him up and down and then, without surprise or curiosity, said, ‘Aha,’ almost as though he had been expecting Abbott to come and fetch his ball back.
‘Mr Scutter?’ he said.
‘That’s me,’ said Scutter, who was well-spoken and not fat, perspiring or stubbled. His hair, thinning on top, was neatly cut, his only concession to the stereotypical image of the paedophile a pair of track pants. Even his black T-shirt looked pressed and fitted well.
‘So you’re the bloke who’s looking for me?’ said Scutter, unfazed. ‘You’re Alex Abbott.’
He knew Abbott’s name. Chalk that one up to Abbott’s own stupidity. The fact that word had reached him? Well, that proved that what Cuckoo and Tess had said was correct. Scutter was indeed connected.
Even so, this was not going the way Abbott might have expected.
Scutter looked over Abbott’s shoulder, out at the estate beyond.
‘I think you’d better come in, don’t you?’
He turned, walked back along the hall and into his lounge, leaving the front door open.
Still on the doorstep, Abbott tensed, hand going to his waistband, feeling the comforting butt of the gun there. He stepped over the threshold.
‘Close the door behind you, would you?’ came Scutter’s voice from the front room.
He needed no further invitation. He closed the door, making sure to turn the internal deadbolt first, and drew his sidearm.
‘Just through here,’ said Scutter from the lounge.
Abbott took two smart steps, peered quickly around the door, levelling the gun at whatever was inside.
Just a regular lounge. Armchair, sofa, coffee table.
And Scutter, who sat in the armchair facing the television, although it was off. He sat upright, neck straight, chin slightly raised. In his track pants and T-shirt, he looked like a disgraced PE teacher about to accept with good grace whatever punishment was meted out to him.
Gun held, Abbott scoped the room in sections, checking out likely entry and exit points just in case things got a little turbo. He saw an empty kitchen at the back of the house, and then French doors that looked out onto a patch of green grass with empty, untended flowerbeds either side. A tiny garden waiting for somebody to fill it with love, care and attention.
Abbott turned his eyes back to Scutter. ‘I haven’t interrupted anything, have I?’ he said, indicating the TV, thinking of what Tess had told him about Scutter. The films. We didn’t call them child pornography anymore. That was something Abbott had learned during his time in Thailand. We called them what they were. We called them images of child sex abuse.
&n
bsp; ‘No,’ said Scutter. He pointed at the coffee table in front of him, on which sat a Fast & Furious box set. ‘Just that.’
Aside from the box set there was a tin of lager, but otherwise precious few signs of life or personality in the room. Nothing on the neutral-painted walls. No photographs in frames, books. ‘This doesn’t bother you?’ said Abbott, indicating with the gun.
‘No, not really. I’m glad it’s not a knife or, worse, a garrotte. I often worried that somebody might come with a garrotte. I didn’t want to be burned, either, and there was always the fear that somebody might decide to torture me first.
‘No, all things considered, and when you take into account how much I deserve whatever comes my way, then I’ll take a bullet.’
‘Except that I didn’t come to kill you, Scutter.’
‘I see. Then what did you come for?’
‘We’ll get on to that. First of all, how did you know to expect me?’
‘McGregor called to say you were on your way.’
‘Who’s McGregor?’
‘You’ve been in Derby a few days, have you heard of the Doyle crew?’
‘The name’s come up.’
‘Head of the family is Raymond Doyle. My uncle, as it happens. McGregor is Ray Doyle’s right-hand man. They’ve been trying to put eyes on you but have so far failed. Lucky for them, you’ve been chatting up the local barmen. What you have to understand, though, is that if you’re here, then the other guy won’t be far behind.’
‘Other guy?’
‘Yes. There’s another guy.’ Scutter smiled wanly. ‘Another hitman.’
Abbott thought of the bloke who’d got out of the second taxi. Could be something. Could be nothing.
He moved to the front window and peered outside. Nothing. Glanced to the French windows. Same. He turned back to Scutter. ‘And this hitman? He’s been sent to protect you from me?’
Scutter chuckled. ‘Well, that’s what McGregor told me. I rather doubt it, though. For one thing, he seemed awfully keen that I should be here, considering his claim to have my best interests at heart. “Oh, there are two gunmen on the way, one of whom wants you dead. Just stay where you are, eh?” Doesn’t quite scan, does it? Hmm . . .’ Scutter put his finger to his lips, fake-thinking. ‘Why might that be? And then the penny dropped that if I were them then I’d want me out of the picture. Basically, any picture – whichever way you look at it, upside down or back to front – is vastly improved without me in it.’
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