The No. 2 Global Detective

by Toby Clements

  Rhombus was to share a cab with McScottsPorridgeOats, the second van of the convoy. They would set out along the M8 towards Glasgow and then take the M74 south, where they would be met just beyond Carlisle at a service station on the M6, where McTartan had left a people carrier to bring them back in time for duty the next morning.

  DC McScottsPorridgeOats took the first shift behind the wheel. He was a heavy-set man with ginger hair and skin with the texture and smell of a cheese-and-onion crisp. His friends called him Quaker, but Rhombus didn’t. Instead he turned his face to the window and watched the lights pass as McScottsPorridgeOats ground through the gears, trailing the van in front of them, heiding westwards along the motorway.

  The first that Rhombus was aware that it was a trap was when a line of dark blue Ford Mondeos moved into the outside lane and began travelling at the same speed as the vans. Each car was filled with burly-looking men. Then a ‘jam sandwich’ in the slow lane aheid began to slow down just as the three trucks were climbing up a hill by Harthill. Then the lights started flashing. There was nothing the drivers of the black Marias could do. No way out the front of the convoy, especially at the low speed they were travelling, and not enough room either side to do anything fancy.

  But if the FSAS boys sprang their trap perfectly in order to check the vans, they were clueless when it came to apprehending the drivers. Rhombus jumped from his cab, tearing the shoulder of his jacket in the process, and shoved his way past one of the food inspectors. He sprinted across the run-off and up the embankment leaving the man trailing in his wake.

  At the top was a wooden fence. He rolled over it, in accordance with the SAS stylebook, and ducked into a dark ditch. He had to move. Aheid was a ploughed field that stretched down to a cluster of lights. A village. He knew if he could make the lights he would be safe. He set off, skirting the field, heid kept low, sticking to cover, his training kicking in. When he made it to the line of bushes that marked the track from the field to the road, he paused to get his breath back. He scanned the field behind him.

  Christ. He could make out some figures running bent double. But who were they? The FSAS boys or the police drivers?

  He squatted in the bushes as the figures approached. What a disaster! Christ. And yet he could not help but smile.

  ‘Hello, boys,’ he said, standing up suddenly. ‘Nice night for a walk.’

  ‘Christ, sir, you frightened the life out of me,’ muttered one of the hunched figures, hand pressed across his chest.

  Ten minutes later all six of them were sitting round the circular table in the back room of The Wild Deer bar, in Hartshill, each with a pint of 80/- in his hand and a story to tell. Wee Wm Low McTartan was on his way. God knows who he would be bringing with him. Muscle of some sort, guessed Rhombus as he paced the floor in front of the fire, feeling like a child waiting to be picked up by an angry parent.

  He could kick himself, he thought, for getting himself mixed up with these bloody amateurs. Wm Low would have every right to be angry. But angry with whom? Surely the mole came from within his own organisation?

  A helicopter clattered overheid.

  Then heidlights swept across the ceiling of the back room as a car parked in the car park. There was a thump of car doors. Rhombus counted eight of them. He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘We’ve got company,’ he said.

  Wm Low McTartan was a dangerous man when roused. He was apoplectic now. He had just lost three lorry-loads of prime Scottish eggs.

  He had brought six men with him, all of them wearing stockings over their heids, all of them carrying the sorts of weaponry Rhombus had not seen since his trip to the Imperial War Museum in London.

  ‘So who blabbed?’ asked Wm Low, once the door was closed. He was walking around behind the seated men. His ginger dog whined when she heard his voice, freighted, as a more pretentious writer might not be able to resist saying, with menace.

  ‘Well? Who was it? One of you blabbed. One of youse told the FSAS about our wee plan. If I don’t find out tonight who blabbed, then I’ll have tae shoot you all.’

  ‘It wasn’t me!’ blurted McTavish.

  ‘Nor me,’ said DC McGreyFriarsBobby. ‘I wasnae even there!’

  ‘Och,’ said DI McTam-o’-Shanter. ‘I’d never do anything like that. I hate the FSAS.’

  DC McScottsPorridgeOats and DI McHighlandgames both agreed that it was not them either, and that they hated the FSAS just as much as DI McTam-o’-Shanter.

  McTartan turned to Rhombus, who had been sitting quietly in the corner, looking as if he were thinking about something else, which he was. He had realised that this was all about police corruption now and he would have no time to cover illegal immigration or any of the other stuff he wanted to sort out.

  ‘Well, well, well, Inspector Rhombus. You are awfully quiet tonight? Has the cat got your wee tongue?’

  ‘It was not me who blabbed and I can prove it.’

  ‘Och! Prove it can you? Go aheid. It might just be the last thing you ever do.’

  ‘How long have we been working together?’ Rhombus asked. He appealed straight to McTartan, who had to think for a while.

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Well nothing. We’ve got form, McTartan. These boys don’t know any of the wheels within wheels, how to push, pull, bend a little. I’ll bet they don’t even know the name of the top Grey Wolf.’

  ‘Yes we do!’ snapped McHighlandgames. ‘It’s you that doesn’t!’

  ‘Let’s put that to the test, shall we?’ asked Rhombus, standing up now and taking from his top pocket six notebooks and six pencils. He began passing one each to the men sitting round the table. They were sweating now.

  ‘If these men are who they say they are,’ he said, ‘and not police informers sent to find out about the Grey Wolves, they should know the names of everyone in their organisation, shouldn’t they?’

  McTartan nodded slowly, yet to be completely convinced, but interested to see where this was going.

  ‘Now, in this book,’ he held up one of the notebooks, ‘I have written the names of every Grey Wolf in the police force today. You see, I know them all because I am a Grey Wolf. These men aren’t Grey Wolves and they don’t know any of us, so let’s see, shall we?’

  ‘I don’t like this!’ yelled McScottsPorridgeOats. ‘I don’t know what he is up to, but there’s something going on!’

  ‘Youse shut up!’ shouted McTartan. ‘Do as Mr Rhombus says. All of you. Write down the names of the Grey Wolves in your organisation.’

  When the policemen had finished writing, one of the men in masks began collecting the books together. He passed them over to McTartan, who flicked through the first with pursed lips. Nothing in there that he had not expected. It was McMysteryCat’s book. He tossed it back on the table and flicked through another. The same thing. Then again. Finally, when he had finished, he looked up at Rhombus.

  ‘Now compare them with what I have in my book,’ Rhombus said, sliding his own notebook across the table. McTartan started flicking through the pages of the last notebook. A frown puckered his brow.

  ‘It’s blank,’ he said, dropping the book with a look of fury on his face.

  Afterwards there would be no one to ask Inspector Scott ‘Just Now’ Rhombus who it was who had shouted ‘Kill ’em!’, but somebody certainly had shouted it and in the split second of silence that followed before the din, there was a confused cocking of weaponry. And then it came: a roar of gunfire.

  The only man who moved more than a trigger finger in those seconds was Rhombus, who, recalling his training, dropped with his face flat to the carpet, letting the roar of ordinance fly over him. A great wrench of sound seemed to tip the room on its side and threatened to deafen him. If the din was extraordinary, the smell was even worse: cordite, gunpowder, fresh blood, burned flesh, singed clothing and hair, beer and whisky all combined to remind him of some of his best nights out.

  After the gunshots came the sounds of bodies falling, a short-lived sc
ream and the sound of falling weaponry. Rhombus kept his eyes tight shut. After a few seconds all that could be heard was a horrible gurgling sound and rasping breath. Something was dripping from the table. A last body slumped to the floor with a groan of escaping breath. Rhombus opened his eyes. Bodies were everywhere. All five policemen were still in their chairs, flung by the force of the bullets to their heids. All of McTartan’s men were lying on the ground, thrown back against the walls. Chest wounds. Caught by the bullets that had already travelled through the skulls of the seated men.

  A basic error of positioning. Rhombus had seen it before in road ambushes when those on one side were directly opposite those on the other. By the end, everybody was deid.

  Rhombus got to his feet. McTartan was clutching his chest, still alive but bleeding heavily and unable to talk. His dog coughed gently, apparently unharmed.

  ‘Looks like you gents have enjoyed yourselves,’ came a voice from the door. The landlord.

  ‘Ah, Landlord! A pint of 80/-, please,’ Rhombus said, moving aside the pulpy mess that was all that remained of McTavish’s heid to retrieve the pile of notebooks. ‘And an ambulance for my friends here.’

  Chapter Five

  Inspector Scott ‘Just now’ Rhombus sat in the Oxymoron bar with a pint and a pile of bloodstained notebooks on the table in front of him, deep in thought.

  As he had been parking the car in Thistle Street, his mobile had rung again. He’d glanced at the number. Not one he recognised. Strange, he’d thought, holding the phone up to his ear and taking the call. It had been the Dean of Cuff College, his alma mater, before the SAS, that is. A blast from the past, all right. With the phone pressed to his ear, he’d ordered a pint with a nod to the barman and moved into the back room.

  ‘Rhombus, old boy, I am sorry to bother you like this out of the blue, but I wonder if you might do me a favour,’ asked the Dean.

  ‘Aye, I’m not up to much just now as it goes,’ Rhombus replied.

  ‘We have a new Lecturer in Tran and Path and he has a little problem on his hands that he feels he might need some help with. I’ll let him tell you about it, of course, but he’s coming over from Stockholm tomorrow and I wonder if you could be on hand to meet him? He does not know Edinburgh well and I told him you might be just the man.’

  Rhombus agreed.

  ‘There is one other thing, though. He’s travelling with a couple of friends …’

  Rhombus promised the Dean he would do what he could and would even try to come down for dinner some time soon. After he had said goodbye, he ordered himself another pint and a whisky chaser. Plenty of time before heiding along the road to see Gordon Farquhar-Farquar in his New Town palazzo. After that Rhombus would be able to retire to his bed, have a bite to eat, a few more tinnies, maybe put on some Blue Öyster Cult and then finally take to his chair, where he would sleep the sleep of the just, knowing that he had done good that day.

  After Rhombus had spent all his money and finished his beer, and all his hints to others had been ignored, he left the pub. It was just as a fight erupted over which Rising was the best. The ’15 or the ’45? Both had champions and no one had yet mentioned William Wallace or Robert the Bruce. It looked like it was going to be a long night in the Oxymoron.

  He walked to Abercromby Place and pulled the bell-pull of the Farquhar-Farquar residence. Gordon himself answered the door with a smile that faded the moment he saw Rhombus.

  ‘You,’ he hissed sibilantly, Scotchly, even though he was not Scotch in any way Rhombus recognised, and even though there were no sibilants in the word ‘you’.

  ‘You are supposed to be in jail,’ he snapped. ‘Awaiting trial for the crime of interfering with my lawful business, a crime for which my friend Judge Angus McKillie of Krankie of that ilk will pass the death sentence and you will be hanged and then lots of rich Anglo-Scots with names like Fraser and Angus will wee on your deid body!’

  ‘Were you expecting someone else?’ asked Rhombus, raising an eyebrow at the multimillionaire. Gordon Farquhar-Farquar was dressed in a smoking jacket, black bow-tie and wing-collared shirt but no trousers. He had on only a pair of beige pants and black socks with suspenders. His shoes were patent leather.

  ‘And what of it? Is it a crime to have a few chums around of an eve to help down a case of the finest claret known to man while outside on the streets men and women of inferior stock are being forced to drink pints of nasty 80/- or, worse, 70/-?’

  Rhombus had to agree that it was not a crime.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘I’ve a few questions for you about the death of Wee Jocky McTunnock® and that gardener.’

  Gordon Farquhar-Farquar glanced along the street furtively.

  ‘The thing is, Inspector, and I do not expect you to understand this, but I am expecting some guests and I don’t want them to see not only a wanted murderer but also a member of what I like to call the service classes standing on my rather fine granite doorstep, so if you would not mind clearing off, that would be most appreciated. What?’

  He tried to shut the door in Rhombus’s face. Rhombus pushed it open and walked into the hallway, brushing aside the decadent aristo’s attempts to hinder him. The floor was marble, the woodwork oak. A chandelier hung overheid and on the walls were large oil paintings of men and women who each bore a family resemblance to one another and, of course, to Gordon Farquhar-Farquar himself. A broad avenue of stairs led upwards to the promise of four-poster beds made up with linen sheets and, in the bathrooms, claw-footed baths and exotic salts.

  Rhombus was distracted from thoughts about his own hallway by the sound of voices gently burbling from behind one of the doors leading off. As he walked towards the door, he heard Farquhar-Farquar groan. He smiled as he turned the handle and walked in. It was the heat that hit him first. The room was kept deliberately warm and he quickly saw why: two naked boys were holding up a flat-screened television.

  On the chesterfield in front of them, watching the telly – McCrimewatch, Rhombus could not help noticing – were three men dressed in the same manner as Farquhar-Farquar.

  ‘Yikes!’ cried one, leaping to his feet, his hands scrabbling to cover his pale pink boxer shorts. He was a bulkier version of Gordon Farquhar-Farquar. Could this be Dougal? Or Angus? Or Alasdair? Or Crawford, even? One of the others – another brother – was trying to hide his scrawny thighs with an antique cushion while the other was on his mobile, ordering up yet more vintage champagne from his wine merchant in George Street.

  ‘Who are you?’ the erect one asked.

  ‘I might ask the same question of you,’ responded Rhombus.

  ‘Well,’ he began, moving forward to shake Rhombus’s unexpecting and limp hand. ‘My name’s Crawford Farquhar-Farquar. I am Commissioner for Regional Development at the European Commission in Strasbourg. You must come out and see me some time. Call one of my secretaries and have her fix it up. I can lend you some moolah.’

  Rhombus nodded.

  ‘Will do,’ he murmured.

  ‘And this is my brother Alasdair, whom you may know already? He’s an MSP. Back-bench at the moment, but you can’t keep a good Farquhar-Farquar down, as Mater used to say.’

  Rhombus shook hands with Angus.

  ‘Gordon you’ve met, of course,’ he went on, nodding at Gordon, who stood by the door, shifting from foot to foot and trying to signal that Crawford should say no more.

  ‘Dougal is the rude one on the phone, trying to whistle us up some more of this fizz, and Angus will be with us in a second, I hope.’

  There was the sound of flushing from a room next door.

  ‘And these two lovelies are Craig and Derrick.’

  Craig and Derrick nodded nervously at Rhombus. He saw their faces were painted to look like tigers.

  ‘Boys,’ Rhombus said.

  ‘Do collapse, er … I didn’t catch your name?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Rhombus of the Edinburgh and Lothian Police,’ intoned Rhombus.

  ‘Oh? The
n you’ll know Angus? He’s the Chief Constable. A devil for the boys, you know? Never been able to explain it, but Mater said that Pater was too, so there we are. Runs in the blood. Drink?’

  Rhombus thanked him and took a glass. Vintage Krug. On telly, McCrimewatch had the first reports of the shooting in the Wild Deer bar in Harthill. They showed an Identikit picture of a man who had coolly ordered a pint of 80/- before driving away in one of the deid men’s cars. It was a fair likeness, thought Rhombus, but it was not clear if they wanted to arrest him or reward him.

  He knew he had only a small amount of time before Chief Constable Farquhar-Farquar returned and threw him out.

  ‘I’ve a few questions I’d like you to answer, if you don’t mind?’ he asked the brothers.

  ‘Why should we tell you anything?’

  ‘I know you are too rich and above the law and all that, but it would save me a great deal of time and tax-payers’ money if you could tell me who killed Wee Jocky McTunnock®?’

  ‘Your appeal to my fiscal sensitivities has worked, Inspector Rhombus,’ said Gordon from the doorway. ‘I had my man kill him.’

  ‘Okay,’ Rhombus said, turning. ‘Can I ask why?’

  ‘It really is quite simple, Inspector. I am sure you aren’t aware of this but my brother’s organisation – the European Commission – takes money, in the form of taxes, from the various states of the European Union, such as Germany and Holland and France, and redistributes the money to private individuals who can afford to spend the time asking for it.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Now because of some fiddly little regulations in place to make it look like ‘A Good Thing’, one has to dress up one’s application for the money as if it were a sensible business proposal, so that all that any pesky lower-class journalists or, heaven forbid, policemen like yourself, might find if they investigated the request for tax-free unearned income is a trail of complicated paperwork that would defeat their frankly inferior sense of enquiry.’

  ‘I see,’ Rhombus said, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Well, through a company I own I applied for an oil exploration grant and was naturally given trillions of euros in order to find oil in Queen Street Gardens East and stop our reliance on the dish-dashers.’