Screen Savers

by Quintin Jardine

  He walked me, not to his office, but to the canteen. I was pleased to see that we were the only people there. ‘What’s up, Oz?’ he asked, as he brought two coffees and two rolls, stuffed with square, sliced Lorne sausage, across to our table. I’d told him when I called that it was his turn to lay on breakfast. ‘I thought this would be the last place you’d want to come today. I like the Horseshoe, too.’

  ‘It’s safer here,’ I told him. ‘Nobody’s going to lace the brown sauce with powdered glass.’

  ‘That’s true. I wouldn’t trust the probationers not to piss in the coffee urn, though. I’ll give you a tip. If you ever eat in a jail make sure it’s with the prisoners, not the staff.’

  I treated him to the Blackstone scowl. Until recently it had been a rare sight; now I was afraid that I was becoming too good at it. ‘I’d have been eating in one today, if your Perth colleague Bell had had his way. Thanks, by the way, for your help in getting me out of that.’

  ‘No problem. I’m looking forward to your wedding, remember. I fancy a night at Gleneagles, on you.’ He paused. ‘Keep that to yourself, though, Oz. My boss would not be chuffed if he knew I used my SB position to lean on another force, especially since I was telling the guy porkies.’

  ‘My lips to God’s ear alone,’ I promised.

  ‘I sort of pity the poor bastard,’ Dylan murmured, with a half smile. ‘I’ll bet he thought he’d got a serial nutter on his hands. He sounded like the sort of polis who keeps the press cuttings on his investigations. If the case against you had held up he’d have filled a whole bloody jotter with them.’

  ‘I’m sorry I ruined his day,’ I answered. ‘But he didn’t do a hell of a lot for mine.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Mike mumbled through a mouthful of peppery sausage. ‘What do you want to talk to me about, then? You were mysterious on the phone last night.’

  While he ate, I filled him in on my conspiracy theory. By the time I had finished, so had he.

  ‘Are you trying to tell me that when Susie’s car blew up that was meant for you?’ he asked, wiping his mouth. ‘Do you think the wrong car was booby-trapped?’

  ‘No. This guy’s been watching me like a hawk. He knows what Prim and I drive. I’m saying he’s after my close friends and family, but always when they’re with me. I’m guessing that he may have been after making me suffer long-term, like being banged up for life.’

  ‘But why send those letters to Susie?’

  It was my turn to attack the rolls, so he had to wait for an answer. ‘To start us off on a false trail?’ I suggested.

  ‘Think about it. Susie gets the letters, then you and she are cremated in her motor. Tragic, but no one links it to me. Then Noosh Turkel gets shot right alongside me up in Aberdeen. A big coincidence, sure, but it’s different forces who investigate, so they won’t make the connection.

  ‘Then my wee nephew’s shoved down a twelve-foot drop; potentially fatal, and I’m there. I report it, and I kick up hell’s delight with the police, so they remember my name.

  ‘Next day, someone poisons my future father-in-law and I’m the obvious and only suspect. And as soon as the first copper feeds my name into a computer, all that stuff pops out.

  ‘And, apart from the fatalities, that’s exactly what happened.’

  It was Mike’s turn to watch me eat. When I had finished, it was his turn to quiz me. ‘Are you telling me that I’ve had a Special Branch operation, phone taps the lot, watching the wrong man?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am. Stephen Donn doesn’t know me from Adam, far less have a grudge against me.’

  ‘Jesus! So who do you reckon could hate you this much?’

  ‘What about Ricky Ross?’

  Dylan gasped, audibly. ‘Ricky?’ His old boss in Edinburgh; disgraced and kicked off the force for reasons not unconnected with Prim and me. He seemed to do me the courtesy of thinking about it. ‘Ricky?’ he said again. ‘He hates your guts, that’s for sure, and he’s tough. If someone in a balaclava hauled you up close and kicked your head in, he’s just about the first guy I’d look for. But I worked for him; I know him, I think, reasonably well.

  ‘If he was really minded to, and he thought he could get away with it, he might just be capable of coming straight for you and killing you. But he wouldn’t touch anyone else. He wouldn’t kill me just to set you up, or your wee nephew, or anyone else.’

  He frowned. ‘But there’s something you’ve missed, isn’t there?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I agreed. ‘London. That connects to me too, and I need to find out how.’

  ‘Maybe I can help you. Wait here.’ He stood and walked out of the canteen, leaving me alone for more than five minutes. When he came back he was carrying a folder.

  ‘Remember I said I was going to have someone check the hospitals in London? Well I did, and they came up with something. I wasn’t going to do anything about it, since I thought that incident was closed, but . . . Do you see anyone in here you recognise?’

  He handed me the folder. I opened it and a face looked out at me; it was the sort of portrait they take full face and profile, with a number hung round your neck. The last time I’d seen the subject he’d been in more than a bit of pain. There was another photograph below it; the man with the sore throat.

  ‘I see you recognise them. In that case . . .’ He took a piece of paper, torn from a notebook, from his pocket, and handed it across to me. ‘Those are their names, and that’s the pub where they drink, and where they were probably paid by the man who sent them to do you.

  ‘They’re a couple of small-timers, with small-time form. They work as collectors for a loan shark, mainly.’ He looked at me. ‘Listen Oz, I can’t get involved any more than I have down there. You could always make a belated complaint to the local police, I suppose, but you’d need to be careful. You might have trouble explaining the guy’s broken arm.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ I assured him. ‘I know how I’m going to handle it.’

  ‘Be careful, then. These are rough people; you might not be so lucky next time.’

  ‘Don’t worry, luck won’t come into it.’ I picked up my coffee, but the mug was cold so I decided I didn’t fancy it any more. ‘What about the other incidents? When I tried to sell my theory to Bell, he thought I was daft.’

  ‘He would. You probably are. But I’ll grant you, the idea that different people would make unprovoked attacks on your nephew and Prim’s Dad within three days stretches credibility a bit. There are open investigations on these incidents as it is, and thanks to Bell - you have to give him credit for something - the CID in Fife and Tayside, and in Aberdeen for that matter, will be comparing notes from now on. That’s as much as the police can do. From your point of view, you’re right to keep to yourself as much as you can. I can put a discreet watch on you, just in case, and I will.’

  Mike smiled. As I looked at him, it struck me that maybe he wasn’t quite as bad a detective as I’d always thought. ‘There’s one part of your theory I don’t buy, though,’ he said.

  ‘Stephen Donn. He did have a reason to threaten Susie, and he’s been behaving oddly, no mistake. Those photos didn’t vanish on their own.

  ‘He’s up to something, and the Amsterdam connection makes me think it might be drugs. That’s part of our remit now, so it gives me an excuse to keep looking for him.’

  I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Just you do that, pal,’ I told him. ‘But I’ll be looking for someone else - starting in London.’

  Chapter 39

  Liam was all for a trip to London, when I asked him, especially when I said that I would pick up the tab. I only found out when we landed at Heathrow in mid-afternoon, and she met us, that Erin had a between-flight lay-over in the capital that night.

  We settled into the Rubens, not far from Buckingham Palace; I went for a look at the Queen’s Art Gallery, leaving Ireland’s couple of the year to amuse themselves until it was time for my minder and me to do our business.

  ‘So,’ Lia
m asked as the taxi headed for the East End, ‘who were those masked men, then?’

  ‘There names are Ronnie and Vic Neames,’ I told him. ‘They’re brothers.’

  ‘How do we know they’re going to be at this pub?’

  ‘According to Mike’s contacts on the Met, we’d find them there every night of their lives. It’s not just their local; if they have an office, that’s it.’

  ‘And they work for a tallyman, you said. I think I’m going to enjoy this. I hate those bastards; when I was a kid in Belfast I saw the misery they can cause.’

  The pub was called the Duck and Diver, just off Barking Road, not far from the West Ham United football ground. The taxi driver seemed just a touch nervous as I paid him, as if he was anxious to get on his way. The bar was quiet as we stepped inside, but it was still short of seven, so that didn’t strike us as odd. We fitted ourselves up with a couple of pints of lager and sat in a corner booth, spinning them out and watching television. We had been there for just over half an hour when EastEnders came on. I had the feeling that I was part of the cast, back on set.

  We made the beer last as long as we could, until we started drawing odd looks from the barman. I was just about to go across to order two more when the door beside us swung open and three men walked in off the street. They were all big, and one had a cast on his right arm.

  Liam put a hand on my shoulder and stood up. ‘Hello there, lads,’ he called out. ‘I thought you’d never get here.’

  They swung round at once, all three of them. Ronnie Neames was the one with the broken arm. His eyes widened in surprise as he recognised Liam, then me: and a wicked smile crossed his face. ‘I’ve dreamed abaht seeing you two again . . . on our turf.

  ‘Vic, Mickey,’ he said to the other two. ‘I owe these bahstards some broken bones.’ As he spoke, I saw the barman make himself scarce. The two heavies started off in the opposite direction, towards us.

  Liam Matthews is big, but not huge. However, he is very, very fast, and he has an impressively high Dan black belt in karate. Poor old Mickey never knew what hit him; in fact, it was Liam’s right foot, just under the jaw. He rose a couple of inches into the air, then hit the ground with a thud that shook two empty glasses off the nearest table. Vic stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Wise fella,’ drawled the Irishman. ‘We didn’t come here to beat you up again, boys . . . although personally, I wouldn’t mind a bit. My pal here wants to talk to you, that’s all. So come and sit down; it would be bad for your business if the punters saw me drop another of yis, wouldn’t it.’

  Leaving their fallen pal where he lay, the Brothers Neames came over to our table, pulled up two stools and sat down. ‘Good of you,’ I said. ‘Like Liam says we’re not here for bother. We just want to talk to you about the guy who paid you to do me over.’

  ‘We don’t know nuffin’,’ croaked Vic, hoarsely. I guessed that my stunner move was still having an effect.

  I opened my jacket just wide enough to let Ronnie see the bundle of notes in my inside pocket. ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ I murmured. ‘Have you seen the guy since?’

  The big thug shook his head, and rested his plaster cast on the table. ‘No. Didn’t expect to. You guys showed up undamaged on the telly, din’cha.’

  ‘Describe him for me again.’

  ‘In ’is twenties, fair ’air, wearin’ jeans and them sunglasses I told you abaht before.’ Ronnie looked at his brother. ‘What would you say, Vic?’

  ‘That’s ’im, Ron.’

  ‘What about his accent?’ I asked.

  ‘He didn’t have one,’ Ron replied. ‘He spoke proper, but not posh. Nuffin’ you could pin down.’

  ‘Okay. Now, I want to know exactly what he said about me. Why did he want me done over, and how did you know to come for me?’

  The big thug looked at the table. To my surprise, he seemed embarrassed, and not a little nervous. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘the fing is . . . It was really this geezer ’ere we was supposed to do.’

  ‘You what?’ said Liam, starting from his chair. I grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.

  ‘That’s right, mate. The bloke said ’e wanted you done.’

  ‘But why, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘He never said, and we never arsked.’ He paused. ‘Sometimes in this life, you can know too many things,’ he added. I’d never have taken him for a philosopher; just goes to show, doesn’t it.

  ‘Did he say anything at all about me?’

  ‘Nuffink,’ Ronnie declared, ‘only that ’e wanted your ’ead rearranged.’

  ‘Tell us exactly what happened,’ I said.

  ‘The geezer turned up ’ere looking for us; told us ’e’d been sent by the man we work for. He showed us a picture, see,’ the Cockney went on, ‘of the two of you together. He said he wanted your mate done, beat up bad, like. We was supposed to follow ’im back to ’is hotel, then once everyone ’ad gone down for the night, Vic was to jemmy the bedroom door - that’s one of ’is specialities . . .’ said his proud brother, ‘and I was to cave ’is bleedin’ head in wiff a baseball bat.’

  ‘You mean kill me?’ Liam demanded.

  ‘Well put it this way, mate; we wasn’t told not to. But we never meant to go that far, ’onest.’

  ‘But you said you would, for four hundred?’

  Ron shook his head. ‘No. He gave us five ’undred down. The deal was another grand each once you was done. But even that ain’t enough for killin’ a geezer.’ He turned back to me, avoiding Liam’s glare.

  ‘Like I said we was never really up for killin’ ’im. We thought let’s just give him a kickin’, five ’undred quid’s worth like.

  ‘So we went to the show, to see if there was a chance of doin’ ’im there, afterwards. But once we’d seen ’im in action, we didn’t fancy it at all, did we. So we thought, why not go for you instead, give you the kickin’, then tell the geezer that ’e’d pointed to the wrong bloke in the picture. That way, maybe we’d get to keep the money, no fuss.

  ‘You mean you’d just have given it back if he’d asked?’

  ‘Mister, anyone who’d pay us to kill your mate could pay someone else to do us. Besides, there was something about this geezer. We didn’t fancy ’im, like.’

  ‘If I were you then, lads,’ I said. ‘I’d watch your backs. The guy’s been a bit busy since then, but you’re right. If he ever does get round to asking for his money back, you could be in trouble.’

  ‘This guy,’ Liam muttered. ‘Could he have been Irish?’

  ‘On ’is grandmother’s side, maybe, but that’s all. Didn’t sound it.’

  ‘What about the baseball bat?’ I asked. ‘Why did he specify that?’

  ‘Dunno. We were told to leave it there though. I thought that was funny at the time.’ I didn’t; I got the point right away.

  ‘What about the photograph? Was it posed like a GWA publicity shot?’

  Big Ron shook his mis-shapen head. ‘Nah. Wasn’t like that. It was an ordinary photo, and yet it wasn’t. You didn’t know it was being taken; it was like the coppers ’ad been watching you and takin’ yer picture.’

  ‘I see,’ I said - and I did. I picked up a beer mat, ripped off the facing, and wrote my cellphone number on the white surface beneath. ‘If you ever do hear from him again, get in touch with me.

  ‘Come on, Liam, let’s leave the lads to take care of their wounded.’ Mickey was still on the floor; he was conscious and moaning softly as the barman held a wet towel against his jaw. As I stood Ronnie nodded his head in the general direction of my jacket.

  ‘But what about . . .?’

  ‘What about what?’

  ‘Abaht the money, mate? You said . . .’

  I smiled at him. ‘I said not a bleedin’ word . . . mate. So long.’

  Chapter 40

  ‘It all fits now, Mike.’ We were at a corner table in one of my favourite restaurants, one of Glasgow’s oldest and finest Asian eateries, not far from the university. Liam and
I had caught the ten-fifteen shuttle from Heathrow, allowing me time to make a few calls and to arrange to meet my policeman pal for lunch.

  ‘Ronnie and Vic were shown a snatched photo of Liam and me. This guy has been keeping very careful tabs on me and my friends, then setting them up. The jigsaw’s complete: the London incident wasn’t an odd piece; it fits exactly.

  ‘It’s just as well that the Neames brothers take a cautious approach to their business. If they had jemmied Liam’s door open and he’d woken up in time, they might have left in body bags - but if not, he might.’

  I paused. ‘Christ, Mike, but I had some job calming him down last night. I had to tell him what’s been happening, but it took me a while to convince him that I wasn’t crazy. He wouldn’t have it at first; reckoned that it was someone out of his past, not mine. He had two theories, either that he had knocked off the wrong man’s woman at some point - before he met Erin, Liam would have shagged anything that moved - or that something from his youth in Belfast might have come back to haunt him.’

  ‘Did he say what?’

  ‘No. And I didn’t ask him. Eventually he accepted what I was telling him, that the attack was linked to me rather than him.’

  ‘Wait a minute, though.’ Dylan paused to munch on a pakora. ‘If someone had broken into your man’s bedroom and caved his head in, why should that have been linked to you?’

  ‘Because a couple of years ago Liam and I had a very public falling out, in Newcastle. It was my first weekend with the GWA. He came on way too strong to Jan, I got the red mist and banjoed him.’

  Dylan stared at me. ‘You thumped Matthews?’ he gasped.

  ‘Like I said, I didn’t think about it at the time. Fortunately Everett was there, and he stepped in. We’re all fine with each other now, but it was the talk of the town at the time.’

  ‘Sure, but that was two years ago.’

  ‘Which tells me that my evil-wisher knows a hell of a lot about me; maybe he’s been watching me for all that time. And what about the baseball bat?’ I added.