Benefit of the Doubt

by Les Cowan

“Ocht. Awright. Ge’s wan o’ them.” More laughter.

  Half a dozen soups and rolls were handed round as the group seemed to huddle closer to the van as if the open window were a source of warmth in itself. Maggie let them get comfortable then produced a plastic wallet with a 3-by-2 snap in it.

  “So. Any o’ yous lassies seen a girl wir huvin’ a wee look fur. Hur mum’s up to high doh and asked us keep an eye out.”

  “Who’s that then?”

  “Name’s Jen. That’s hur. Onybdy ken ’ur?”

  Maggie handed down the photo while Jeff was passing refills around. Gillian dished out more buttered rolls and David kept well in the background pretending to be drying a handful of knives.

  “Here, Chivon,” the girl that seemed to be ringleader passed the photo back. “Is that no’…”

  “Naw. That’s no hur,” Chivon replied, giving the snap the merest glance and handing it back. “Sorry, Maggie. Nae idea. Niver seen ’ur afore.”

  “So who did you think it wiz then?” Maggie tried but Chivon was having none of it.

  “Dinnae ken. Naebdy.”

  “Well. Her name’s Jen MacInnes. She’s done a runner and her mum’s climbing the walls so if onybody sees ’ur gaez a ring, right? The number’s on the side o’ the cup.” The girls drank up and wolfed the rolls before mostly handing the cups back and heading off.

  “Huv a gid nights, lasses,” Maggie shouted after then. “Be good.”

  “An’ if you cannae be good be careful,” two or three of them sing-songed back to more giggling as they headed round the corner and disappeared.

  “Well, no progress there,” Gillian said, clipping the lid back on a big tupperware tub full of rolls.

  “Not at all,” Maggie countered. “They all know her but they’re not talking. I’d call that progress.”

  So the night wore on as word spread that the Dragon was about. Their clientele consisted mainly of kids with nothing to do hanging round, guising, joking, pushing, play fighting till it got hard to tell if it was playing or real, some twenties and thirties at a loose end, one old man on his way back from the dogs, a couple of women heading home from a hen night complete with magic wands and flashing tinsel antennae. The story was the same. Those that didn’t know sounded concerned and agreed to phone if they heard. Those that did weren’t talking. Finally, at half past twelve, when most of the trade seemed to have either arrived back home or got to their party for the night, they started to pack up.

  “Well, we did what we could,” Gillian said, trying to sound cheerful.

  “I think we can put it a bit more positively,” Maggie replied thoughtfully, having lost her street twang all of a sudden. “The kids all know her and I think it’s pretty likely she’s still somewhere around here or there wouldn’t be the need to protect her so much. If she was well away I think somebody would probably have said. What d’ye think Davie?”

  It was years since anyone had called him that except his mum and he liked it.

  “I think you’re right. It’s a neighbourhood where people know each other. But they know the authorities as well. All the soup in the world still doesn’t get you across that line.”

  “Unless you get invited of course,” Jeff put in.

  “Of course. But we’re not there yet. I’m sure you’re right. Maybe that’ll be helpful if we can give the police a bit of a clue.”

  “Oh no we don’t,” Maggie cut in. “We’re here for the kids and the mum. She can talk to who she likes. We do not pass on what we get to the polis. Rule numero uno.”

  “Never?” Gillian asked.

  “Almost never. I’ve had to do it a couple of times when it was life or death, but if it gets back to the street then we might as well sit at home and watch Strictly. That’s the deal.”

  After that the rest of the assorted kit and leftovers were tidied up. They were just about to swing the window flap down and lock up when a friendly voice hailed them from the shadows.

  “Haw! Maggie. How’s it gawn? Missed ye last week.” A thin, gaunt-looking young man with bleached blond hair and a wispy moustache, in a flimsy jogging suit despite the freezing air, popped his nose in at the hatch looking round for anything left. He could have been anything between nineteen and thirty-five. His companion was more heavily built, with short, jet black hair and a darker complexion. He wore a leather bomber jacket, expensive Levis, and cowboy boots. The collar of the jacket was turned up and one hand was thrust deep in a pocket – the other held a thin cigar. He was shivering.

  “No bad Eric. Hoo’s yirsel’? Fancy something warm? Lentil and bacon and rolls the night. There’s just a wee bit left.”

  “Aye. Cheers. Magic. Man, it’s absolutely baltic. Thanks. Ony chance o’ annar roll? Cool.” He stepped back and began to gobble down the bread and soup.

  “What about yer pal?”

  “Yes, me too.” David immediately pricked up his ears. The accent was definitely not Scottish. He leaned forward as Maggie and Eric chatted.

  “You’re out late Eric. Whit’s goan on?”

  “Ah weel, ye ken whit it’s like. Bit o’ this, bit o’ that. Miguel here’s got some guys tae meet so we’re jist heading doon the road.” Eric’s pal looked up uncomfortably and backed out of sight.

  “Eric, I’m on the lookout for a lassie that’s gone missin’,” Maggie continued. “Think you might huv seen her?”

  “Maybe. Whae is it, like?”

  David offered a photo. “Her name’s Jen,” he said. “Fifteen. From Muirhouse.” Eric held the photo up to the light.

  “Oh aye. I ken Jen awright. Didnae ken she wiz AWOL though. Nice lassie. Nae idea whar she is though.” Eric handed the photo back as Miguel muttered something under his breath. Whatever he said had an immediate effect on Eric.

  “Right, we’ve got to leg it,” he announced abruptly. “Best o’ luck. See yiz.” Eric planked his half-finished soup back on the counter, Miguel dropped his in the gutter, and they were off in the direction of Pennywell Road.

  “Well, well,” said Maggie. “A: he knows her and probably where she is. B: he has a good reason for not letting on – reminded by his mate. So whoever she’s around with is somebody Eric doesn’t want to get on the wrong side of. David, what did you make of Miguel? Spanish maybe?”

  “Certainly. Or South American. I didn’t catch everything but he certainly referred to their jefe. That’s the boss. Maybe they’re off to tell him someone’s asking questions.”

  It took half an hour to get everything finally packed up. David was thinking of what he was going to tell Alison and her mum from their night out, Gillian was thinking of a warm bed, and Jeff about fish suppers and Irn Bru. Half-way back down Crewe Road, just past the Western General, Jeff noticed an untidy figure hunched up in the bus shelter. He was about to remark that there was a hopeful soul – the next night service bus wasn’t for another hour – when the figure looked up, saw the van, and seemed to deliberately launch himself off the pavement right into their path. Jeff slammed on the brakes, sending every loose item hurtling forward. But instead of holding up his hand in the familiar mixture of greeting and apology of the meandering drunk, the man raced round to the passenger door, hauled it open, jumped inside almost onto Gillian’s lap, and shouted at Jeff,

  “Now drive ye daft bastard! Drive! Keep gawn!”

  “Eric! What d’ye think you’re doing?” Maggie bawled at him.

  “Never you mind. Just keep gawn.”

  Jeff shrugged his shoulders, put the van into gear, and continued down the hill. Eric was a different man from the relaxed, bantering bloke of half an hour ago. Now he was seriously agitated. He kept looking out of both side windows and straining round behind them. Despite the heater going full blast he was shivering and seemed to be in a cold sweat. He had both hands gripped under his armpits, forearms clamped across his chest and would not put a seatbelt
on. When Jeff made to retrace their steps towards Lothian Road Eric reached across to grab the steering wheel and had to be restrained.

  “Naw. Head fur the park,” was the only thing he would say. Maggie nodded curtly. So instead of back round Charlotte Square, Jeff took them along Queen Street past Robert Adam’s grand facades and elegant doorways, down onto Leith Walk and out London Road.

  Eric came to life again once they were in Holyrood Park. Jeff tried to turn right, up towards Pollock Halls and the South Side.

  “No that way. The long way roon’.”

  Again Maggie nodded as Jeff shook his head and pulled the van round to the left. They drove through the velvet blackness of the park without a word. Arthur’s Seat lay like a sleeping lion in front of them, masking half the starry sky. They followed the Queen’s Drive down towards Jock’s Lodge but at the turning Eric kept them in the park. Only when they were fully round the far side of Arthur’s Seat at Duddingston Loch did he seem to relax.

  “Right. In here. The car park.” Jeff did as instructed, parking as far away as possible from the only other car. By the dim silhouette its occupants weren’t interested in anyone else anyway. Jeff turned the key and the engine died. Maggie looked Eric full in the face.

  “Right,” she said, “just what exactly are you playing at?”

  “Wait and see,” said Eric, smiling for the first time. He had the look of a conjurer just about to pull a rabbit out of his hat. He took a Daily Record out of an inner pocket, unfolded it, crossed his legs, and turned to the football pages. Maggie stared at Eric, looked round at Jeff, back at Eric, then snorted with impatience, folded her arms, and stared fixedly out over the loch.

  “This better be good,” she muttered. “This really better be good.”

  Gillian began to tidy up the shambles caused by the emergency stop. David looked up at the stars and seemed unperturbed. Jeff glanced at the couple in the car across from them and wondered where he could get a chip shop open at this time of night.

  Chapter 12

  Holyrood Park

  That Friday started much like any other at Hacienda. Alicia had made arrangements to meet Julie from David’s Spanish class for conversation over coffee at Beanscene on Nicholson Street, just round the corner. Actually the situation wasn’t quite as dire as Julie had thought and she soon found she could understand most of what Alicia said and nearly everything when it was repeated a bit more slowly. Together they concluded that a big part of the problem was Julie’s tutor’s strong Argentinian accent, which changed a number of the vowel sounds, consonants, and even some grammar. Three cups later, once Alicia had explained the differences and got her to practise, it began to fall into place. Then they found they had a lot in common and agreed to meet the following week. Julie also heard all about Warehouse 66, David Hidalgo, and how Juan and Alicia had come to Edinburgh. She promised to bring a gang of student friends and sample the tapas and sangria.

  Juan went in early to get things sorted out for that evening. Fridays were busy but it was the best chance to impress so that’s when they tried new specials. Alicia’s nephew Tomas was over from Madrid looking for work like so many more fleeing from La Crisis and had agreed to help in exchange for board and lodgings but some training was still required. He was sent out to buy ingredients and practise his English while Juan experimented with Gallo de Campo a la Jerezana from a new regional collection he had just bought. This involved browning chicken joints in olive oil with garlic, then adding green peppers and onions and sautéing till soft. Next a full bottle of oloroso sherry per eight portions. Once reduced by half, a similar amount of chicken stock, then reduced again. The chicken was removed and cut into filets and the sauce strained and reheated. Finally the chicken was covered in sauce and sprinkled with pine kernels and sultanas for a Moorish flavour. Juan tried it out a couple of different ways with slight variations until he got it exactly right. Delicious. Tomas got back with approximately what he had been sent for and Alicia came in from her meeting. They sat down to sample the new special and pronounced it fit for paying customers. Around mid-afternoon David dropped by and told them he had arranged to go out on the soup van with Gillian that night. Tomas eventually managed to get the coffee machine to work so they had a coffee together and prayed for a good outcome. David left them to get on with things while he did some visits.

  The evening wore on about as normal with a few couples and one single family, until around ten when the door swung open and a large, noisy, mixed group swaggered in. The men were mainly in leather jackets and jeans except for one, a little older than the rest, in an immaculate camel-hair coat, beige trousers, and highly polished brown leather shoes. The women were in brightly coloured dresses and shawls. A few had flowers in their hair. They had a Latin American look with the exception of one younger, paler girl holding onto the man in the camel-hair coat. One of the men – tall, broad, and extremely muscular with a black shirt open at the neck and a variety of gold chains and rings – came up to the desk.

  “You have a table for eight,” he said. It was more statement than enquiry. This was Tomas’s first customer.

  “Eh, of course. Do you have a reservation?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Álvarez.” The man spoke with complete assurance. Tomas scanned the reservations book.

  “I’m sorry, I – I can’t seem to find anything in that name.” The man grunted and narrowed his eyes.

  “I think you must have lost it,” he said. “Very careless.” He turned back. “Hey – they’ve lost the reservation!” The man in the camel-hair coat held out his hands in mock disbelief and said something Tomas didn’t catch.

  “Ok. We made a reservation – now. You find us a table. Yes?”

  “Of – of course, momentito Señor.” Diving for cover, Tomas shot through the kitchen door. Juan appeared a few seconds later. He glanced round and summed up the situation.

  “I’m sorry sir,” he said. “We don’t seem to have the reservation. But there’s no problem. Over here. By the window?” The man looked back to the group.

  “¿Allá. A la ventana?” he called over. The camel-hair coat looked up, wrinkled his nose, frowned, and shook his head. The man in the black shirt scanned slowly round then spotted another table against the wall about half-way into the dining room.

  “There,” he said. “That one.” Juan forced a smile.

  “No problem, Señor. Está bien.” Tomas reappeared, ejected by Alicia. They brought two tables together and the group sat down. They studied the menu in a leisurely manner, the men pointing and joking and giving advice to the women who were giggling and adjusting their make-up. One or two were texting friends while the men chose for them. Only the younger, paler girl wasn’t joining in until an older, strikingly glamorous woman next to her pointed out a few things which she seemed to be explaining. The girl smiled nervously and nodded. Once the hubbub had died down Juan came for the order. The man in the camel-hair coat questioned him about various dishes and wines then seemed satisfied and ordered for everyone.

  “What was that all about?” Alicia asked as Juan came back into the kitchen.

  “A big group. South American. Walking in here like they own the place! It’s a good order but you sometimes wonder if we’d be better off without that sort. Do you know, there’s something about one of them that seems a little bit familiar.”

  Despite Juan’s misgivings and Tomas’s nerves, the meal went off without further incident. The group were noisy and boisterous but not out of order. Extra wine was ordered then three large bottles of Cava. It seemed to be somebody’s birthday. There was much chinking of glasses and calls of “Salud” and “Feliz cumpleaños”. The pale girl produced a brightly wrapped package and placed it on the table in front of the man who by now had taken off the camel-hair coat and had it loosely arranged around his shoulders. He opened his mouth and eyes wide in mock surprise, smiled, put his arm around her, and kisse
d her hard – full on the mouth. The girl pulled back a fraction then seemed to remember herself and submitted. She giggled nervously as he unwrapped it. Whatever it was, it seemed to be expensive. He opened the jeweller’s box, told her she shouldn’t have – or something equivalent – and slipped it into an inside pocket.

  Eventually, around 12:30, they began to wind up. The table was cleared, last sips taken from the coffee, and the bill produced. The man in the camel-hair coat took one glance at it then took out his wallet.

  “Estupendo.” He glanced up at Juan. “Muy rico – delicious.” He deftly counted out twenty-five ten-pound notes then thought better of it and added five more. Juan thanked him and gathered up the bill, the cash, and the empty coffee cups.

  Half-way to the door, a mobile phone went off. One of the men pulled it out of an inside pocket and flipped it open. He listened for a few seconds, glanced at the pale-faced girl, then muttered a few words and snapped it shut. He took the man in the camel-hair coat by the elbow, pulled him slightly apart, and began to whisper in his ear. The older man nodded curtly a few times, also glanced at the pale girl, then smiled. He called the men back while the women hung around the door. An urgent, whispered conference took place. He was like a general giving instructions. Each man in turn was detailed for some duty. Then he stopped, half turned, and gave Juan a long cool stare before gathering up the group and ushering them out. As the door was about to swing shut he paused, turned, and called back.

  “A very good meal. Tell Alicia she is an excellent cook. The secret is to concentrate on your work and not to become distracted. Then you can be good at it and avoid many problems. Is that not so? And you can tell Señor David he should do the same. Tell him it is a little advice from Raúl.”

  For the first twenty minutes, Eric sat quite happily reading his paper while the other occupants of the van dealt with the wait and his refusal to enlighten them with varying degrees of impatience. Jeff pushed his seat back and quickly fell asleep. Gillian kept busy washing and rewashing pots and utensils and tiding up the worktops. David stared at the stars. Maggie humphed and grumphed, muttering maledictions from time to time, twisting this way and that to get comfortable and keep warm. Eric seemed to be engrossed in the sport and was enjoying the whole effect. Celtic and Hibs had both won that week and Rangers and Hearts had lost, so the post-match analysis was particularly enjoyable. On the downside, the red hot favourite in the 3:15 at Musselburgh had come in fifth so that wasn’t so good. Never mind. Win a few, lose a few.