Authors: Allan Guthrie
He gritted his teeth, squeezed his fists. When he closed his eyes, bars of orange flashed behind his lids. Maybe Ailsa was right. Maybe she should be scared of him. Women who were close to him seemed to have a habit of dying.
His eyes opened, slowly adjusting to the harsh winter light. The fat woman had gone and a couple of teenage schoolboys had taken her place. Loudly, they were discussing a classmate called Suzie, who, apparently, had a right-sized pair on her and wasn't half bad-looking. Pearce learned that Suzie was in serious need of a good mining, an expression he'd never heard before but the meaning of which was clear enough. The slightly smaller of the two boys wondered if they might not catch AIDS or something, but agreed when his mate suggested it would be worth it.
Pearce got to his feet and clambered down the steps. A mother and daughter stood in front of the double doors, the daughter kicking the heels of her red boots against the step. Pearce waited behind them with his arms folded. As the bus slowed he swayed to the right and was forced to step forward. He grabbed the support rail above the little girl's head. She looked over her shoulder and grinned at him. She jumped up and down on the spot and clapped her gloved hands. Over the hissing of the brakes he heard her say, "We're going to Daddy's."
Her mother looked across at Pearce. As she turned her head he noticed how thin her hair was. Deep lines scored her forehead. When she smiled her lips sank into her face and her dark blue eyes glistened. She said, "I just hope he remembers, Sweetheart."
The doors opened and mother followed daughter off the bus. Pearce joined them on the pavement and watched them walk away hand in hand, the girl skipping along the pavement, dragging her mother after her. They turned the corner and disappeared from sight.
He strode off in the other direction.
The pink door reminded him of yesterday's visit to Cant. Like the PI, his mum's old school mate also had a pink door. Pearce felt inexplicably sad. Pressure built behind his eyes and for a moment he thought he might burst into tears. He flicked the switch in his head. It took a while, but the sadness gradually passed.
He rang the bell and the door promptly clicked open.
The office was upstairs. On a white door a brass nameplate bore the legend
Eye Witness Investigations.
He knocked once, turned the handle and walked in. A filing cabinet and a desk took up half the floor space. The man he'd met yesterday sat behind the desk, a bandage still protecting his nose. Dark bruises circled his eyes. A much younger man sat on a small window ledge, cushioning his buttocks with his hands.
The man with the bandage stood and held out his hand. "Gray." He smiled, pointed to the floor and said, "Same as the carpet."
"You know who I am." Pearce strolled towards him and took his hand. "I hope your information is better than your banter."
Gray removed his hand, his grin fading.
The other man unstuck himself from the window and introduced himself. "Kennedy."
Pearce said, "Which one of you dicks is going to tell me who killed my mother?"
"It's a little more complicated than that," Gray said. "Why don't you take a seat?"
Pearce remained standing. "You said you knew."
Gray's gaze switched from Pearce to Kennedy, then back to Pearce. "Please sit down."
"Give me the name."
"What's it worth?" A slight smile crept over Gray's face.
Pearce stared at him. "You want to take care somebody doesn't take a proper swipe at that nose of yours."
The smile vanished. Gray said, "We'll sell you the information."
"At a fair price," Kennedy chipped in. During Pearce's exchange with Gray, Kennedy had retreated to the window. His hands were stuffed under his arse again.
Pearce said, "I'm skint."
Gray said, "We can help you get some money."
"I'm not interested in money," Pearce said. "What if I just beat the information out of you?"
Kennedy said, "We'll phone the police and they'll sling you back in the slammer before you have time to sharpen your screwdriver."
"You've done your homework," Pearce said. "I'm impressed. Still, the police would have to catch me first."
Kennedy said, "We can tell them where you're headed."
"Difficult if you're unconscious."
"We'd wake up at some point."
"Not if you were dead."
"You wouldn't kill us."
"You sound confident."
"Hear me out." Gray leaned back in his chair. "This is stupid." He placed his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. "Take a seat."
Without breaking eye contact, Pearce pulled out the chair from under the desk and sat down.
Gray said, "Thank you, Mr Pearce."
"My pleasure, Mr Gray." Pearce grabbed the PI's tie and wrenched him forward. A tray tumbled off the desk and an assortment of documents, some handwritten, some printed, spilled onto the grey carpet. Pearce's peripheral vision picked up Kennedy creeping towards him. Pearce said, "You – stay where you are." Kennedy stopped at the edge of the desk. "I don't have time for games." Pearce yanked Gray closer. If the bandage hadn't been in the way their noses would have been touching. Gray was shaking, his slight double chin quivering. He clutched Pearce's arm.
"Don't call me stupid," Pearce said. "Now, tell me his name before I lose my temper."
Kennedy said, "The man who killed your mother got away with a lot of money."
Still staring at Gray, Pearce said, "So?"
Kennedy said, "He still has it."
"And?"
"We want it."
"Go get it, then."
"Look at it as a favour."
"Look at what?"
"We give you his name. In return, you get the money for us."
"You want me to steal the money he stole from the post office and hand it over to you?"
"Yeah."
"Why should I?"
"Either we give the name to you, or we give it to the police. If we give it to the police…"
"You'll be screwed," Gray said. He coughed. "I'm choking. Let me go."
Pearce snapped his wrist downwards. Gray's face bounced off the surface of the desk. When he sat up again his eyes were wide with shock and a red stain was beginning to blossom on his bandage.
Without letting go of his tie, Pearce said, "Shut up."
Kennedy swallowed. Quietly he said, "What do you say?"
Pearce said, "Give me the name."
Gray said, "No way."
Pearce bounced him off the desk again.
Above Gray's moans, Kennedy said, "Robin Greaves."
Tearing the bandage off his nose, Gray said, "What are you saying, you stupid—"
Pearce said, "I told you to shut up."
Gray cupped his hands over his face.
"The money was in a blue sports bag," Kennedy said. "You would have seen it in the post office. I think he's switched the cash to a brown leather holdall."
Pearce said, "What's his address?"
Kennedy told him.
Gray moaned. He said, "Now we've got nothing to bargain with."
Pearce looked at him. "You never had." He let go of Gray's tie and got to his feet. "How reliable is this information?"
"Hundred percent. On the day of the robbery I tailed him from his flat to the post office." Kennedy stood up too.
"I'm only interested in Greaves," Pearce said. "Not the money."
Gray slurred his words. "What's that mean?" He tried to stand up and fell back in his chair. "You would not believe how much my nose hurts."
Pearce said, "It can always hurt more."
11:21 am
He'd lost a couple of minutes afterwards. A minor victory for Robin, who'd retreated now, gone where Don couldn't touch him. Don padded across the room and stepped into the corridor. The door on the left led to the kitchen. He walked past it and tried the next one along.
Voila
. He slid into the bathroom, head pounding.
Daubs of blood had dried on his fingers. He ran his hands under the tap, then grabbed a bar of soap and lathered his palms. Blood foamed and swirled in the sink. He checked his hands for more spillage after rinsing them thoroughly. They were clean.
Ignoring his scars, he examined his near-naked body. It seemed blood-free. He checked in the mirror, amazed at how the pain in his head had bleached his lips. No blood splatters, though. That was good. Ah, but he was dripping all over the floor. He should dry his hands. A couple of towels hung on a rail. No, using her towel was filthy, like sharing a toothbrush. Saliva flooded his mouth. He swallowed. Better. He wasn't going to choke. He unrolled a pile of toilet roll, bunched it up and dried his hands with it. He threw the soggy paper down the toilet and flushed it. A clear thumbprint remained on the handle.
Look at them.
He turned as he passed the mirror.
Look at them.
Hypertrophic scarring.
Look.
Red curls of thickened skin snaked across his chest.
Lower down.
Livid welts burned into his abdomen. An L, an O, a V.
Enough.
He returned to the sitting room. Carol lay on her back with his word carved in her stomach and his knife buried in her naval. He rummaged in his coat pocket and took out his gloves. A bit late. His fingerprints were everywhere. But he could wipe them off before he left.
Unwinding the ligature from round her neck, he noticed the cuff for the first time and it dawned on him that he'd killed her with a shirtsleeve. Who'd have thought a shirtsleeve could be used as a lethal weapon? He spread out the material and was wiping the handle of the knife when the phone rang. He stopped what he was doing and stared at the phone.
Carol spoke, her answering machine broadcasting a short message. Eddie's voice followed. "Pick up, Carol.
Please.
Carol. You there?
Pick the phone up.
" There was silence for a few seconds. "Carol, answer the fucking phone."
Don retraced his steps. Wiped the doorknob. Wiped the knob on the other side. Wiped the taps in the bathroom, the flush handle, inside and outside door handles. He tried to think what else he might have touched. Back in the sitting room he started to dress. When he put his trousers on, he felt something missing. He patted his pocket, then shoved his hand inside. His wallet had gone. And his keys. The bastard had nicked them. All he had left was some loose change.
No prizes for guessing where Eddie had phoned from. He sounded distressed, poor chap. Well, what was Don was supposed to do now? Thanks to Eddie, he couldn't go home. He couldn't stay here. He couldn't go to the police. He needed somewhere to hide, somewhere to think. His head ached like a split tooth. He took off his gloves to button his shirt. He put on his shoes, put the gloves back on. He needed to talk to Robin.
Okay.
Robin believed he'd killed Carol.
Okay
. Robin didn't know Don was aware of his visit. Consequently, Robin would assume that when Don woke up he'd think Eddie had killed her and set him up. So, logically, if Don got away he'd accuse Eddie of framing him. That is, if he went to the police.
I woke up and she was already dead. Honest. I don't know how my fingerprints are on the knife.
He needed money. He no longer had his bank or credit cards. Eddie had seen to that. If Don was going to survive, he needed cash and, as far as he could gather, Robin had a pile of it. Another good reason for finding him. They could be of help to one another.