Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel (37 page)

‘Listen,’ I told him. ‘You’re right to be afraid of Manson, but with your help we can put him away.’

He looked up at me again, eyes narrow. ‘Are you really saying this was Tony?’ he asked.

‘I’m like you, Derek,’ I replied. ‘I’m saying nothing. Good luck under the knife, and with your next career. Come on, Mario.’ I turned and left him to his appointment with Mr Jacobs.

‘Do you really think he didn’t know his wife was shagging Manson, boss?’ McGuire asked, once we were outside.

‘Having seen him, I don’t believe that he did. That kid’s naive. He lives much of his life cloistered away with his teammates doing what he’s told, eating what he’s given, even sleeping to a timetable. When he’s not doing that he spends his leisure time in the bookie’s or the casino, so I can understand him being blind to what the wife was up to. But one thing interests me. Somebody gave him a doing, but his first thought wasn’t Manson. Let’s see how that one plays.’

‘What do we do now?’

‘We pay a couple of visits, but in the right order. Did Jock Varley give you the Drysalters’ address?’

He produced a notebook from his pocket. ‘Yes, sir. I’ve got it here.’ He read it out.

‘That’s where we’re going first,’ I told him. I had a notion that Alafair would be at home, and of what we would find there. ‘While we’re on the way, I want you to dig out what you can about her.’

‘I’ve got something already, boss,’ he ventured, with the slightly tentative air of a man who was anxious not to appear to be a smartarse. ‘The photo that my
News
pal sent me was used alongside an article. It was one of a series of features on players’ wives, Hibs and Hearts, so I got him to send that as well.’

‘Did it tell you much?’

‘Not a lot. It said she’s twenty-five, was brought up in Hamilton by a single-parent mum, who’s now dead, went to the local high school, went to drama school in Glasgow, took modelling jobs between acting parts, her work name being her maiden name, Alafair McGrew, and met her husband three years ago when she did a photoshoot with the Scotland squad. Now, she says, her life is Derek and her dogs.’

‘And her gangster on the side. Come on.’ We climbed into the car and I headed for Blackford Hill. ‘Did Varley interview her last night?’ I asked when we were under way.

‘No, sir. She was out last night when Derek had his . . .’ he updated the situation ‘. . . was attacked. He was planning to see her today. But now . . .’

‘It’s down to us. It was convenient, her being out, Mario, wasn’t it?’

‘Convenient for who, boss?’

‘Convenient for her not to be within miles of it.’

The Drysalter family home, a modern pile that couldn’t make up its mind whether it was Rennie Mackintosh or Art Deco, stood back from the street behind a high wall, but its location meant that any paparazzo with half a brain could climb Blackford Hill and have a clear view of Alafair and Derek at play in their back garden. I parked outside. The gates were closed but, surprisingly, not locked, so I opened them and led the way up the path. As we approached the house we could hear barking from inside. The door opened, just a crack, no more, before we reached it, and a voice from within shouted, ‘I thought I’d locked that gate. Look, bugger off, no press.’

I flashed my badge. ‘I couldn’t agree more, Mrs Drysalter. We’re the police; it’s about your husband.’

‘I’ve got nothing to say to you either. Away you go and catch the guy that ran Derek over.’

‘Open the door, please,’ I said. The crack widened a little. ‘No, all the way, please.’ The dogs were still yowling somewhere in the background.

‘I’m not letting you in.’

‘You’re not required to, but I would like to see you. I’m concerned about your well-being and I need to make sure that you’re all right.’

‘Rubbish,’ she murmured, but she opened it, about halfway, enough for me to see that she was wearing wrap-around sunglasses, barely necessary on a morning that had begun overcast and looked like staying that way.

‘Satisfied?’ she drawled. She’d have slammed the door shut if it hadn’t been for McGuire’s size whatever moccasin blocking the way. As she pushed vainly against his strength, I reached out and whipped the shades away.

Both her eyes were blackened, and swollen, as was the bridge of her nose. I hadn’t noticed before, but her lower lip was puffy as well. She snatched the Ray-Bans back from me and replaced them, but I’d seen enough. I’d expected that, or something similar.

‘I’m still saying nothing!’ she snapped. ‘Now go . . . or I’ll call your superior officer.’

‘That would be DCS Stein,’ I advised her. ‘But it doesn’t matter. You’ve told me everything I wanted to know. We’re going to do you a favour now; we’re not going to ask you anything at all.’

She took me by surprise; she slumped against the door and started to cry.

I let McGuire administer the sympathy. ‘It’s okay,’ he said, gently. ‘Is he often abusive?’ She nodded. ‘Do you want to make a complaint against him?’

She shook her head. ‘No,’ she whispered.

I leaned close to her. ‘I think you have done already, kid,’ I murmured, ‘but not to us. Come on, Mario.’

We closed the gate carefully behind us. ‘She had you going there, didn’t she?’ I said.

He nodded. ‘I take a very dim view of domestic violence. I’ve seen too much of it in uniform.’

‘We all do in our time,’ I agreed, ‘and I’m not condoning it. But remember three things: one, she’s an actress; two, she doesn’t know that we know she’s been fucking Manson; three, everybody likes to have the police on their side. She’s hoping we’ll pat her on the head and go away. The bugger is, she’s right; we’ll have to.’

I checked my watch . . . the clock in the Discovery had packed up in the time of a previous owner. It showed twelve forty. ‘The Police Federation would like you to be going for lunch now, son. But right now, as I speak, she’s in there making a phone call. I don’t want to give the recipient too long to digest it, once he’s heard who turned up on her doorstep.’

The city bypass was fairly close, so I took that rather than head across town. The journey took me twenty minutes, and I’d probably saved the same. The gates swung open even more quickly than before, but then, I was expected. ‘Where are we?’ McGuire asked.

‘In the belly of the beast. You’ll see.’

For the third time in succession, the door was opened by a different person. Dougie Terry didn’t say a word; he let us in and stood aside. I knew the way by that time.

Manson was behind his desk, contemplating what looked like two burgers, or possibly steaks, each in a big, floury bap. He looked at McGuire as we crossed the room. ‘I see we’ve both got new minders. Skinner.’

I took the fake pen from its stand and broke it in two, then ripped its wire loose. His smile vanished. ‘Hey, what the fuck are you doin’? It’s not switched on.’

‘Who gives a shit?’ I barked. ‘I’m in that sort of mood. Mario, now that you’ve met Mr Manson, you might want to go and have a longer chat with Mr Terry.’

‘You serious, boss?’ the DC asked.

‘Yes, go on.’

I waited until he’d left then headed round the desk. Manson saw that I really was serious; he panicked, opened the top right-hand drawer and reached into it, but I slammed it shut on his hand and pressed hard. ‘Bastard!’ he yelled. I pulled him over backwards, right out of his chair, and took the gun he’d been after. He started to rise, and I slugged him with it, backhanded, across the face. He sprawled on the rug, in a bay window that looked out on to the completely secluded garden, free of onlookers. He wasn’t done, more fool him. I pocketed the automatic as he got to his feet, then hit him, a big right-hander on the temple that knocked him back down, and right out.

When he started to come to, I was in his chair, pointing his own gun at the middle of his forehead, with half a burger in my left hand. ‘That was the biggest mistake you’ve ever made in your life,’ I told him, when he was ready to listen, and I had finished chewing. ‘We were just going to have a chat until you went for the gun. Are you fucking mad?’

‘What gun?’ he mumbled. ‘You brought it with you.’

‘No, I didn’t, but I’m taking it away. There’s an amnesty on just now, post-Dunblane, pre-legislation, and this is going in the river.’ I put it back in my pocket (the safety catch had never been off), picked up the other bap from the plate on his desk and handed it to him.

‘Cheers,’ he said, sourly.

‘Actually, Tony, you did me a favour,’ I confessed. ‘I wanted to give you a slap, very badly. I’m angry, very angry. I’ve just been to see a lad in hospital. You’ve been screwing his wife and now you’ve ended his career for him. You know what? As well as being a fucking criminal, you are an arsehole of the first order.’

‘Nothing to do with me,’ he muttered, then winced as he took a bite from his roll and felt the pain. I’d caught him with the gun between the right cheekbone and upper jaw. His face was swelling and his eye was going to be closed before too long.

‘Where’s big Lennie?’ I asked.

‘He’s gone on holiday for a bit.’

‘Sure. He left last night I’ll bet, via Blackford Hill.’ He frowned and I read his mind. ‘No, forget that,’ I told him. ‘Derek’s story is still that he was hit by a car, but we both know that’s crap. We also know that there’s only one guy in town who’d tackle a job like that alone, against a young, fit guy, and inflict the damage that he’s got. You’re a bastard on that score as well. You like Lennie, yet you used him to do that. What about Bella?’ I continued, keeping the pressure on him. ‘Where’s she?’

‘Back at her own place. She’s got Marlon’s funeral to sort.’

‘And she’s safe, of course, now you know there’s no threat against her.’

‘There never was,’ he replied. ‘She was upset about the kid. We both were. I just wanted her here for a while, that was all.’

I shook my head. ‘I still don’t get it, man. Okay, you’ve got a thing going with Alafair, but she’s a fucking trophy for the likes of you, that’s all. You don’t want to marry her, for Christ’s sake. A week’s nookie in Ibiza and that would have been it, am I right?’

‘Maybe.’

‘So, she goes home, Derek finds out, they have a big fight, he loses it and hits her. And she phones you crying about it. The Tony Manson I know would have said, “Your business,” and hung up on her, but instead you set big Lennie on the guy you’ve been cuckolding, the highest profile sportsman in town, and you break his fucking legs! I do not get that, Tony; I don’t get it at all. Explain it to me, no witnesses; go on.’

He took another bite of burger, with the other side of his mouth, and I finished mine. When he was done, he looked up at me, and said, ‘Just this once, okay?’

I nodded. ‘Okay, if you want.’

‘It was a matter of principle. A message had to be sent; now it has been and the story’s over. I’ll compensate the boy. His debts are wiped at the casino, forty grand’s worth. I doubt if he’ll ever go there again, but if he does he’ll have another ten coming in chips.’

I whistled. ‘That’s the noblest thing I’ve ever heard,’ I told him, ironically; I must emphasise that, in case you thought I was being serious, for irony is very difficult to convey on the printed page. ‘But I don’t get your fucking message.’

‘It wasn’t for you, but trust me, it’ll have been received.’

‘By whom? Derek? For fuck’s sake, Tony. What good’s that going to do now? Oh, and by the way, I’d sooner trust a politician.’ I frowned. ‘You’ve got a lot in common, mind you. They keep on getting away with it, just like you will this time.’

I reached out a hand and pulled him off the floor, then gave him back his chair. ‘No more, Tony, no more,’ I warned him. I patted my pocket. ‘And no more toys either. Once this new ban on handguns comes in, if I raid this place and find any, you’ll be gone for five years.’

McGuire and Terry were outside in the hall when I left, eyeing each other up, the latter more than a little warily. I sensed that something had happened. I patted the DC on the shoulder. ‘And he’s on our team too, Dougie. I’ll bet that hasn’t made your afternoon.’

The gates had been opened for us when we stepped outside. Neither of us said a word until we were off the property and back in Essex Road. It was McGuire who broke the silence. ‘What happened in there, boss?’

‘Tony and I had a wee chat. We’re old acquaintances. Don’t be offended that I asked you to leave. Some things are better one on one. I wanted you to see him before we got down to it. I’m sure you’ll bump into him again before you’re done.’

As it happened he did, a few years later; it was a one-sided meeting, though, since Manson was dead at the time.

‘We heard a shout at one point,’ the new DC said, quietly. ‘Terry was for going in there.’

‘Did you have to restrain him?’

‘No, sir. He thought better of it.’

They usually do with him. I grinned. ‘Thanks for your confidence,’ I remarked. ‘It might have been me that was shouting.’

‘I never thought that for one second, sir. Neither did Terry, from the way he reacted. Did you get anything out of Manson?’

‘I’d read the script before I heard the performance.’ I summed up the sequence of events for him, but left out the more physical side of the discussion.

‘If we know all that, don’t we have a chance of a prosecution?’ he asked.

‘Of course. If . . . Derek Drysalter, who’s getting fifty grand from Manson for pain and inconvenience, plus, I imagine, an insurance payment that might be in doubt if the truth came out, was to change his story and make a complaint, if . . . a couple of witnesses come forward out of the blue and make it to the trial unbribable or undamaged, if . . . Alafair confesses to everything including running to Tony after Derek hit her, and if . . . big Lennie doesn’t happen to have been in a roomful of oath-taking friends at the exact moment the attack took place, then . . . yes, we might have a chance of taking it to court. The only problem is that none of those things is going to happen.’

I understood his concern. I’d been as idealistic as him ten years earlier. ‘We just have to keep doing our best, Mario,’ I told him. ‘We get most of them in the end.’

‘We haven’t got Manson yet,’ he pointed out.