Authors: Robin Pilcher
G
avin Mackintosh made a quick longhand note of his telephone call with Jamie Stratton on a pad of lined paper, ripped off the page and floated it into the wire tray at the corner of the large leather-inlaid desk. He carelessly discarded his reading spectacles, picked up the cup of now-lukewarm coffee and sat back in his chair, swinging it round so he was facing the tall window that looked out across Heriot Row onto the tranquil shrub-lined paths of Queen Street Gardens. He watched as an elderly woman with two small dogs, straining on a joint lead, stopped beside one of the cast-iron benches that bordered the paths. Sitting down, she leaned over to free the dogs, and as they darted off in different directions, she took a magazine from her bag and settled herself to read.
Gavin hadn’t really given much thought to the fact that it was festival time again until that moment when he had spoken with Jamie. It always posed a bit of a quandary for him, because although every year he had great intentions of going out and enjoying some of the events, unfailingly his workload seemed to increase at that time and the whole three weeks came and went without him hardly noticing anything out of the ordinary had ever taken place. His wife, however, persevered regardless, booking tickets for concerts and operas, but she usually ended up having to take a friend or prizing one of their two daughters away from their ever-increasing young families to accompany her. The previous year, one small window of opportunity had arisen and he had managed to counter the growing exasperation of his wife by attending a production of De Rojas’s
Celestina,
but his mobile phone had vibrated in his breast pocket just before the end of the first act and he had had to leave, shrouded in a black cloud of unpopularity, to answer a call from the police station in Portobello and interview a young man who had been caught in the act of breaking and entering.
Pushing himself out of his chair, Gavin walked over to the stack of brown cardboard folders on the long refectory table beside the door, selected one and returned to his desk. Maybe this year would be different, he thought to himself. There was one particular event he did especially want to attend, a welcoming reception for the young French violinist Angélique Pascal, in the Sheraton Grand Hotel. He had been more than surprised when he had come across the stiff-backed invitation sitting on the drawing room mantelpiece at his house in Ravelston Road. Despite constant badgering from friends, he had always been pretty skeptical about how much additional fee income could be generated from sponsoring an event at the festival, and consequently he and his wife had never made it onto the “preferred” list of guests. However, this time he was going to make every effort possible to attend the party, even though it might lead to a barrage of requests for financial support. It would be worth it just to get a glimpse of the extremely talented and extremely attractive young musician.
Opening the folder, Gavin pulled his chair in close to the desk and put on his spectacles, and began reading through the Last Will and Testament of Mrs. Annie Dalgety, a long-time client of the firm who had just failed to reach her one hundredth birthday by a mere six weeks. It was destined to be a lengthy wrangle, as she had always been a crusty old soul, constantly falling out with her three sons in turn and changing her will to benefit the one who happened to be in favour at the time. It was further complicated by the fact that her lineage stretched to three generations below her, and there were no fewer than thirty descendants all looking for a share in the carve-up of her estate. This included a three-storey town house in Royal Crescent, one of the remaining few not to have been divided up into flats, and a substantial share portfolio built up over many years by her late, but in his time very shrewd, stockbroker husband.
Gavin had just begun to note down a few diplomatic observations on his pad, readying himself for the second, and no doubt confrontational, meeting scheduled for four o’clock that afternoon in the partners’ room, when there was a loud knock on the door. He put down his pen, took off his spectacles and called out for the person to enter. John Anderson, one of the firm’s junior partners, stuck his head round the door.
“Have you got a moment, Gavin?”
“Certainly, John.” He indicated the chair at the other side of his desk. “Come in and have a seat.”
The lean, bespectacled solicitor moved in an ungainly lope across the room, placing the large pile of folders he had been carrying under his arm on the desk in front of him. He positioned himself in the chair as if about to answer Mastermind questions.
Gavin eyed the folders suspiciously. “What have we got here, John?”
John Anderson clenched his teeth. “Ah, I
thought
you might have forgotten,” he murmured.
Gavin leaned back in his chair, an expression fixed on his face that would indicate his lack of recall was about to cause him a considerable amount of physical pain.
“Okay, let me have it.”
John rubbed his hands together apprehensively. “I’m off on holiday for two weeks on Monday.”
“Och, jeezy-peeps!” Gavin exclaimed, hitting the palm of his hand hard against his forehead. “Of course you are. It had completely slipped my mind.”
“I’m sorry. Maybe I should have reminded you earlier.”
Gavin waved a dismissive hand at him. “No, it’s my fault entirely. It’s been in my diary for at least three months, and what’s more, I should know by now. This is about the third year I’ve been covering for you on the Legal Aid cases, is it not?”
“Fourth, actually,” John replied with an apologetic smile.
Gavin let out a rueful laugh and shook his head. “Funnily enough, I was just thinking about how I never seemed to find enough time to go to any of the festival events. Now I remember it’s
you
I’ve got to blame for that.”
John leaned forward in his chair uneasily. “Listen, Gavin, if you want, I’ll see if I can get someone else to—”
“No, no, I was only joking,” Gavin interjected. “Of course I’ll handle them for you.” He pointed at the pile of folders on the desk. “Are those your ongoing cases?”
“Yes, but I promise it’s not as bad as it looks. Three of them are appeals that probably won’t be called to court until I get back.”
“And the others?”
“Five pleas of guilty and two of not guilty. I’m due to be in the magistrates’ court for the next couple of days and hope to clear up two of them, so I won’t be leaving you with too much.”
“Depends what comes up when you’re away, though, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it does,” John replied quietly.
Gavin slapped his hands down on the desk. “Never mind. You go away and enjoy yourself, John, and come back refreshed and raring to go. Where are you off to this year?”
John got to his feet and picked up the pile of folders. “Majorca again,” he replied, his tone much lighter now that he had accomplished his mission. “It suits the kids. They get to go to the nightclub while Deborah and I can just crash out on the beach.”
“Sounds a good arrangement. You have a good time, then.”
“I will, and thanks for taking this on yet again, Gavin.” The solicitor made his way towards the door and opened it. “I’ll leave those cases I haven’t cleared with your secretary on Friday afternoon, if that’s okay with you?”
“That’ll be fine, John. I’ll read them up sometime over the weekend.”
As the door closed, Gavin screwed up his eyes and rubbed his fingers hard on top of his balding pate. Oh, well, he thought to himself, looks like another few weeks of uncultured bliss. No doubt you’ll hear the boom of the fireworks from the house and realize it’s all over for another year. One thing for certain, though, you’ll be getting yourself to that reception in the Sheraton Grand come hell or high water, even if it does mean leaving some young whipper-snapper in the clink overnight.
Slipping on his spectacles, he picked up his pen and resumed his quest to sort out the estate of the indomitable Mrs. Dalgety.
P
hil Kenyon carefully lowered the heavy silver fireproof case to the floor, his knees bent to avoid twingeing his suspect back. He straightened up, letting out a puff of effort, and turned to look over to the far end of the old grain shed as one of the large double doors was slid open. Roger Dent entered and heaved the metal door closed with an echoing clang. He walked towards his Australian colleague, pushing a folded piece of paper into the pocket of his chinos.
“Did you speak with Jeff Banyon, then?” Phil asked as his boss approached.
“Yup, all went well,” Roger replied, giving a thumbs-up. “I think I came out with all the right things to appease him.” He sat down on the case that Phil had just been handling and crossed his arms. “He’s on his way down to Newcastle to meet up with the fellow who’s going to be conducting the orchestra on the night.”
“Have we worked with him before?”
“No, so we’ll just have to hope he doesn’t go apeshit, knowing he’s got the eyes of about a quarter of a million people glaring down on him. If he rushes his way through this one, our timings are certain to go all up the creek.”
Phil raised his eyebrows. “And what about the score reader? Have they got that fixed up yet?”
“Yes, it’s the same girl we had last year from the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra.”
Phil bit at his lip. “Ah, Helen,” he said quietly.
Roger’s mouth creased into a knowing smile. “Of course, I’d forgotten you’d had a bit of a fling with her.”
“Could be a bit awkward,” Phil mumured, giving his head a quick sideways flick.
Roger got to his feet and gave his sidekick a hard slap on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll cope with the situation quite manfully, Phil.” Taking the piece of paper from his pocket, he unfolded it and quickly scanned through the handwritten list. “How’re you doing with the trucks for Edinburgh? Have you booked them yet?”
“Yeah, they’ll be here on the Friday night.”
Roger nodded. “Okay, so let’s just stick to the same game plan as we had last year. We’ll aim to get up there on the Sunday before the final night, and that’ll give us the full week to get set up.” He folded the piece of paper and stuck it back in his pocket. “I’ll go up in the first truck with the workshop equipment, and then you and the crew can stop off in Birmingham en route and pick up all the hardware from the store there.”
“No worries. We’ve got four weeks in hand, so that’s time aplenty for getting it all ready and putting the final touches to the programme.”
Roger fixed the stocky Australian with a humorous look of subterfuge. “If you ever happen to pick up the telephone in the office and find yourself speaking to Jeff Banyon, please, whatever you do, don’t tell him that.”
“Why? What did you say to him?” Phil asked with a conspiring twinkle in his eye.
Roger shrugged his shoulders. “That the programme was complete and we had most of the gear stockpiled.”
Phil laughed. “Oh, well, you’ve got to lie a little to live a little.”
“Exactly my sentiments, mate,” Roger replied as he turned and threaded his way through the equipment back towards the entrance doors, “especially seeing we’ve got four more displays to get through before we head up to Edinburgh.”
’E
re, Robbie, quit doing that and come over and stand by me!”
Rene Brownlow’s yell was barely audible above the cacophony of noise on York Station, dominated at the precise moment of her reprimand by a crackling announcement on the tannoy system heralding the imminent arrival of the Intercity service to Edinburgh. Robbie pushed the luggage trolley at speed along the platform towards his mother, giving it a final spin to extract one more squeal of delight from his sister, who clutched hard to the handle, her feet splayed out across its bars.
“They’re doing no ’arm,” Gary Brownlow said quietly.
“What d’ye mean? They could quite easily go right over the edge and under the train.”
Gary smiled at his wife. “’Ow’re ye feeling? A bit nervous?”
Rene blew out a shivering breath. “Only as much as I’d be feeling if I was ’eading off to me own execution. Before now, an excursion to York for me was about as rare as a mule with offspring, and ’ere am I going even further off the beaten track.”
Gary laughed and put his arm around his wife’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You’ll be fine, girl, I know it.”
Rene gazed up at her husband. “Are ye sure ye’re all right about me doing this, Gary? We don’t seem to have spoken much about it recently, what with one thing and another, but I can’t ’elp remembering yer first reaction when Terry—”
“Oh, forget that, lass,” Gary cut in with a wave of his hand. “That was me just voicing me own frustration. I should’ve kept me big mouth shut. What I want you to do is get yerself up to Edinburgh and knock ’em all dead.”
Rene smiled fondly at her husband. “It’ll turn out all right for ye, Gary. I know it will. But listen, if something comes up while I’m away or ye find ye can’t cope with the kids—”
“Don’t worry yer ’ead about that,” Gary interjected again. “Between me and me parents, we’ll cope.”
“Aye, I reckon ye will.” Rene turned her head and looked past Gary. “I feel like the bloody Queen,” she said out of the side of her mouth.
“’Ow d’ye mean?”
She flicked her head sideways. “My entourage.”
Gary glanced round at the five committee members of Andersons Westbourne Social Club, who stood smiling at them from a distance of twenty-five feet.
“D’ye think we could get a photo now, Rene, seeing that the train’s approaching?” Stan Morris asked, taking Gary’s look as an opportune moment to cut in on the couple’s farewell.
Rene laughed. “Aye, why not, Stan?” she called over to him.
As the committee chairman slipped the camera out of the leather case he had dangling from his neck, the other members rushed forward and gathered themselves around the Brownlow family. Putting arms around shoulders, they grinned inanely in the direction of the camera.
Stan squinted through the eyepiece. “Right, all squeeze in a bit. That’s better. Skittle, I can’t see ye, so get in front beside the kids. No, Norman, not you! You stay where y’are! Okay.” He took the camera away from his eye, just to give a final check that it was loaded with film. “Right, one, two, three…oh, ’ang on a minute, the train’s pulling in.” There was a universal groan from the assembled group. “All right! All right!” Stan said shirtily, “I’m an experienced photographer, I’ll ’ave ye know, and it wouldn’t do to ’ave the background go all blurry.”
“Well, stop yakking and get yer skates on, then,” said sombre Derek Marsham. “We’ve only got the minibus booked until two o’clock.”
Derek’s remark produced the laughs that were to be captured for posterity on film. The group broke up as the first of the carriage doors started opening.
“Ye’re in the one down ’ere, Rene,” Terry Crosland said as he scooped up her suitcase and hurried off down the platform, the farewell committee following on his heel like ducklings. Rene ambled along, holding hard to Gary’s hand. “I’ll call ye every night.”
Gary nodded. “Aye, you do that.”
Reaching up, she pulled his head down towards her and gave him a long kiss on the lips. “I’ll miss ye, lad. I wish ye were coming too,” she whispered into his ear.
“Ye’ll do fine on your own,” he said, putting his arms around her ample body and giving her bottom a tight squeeze.
Rene broke away and gave each of her children a kiss and a hug. “Ye look after yer dad now, you two, and don’t be giving ’im any bother.”
Robbie and Karen both replied with a nod before breaking away from their mother’s loving hold, eager to head off once again on their trolley.
“Come on,” Gary said, grasping her arm. “Let’s get ye on board.”
Leaning out of the window as the train pulled out of the station, Rene watched the cluster of waving hands until the bend in the train hid them from sight. She pushed up the window and let out a long nervous breath. Well, that’s it, lass, she thought to herself, ye’re on your own now.
Thomas Keene junior had worked up quite a tidy little business for himself over the week. Having discovered how to take digital stills with the video camera, he had set himself up on the junction of Princes and Hanover streets and started waylaying tourists as they passed, offering to take their photograph with Edinburgh Castle as the backdrop. It was a success from the start. Once he had at least ten different customers on record, he would whip out the memory card, take it up to the Kwikflick shop halfway up Hanover Street, put it in for a half-hour service and have the prints back on Princes Street within the hour, catching the punters on their return. Of course, at the outset there had been a few problems to sort out. Having not one bean to his name, T.K. had had to persuade an elderly Dutch couple to pay him upfront and then get them to stand outside the shop for the time it took for the photographs to be printed. Then the woman in the shop started complaining about his ever-increasing appearances, so he ended up agreeing to pay her the full hourly rate. He was pretty sure the extra money was going straight into her pocket, but it didn’t really bother him that much. At the end of the day, he always had enough money to get himself a double cheeseburger and large Coke from McDonald’s on Princes Street and then catch a bus back home afterwards.
That day, however, had not been the best for trade. T.K. didn’t really know the reason, but he thought maybe it was because the street theatre had already started up on the Royal Mile, seeing as the Fringe shows were due to begin the following day. He waited until the Kwikflick shop had closed, then pulled his meagre takings from his pocket. It was a toss-up between the meal and the bus. Seeing it was a warm, cloudless evening and he was in no great hurry to get home, he opted for food and headed along the street to get himself a burger.
The cardboard cup and polystyrene container were discarded over the railings of a basement flat at the bottom of Dundas Street, just before T.K. started out on one of the many complicated short cuts he knew to get back home. He zigzagged through narrow cobbled alleys, climbed walls, squeezed his narrow frame through loose wooden fence panels and swung himself over arrow-tipped railings by grabbing the branches of overhanging trees. He jumped up onto the precipitous wall that ran above Glenogle Road and walked along its length until he came to the point where he knew a number of near imperceptible footholds existed. Lowering himself over the parapet, he eased his way down the wall, jumping the last six feet to the ground. He crossed the road and began to make his way past the many narrow cul-de-sacs that made up the rabbit warren of two-storey terraced houses known as the Stockbridge Colonies.
As he turned the corner to cut down the last street, he stopped and drew himself back against the end gable of the row of houses. He peered around the corner and watched the two boys who ambled slowly along the road towards him. One was positioned on the pavement, nonchalantly looking about him, studying the windows of the houses and occasionally casting a glance down to each end of the street, while the other walked parallel to him on the street, looking for the nod from his mate before glancing quickly in through the driver’s-side windows of the row of parked cars.
T.K. drew back behind the wall and laughed to himself. He knew exactly what they were doing, but what he found so ridiculous was they were about to attempt a car theft in broad daylight. Six o’clock in the evening during the winter months maybe, but not at the height of summer. He put his head around the corner once more and noticed them spending time over one particular car. Good choice, lads, he thought to himself, an old Ford, easy to get into, easy to start and plenty of room to make a quick getaway.
It was at that moment T.K. remembered the video camera. He pulled it out of the front pocket of his sweatshirt and switched on the power. Right, he thought, let’s see how fast you two can pull this off. Clicking the camera onto “standby,” he stuck the lens around the corner of the building, adjusting the viewing screen so that he could see what was going on. His timing was perfect. He started the camera running the moment the boy on the street ducked below the level of the roof. He straightened up, took one last cursory look around him, and then wrenched the door open and got in, leaning over to pull up the lock of the passenger door. The accomplice jumped into the car, and there followed a moment when T.K. could hardly stop the camera from shaking, as he watched a silent, yet obviously desperate shouting match develop while the driver struggled to hot-wire the car. Then suddenly the engine roared to life, and with a squeal of tyres the car shot out of the parking space and sped down the street towards him. Without stopping at the T-junction, the car veered right out onto the main road and headed away.
He kept the camera rolling until the car disappeared at the end of the street. Putting his hand over the screen to shield it from the glare of the evening sunlight, he read the length of the recorded scene on the time code. Four minutes twenty seconds. He laughed out loud. That is effin’ lousy, lads, he thought to himself. If you go on like that, you may as well just
drive
yourself to the juvenile court.
Closing up the screen, T.K. stuck the camera back in his sweatshirt pocket and swaggered off down the street in the proud knowledge that he, Thomas Keene junior, just coming up nineteen years old and without a driving lesson to his name, was not only a veteran of the game, but also still one of the unbeaten artists at the job.