Starburst (26 page)

“We’ll be needing to fix somewhere to stay as well, won’t we?”

“That’s true,” Terry replied, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. “I’ll ’ave a word with Stan Morris. ’E’s always going on about ’is great contacts, so let’s see what ’e can come up with.”

Gary nodded and stuck out a hand to Terry. “I appreciate yer ’elp, mate.”

Terry stood up and shook it. “Don’t think anything of it.” He looked over to the far table where the four other members of the committee were now staring at them expectantly. “Well, I’d better get over there and give me report.” He shot a wink at Gary. “I doubt there’s going to be much dominoes played for the rest of the afternoon.”

I
n the space of one day, the world had suddenly become a brighter place for Thomas Keene junior. That evening, having first accompanied Leonard Hartson back to his lodgings in a taxi, he now made his way across town to the hostel, walking with a purposeful spring in his step and his shoulders held high, a young man displaying an element of pride in himself.

And he had every reason to feel that way. Not only had he now found himself a job, he had also received considerable praise from his new boss in the way he had picked up so much technical information during the course of the day. “I called it a steep learning curve,” the old cameraman had said to him in the taxi, “but, so far, you seem to have diminished it to nothing more than a gentle incline.”

As he walked, T.K. went over in his head all the skills that he had learned that day. The loading of the magazine and how to slot it onto the back of the camera, the threading of the film in the camera gate, leaving the correct-sized loop above and below, the raising and lowering of the tripod legs and the leveling of the “head,” and the assembly of the lights on their stands. When he turned into the street where the hostel was situated, he was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he never clocked on to the two boys who were leaning against the railings on the opposite side of the street. As soon as they saw him, they began to make their move. They crossed over to meet him at a diagonal, keeping their faces turned away to avoid recognition.

T.K. only became aware of their presence behind him when he had begun to climb the stone steps leading up to the door of the hostel. He felt a hand grabbing his arm, another on his shoulder and he was spun round and slammed against the railings with such force that he let out a scream of pain as the ironwork jarred against his spine. One of the boys took hold of the neck of his sweatshirt and twisted it in his hand, and T.K. found himself choking for breath as it tightened like a noose.

“Whit the fuck hae
you
been dain’, ye bloody toe rag?” the boy said, his face contorted with hatred.

“Jeez, Lenny, let go,” T.K. gasped out in a high-pitched voice, his face beginning to turn puce. “Ah cannae breathe.”

“Tha’s the whole idea, ye wee bastard. Ma younger brither wis takin’ aff by the polis this mornin’, and guess wha the cause o’ that wis?”

“’Onest, Lenny, it wisnae—”

The other boy stepped forward and backhanded T.K. hard across the cheek. “Dinnae ye try tae fuckin’ well deny it, mon. A’body kens it wis you. The word’s a-roond the estate, a’ aboot you takin’ videos o’ the lads nickin’ the cars.”

T.K.’s eyes filled with tears of terror and his legs gave way underneath him. He began to slide slowly down the railings to the ground. “It wis a mistake, Rab. Ye gotta believe me.”

Lenny eased off the pressure on T.K.’s neck. He didn’t want him to black out just yet. “A fuckin’ mistake!” He let go of T.K.’s sweatshirt and aimed a violent kick at his side. T.K. let out another cry of agony.

A man dressed in a dark suit and carrying a leather briefcase slowed down as he passed by, a look of concern on his face. Rab turned and flicked a thumb at him. “Git on yer way, mister. This is private business.” The man shot a glance at T.K., then back at his shaven-headed assailants. The sight of the ragged tattoo on the neck of the youth who glared at him quickly dissipated any thought of further intervention on his part and the man continued on his way up the street with quickened step.

Lenny squatted down on his haunches, his face only a few inches away from T.K.’s. “So ye thocht ye could hide awa’ frae us, did ye? Jist yer luck, then, that auld Peesy McGill from ma block decided tae get guttered last night and ended up in yer fuckin’ dosshoose. It wis him wha’ saw ye and him wha’ telt us.” He gave T.K. a knowing wink. “As Rab said, Thomas Keene, the word’s oot. A’body’s efter ye. Ye’re bloody done fer, pal.”

The door of the hostel was suddenly flung open and a huge man appeared on the doorstep. He was wearing a vast pair of jogging pants and a dirty white T-shirt that strained hard to cover his enormous belly, yet the size of his arms seemed to be in complete proportion with the rest of his body. “Whit the hell’s goin’ on here?”

“It’s naine of yer business, fatty,” Rab said, pointing a hostile finger at the man.

The man stepped down from the threshold and seized the lapel of Rab’s denim jacket with one hand, lifting him almost clear of the ground. “A’thing that happens on these steps is ma business, ye wee tosser,” he said through clenched teeth, glancing momentarily at T.K.’s sprawled form on the step, “especially if it’s tae dae wi’ wan of ma lads.” He jerked the youth closer to him. “And whit’s mair, ah dinnae like bein’ called ‘fatty,’ so if ah wis you, ah’d git the hell oot o’ here afore I call the polis, is that understood?”

He let go his grip on the lad, giving him a violent push that made him stumble down the steps. Lenny stood up and backed away to join his colleague on the pavement. He balled his fist and flicked out a thumb, affecting the action of a switchblade. “Ye’ll be gettin’ it comin’ tae ye, Thomas Keene. You canna hide awa’ fae us.” He cleared his throat noisily and then spat at T.K. with such force that the gob passed more than a foot above the head of its intended target.

“Get awa’ wi’ ye!” the caretaker yelled out with an angry wave of his hand. He stood watching after the two boys as they ambled off down the street, every so often casting a glance behind them, and then, letting out a long sigh, he looked down at T.K., who lay on the steps rubbing at his aching ribs. “Ye dinnae half pick yer friends, dae ye, lad,” he said with a shake of the head. Leaning over with effort, he put a hand under T.K.’s armpit and pulled him to his feet. “Ye’d better get yersel’ inside and ah’ll hae a look-see whit damage they’ve done tae ye.”

“Ah’m fine,” T.K. replied dolefully. He took in a long deep lungful of air. “Ah’ll jist stay here fer a minnit and catch ma breath.”

The caretaker gave a brief nod of his head. “A’right. Come in when ye’re ready,” he said as he turned and walked back into the house.

T.K. waited until the man’s huge frame had disappeared from sight, and then, casting a quick glance up the street to make sure the two boys had gone, he descended the steps and headed away in the opposite direction, clutching a hand to his side.

Even though T.K. was only one amongst the thousands of people who crammed the centre of Edinburgh that night, he kept walking until well after midnight, never being too sure that somewhere, a hundred yards back on the crowded pavements, the two boys weren’t following him. Eventually, he took the risk of ducking down a dimly lit alleyway off the bustle and noise of Rose Street, where he squatted uncomfortably behind a large industrial refuse bin for a good half an hour, waiting to see if his fears were to be justified. There did come a moment when he was set ready to make a dash for freedom, hearing two male voices talk quietly to each other only twenty feet away from him, but then he heard a splattering noise on the cobbles and realized that it was just a couple of revelers finding an unseen corner to relieve themselves. After they had gone, he left it for five minutes before quitting his hiding place. Rubbing at his aching legs, he began to make his way back along the narrow street, walking unexpectedly into the warming blast of air coming from a heating duct set into the side of one of the buildings that fronted onto Princes Street. He stood in its comforting folds for a moment, feeling its warmth penetrate his chilled body and relieve the aching in his side, and his eyelids began to give way to fatigue. He realized then that he would be unlikely to find a more comfortable place to pass the night than right there on that spot. Returning to the refuse bin, he pulled out a couple of cardboard packing cases and carried them back to a recessed doorway where he could still feel the warmth from the duct. Laying one on the ground, he pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt and drew the strings tight around his face. He sat down on his hard, unforgiving bed, propped his back against the wall and covered himself with the other piece of cardboard, punching it with the side of his hand to mold it around his legs and body. He then leaned his head back and, with a deep sigh of despair, focused on the clear, cool starlit sky. Please, he thought to himself, if there’s onybody up there, please gi’ us a break. Dinnae let it end like this…please.

His head lolled heavily to one side and he fell into a deep, near-comatose sleep, blanking from his mind all the frustration and anger he felt at the innumerable injustices the world had heaped upon him.

A
lbert Dessuin stood in the queue at the British Airways desk at Edinburgh Airport, his face lowered as he looked over the top of his dark glasses to see if there was any sign of movement up ahead. Gone was the bravado and impatience he had displayed the previous morning when he had pushed his way to the front of the queue at the hotel. Now, he was prepared to stand and wait, not wishing to draw attention to himself.

Since being informed of Angélique’s injury and her unscheduled return to France, Albert had hidden himself away in his bedroom in the Sheraton Grand, not daring to leave, even though the receptionist had given him details of at least three direct flights that would have taken him to Paris that day. He had sat in the armchair staring trance-like out of the window, not wishing to watch the television in case it featured some damning news item about himself and not even glancing toward the small refrigerated mini bar that was built into the corner of the wardrobe. When he had eventually left the room early that morning to check out, he had even averted his eyes from the complimentary newspaper lying on the ground outside his door. He just couldn’t bring himself to learn whether Angélique had spoken to anyone about what had happened two nights before.

As the queue inched forward, he bent over and pushed the two suitcases along the ground, making sure the violin case remained hidden between them. He could hardly bear to look at it. It was only when he had returned to Angélique’s bedroom in the hotel after speaking with Alasdair Dreyfuss the previous day that he had realized how serious a situation had arisen. Under those appalling circumstances of the preceding night, he could well understand why she had run off without taking any of her clothes, but to abandon her most treasured possession, the violin, was beyond comprehension. Oh, Angélique, he thought to himself, I cannot believe I allowed myself to do such a thing to you. Please let me find you so that I can try to make amends.

He did not mean to look round. It was just that he was so filled with guilt and self-loathing at that particular moment that even looking at the violin case brought the now clear memory of what had happened on that fateful night back to mind. He found himself staring directly at a man dressed in jeans and a multi-pouched body warmer, a large camera slung around his neck, who leaned against a pillar in the centre of the departure lounge, idly scanning the long queues that formed at the various check-in desks. The man glanced briefly in his direction, looked away, and then did a double take. He pushed himself away from the pillar and made his way quickly over to Albert.

“It is Mr. Dessuin, isn’t it?” the man asked, adjusting the dials on his camera and taking the cap off the lens.

Albert did not reply, pretending that the photographer had mistaken him for someone else. The camera flashed and Albert reacted instinctively, holding up his hand to shield his face. It was all the verification the photographer needed.

“Mr. Dessuin, why are you traveling alone?” the man asked. “Where is Angélique Pascal?”

The other people who stood in line at the British Airways desk had now begun to take interest in what was going on, turning to look at the tall man wearing the sunglasses and the belted mackintosh with the collar turned up, to whom the questions were being directed. Leaving his bags on the floor, Albert walked quickly away from the queue, and then turned to confront the photographer, who had followed, hot on his heels.

“I have no comment to make about anything,” Albert hissed at the man. “I’m sure your newspapers have said it all.”

“It’s all a bit airy-fairy, though, Mr. Dessuin. All that’s been reported is that Angélique Pascal had an accident and was returning to France.”

Dessuin bit at the side of his mouth as he contemplated what the photographer was telling him. Maybe Angélique had not disclosed the true facts after all. If so, for what reason? Maybe, despite all he had done, she was still displaying a sense of loyalty, protecting his reputation. If that was the case, there was hope of reconciliation after all. He decided to go along with that assumption, making a mental effort not to display the sense of elation he was feeling to the photographer. “And that is all that happened. Mademoiselle Pascal has returned to Paris, and I am about to catch a plane to join her, so if you will now please excuse me…”

The photographer put a hand on his arm as Albert prepared to return to his place in the queue. “That’s all very well, but I can tell you Angélique Pascal has definitely not returned to Paris.”

Albert stared at the man. “What do you mean?”

“Mr. Dessuin, over the past twenty-four hours my colleague and I have been doing shifts here at the airport waiting to get a photograph of her, and there hasn’t been one person who even vaguely resembles her booking in for a flight to Paris, or anywhere in France for that matter.”

Albert shook his head. “You are mistaken.”

“No, I’m not. I’ve even had an acquaintance of mine check the passenger lists. Angélique Pascal has not left from this airport.”

Albert looked around at the queue. Those who were behind him were now moving forward, skirting around his luggage on the floor. “She has obviously then been directed to a flight from another airport.”

The photographer let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Mr. Dessuin, this is big news, you know. The festival’s top performer has an accident preventing her from fulfilling her engagements, and heads off home to Paris. The word’s got round to every freelance news photographer in Scotland. We’ve had all major airports and train stations covered for the past day, and there’s not been even a glimpse of her. Now, having seen you here by yourself, it just confirms to me my own journalistic instinct on the matter.”

“Which is?”

“That Angélique Pascal is still in Edinburgh. The whole story about her returning to France is a sham, for some reason or other. Have you any idea why that might be, Mr. Dessuin?”

Albert stood looking at the man, speechless, working through the logic of his reasoning. If the photographer was indeed correct, then where was Angélique? She knew no one in Edinburgh except those she had met at the receptions, and certainly Alasdair Dreyfuss was under the impression that she had returned to France. Of course, there was that girl, Tess Goodwin. Angélique seemed to have become friends with her, but how was he to find out? It could be that Angélique had confided in the girl, in which case he didn’t want to question her, otherwise she might declare to the press the true events of that night.

He realized now, though, that he had to remain in Edinburgh to find Angélique, but first he had to think of a way of throwing this photographer off the scent. He could not allow press speculation to continue on her whereabouts. If she was still in Edinburgh, he needed the time and space to find her.

Albert smiled at the man and shook his head. “The story is not a sham. I know that for certain.”

“How, may I ask?” the photographer asked, his eyebrows arched in uncertainty.

“Because I planned for Mademoiselle Pascal to leave before me, and I spoke with both her
and
my mother on the telephone last night. They are together in my house in Paris.” He cocked his head at the man. “So, it would seem you have not been so efficient after all. Mademoiselle Pascal must have eluded you.” He gave a short bow of his head. “So if you will now excuse me, I should like to continue with my plans to return to Paris and allow you to get on with some more lucrative work than standing around this airport all day.”

He left the man and walked back to the queue. Those who had been standing behind him had now shuffled forward past his luggage, but he was not concerned. It gave him time to see if the photographer had fallen for his ruse. He watched him out of the corner of his eye, studying his body language as he talked on his mobile phone. When the man had finished, he never turned to look in Albert’s direction, but walked quickly over to the revolving doors and left the terminal.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Albert flicked back the cuff of his shirt and glanced at his watch. He would give the photographer five minutes’ grace, and then he himself would take a taxi back to the city.