Country of the Blind (50 page)

Spammy had expressed confusion when Parlabane led him up to a close in Mansfield Place, when he knew Paul and Tam had been instructed to park in sight of an address in Drummond Place, a few streets away.

"It's my friend Jenny's flat," he explained, waiting for her to answer the doorbell. "And I'm afraid I don't have any pals who actually live right next door to Mr Dalgleish, so this'll have to do."

Parlabane knew the address from a story he had been sniffing around shortly after Dalgleish became Scottish Secretary. Some of the local papers made a big fuss over the fact that Dalgleish's wife and kids didn't move north with him, and that he hadn't bought a Scottish residence yet. Parlabane was less enthusiastic about the relevance of this because Dalgleish was reputed to see sufficiently little of his wife and kids for it to make bugger-all difference, the facade of a marriage only propped up for moral respectability in the party of dysfunctional family values. What Parlabane was interested in was the fact that the Scottish Office had bought the townhouse and furnished it for him to live in when in Edinburgh, and he had tried to wheedle it out of an increasingly nervous contact whether Dalgleish was paying any kind of rent.

"Well it is now a Scottish Office property, you know, as much as the more administrative buildings."

Parlabane had taken that as a no.

Jenny led them to the skylight, from where they climbed on to the roof, Parlabane explaining to Spammy the fringe benefits for the burglar - of the architecture and distinctive geometric terraced layout of the New Town; benefits which were of course largely dependent upon having a top-floor address or being the friend of someone who met that criterion. It took less than ten minutes to reach the roof of Dalgleish's equivalent of a council house. There was a museum-piece collapsible-circuit alarm trip where 284

the small window slotted into the frame. Parlabane pulled his polo-neck out of his jeans, as if he was about to strip, which clearly startled Spammy until he noticed the canvas vest affair underneath, which harnessed a number of vital implements. He removed a compact blade and dexterously cut a hole in the glass, three perpendicular slashes making a rectangle against where the pane met the frame. He then levered the rectangle out, the rubbery, ancient paint and dried putty working like a hinge.

Parlabane pulled from around his chest a length of wire with a fine foil contact at each end, wiping some sweat from his forehead as he crouched over the window-frame. He placed the contacts flat together and slid them between the two white plastic cubes that each housed half of the alarm trip, folding the foil back around them. Then he slowly pulled the skylight open and Spammy held it as he climbed in, Parlabane taking great care not to dislodge the wire.

Spammy clambered in after him, heedlessly dislodging the wire, indeed snagging it on his jumper and dragging it along behind him on the staircase. Parlabane unsnagged it from behind him and folded it up again, shaking his head.

"Guess the alarm's not switched on, huh, Spammy," he whispered, shooting him an attempt at a chastising glare. Pointless. Spammy just grinned. He sent Spammy downstairs to open the front door for the others, and set about looking for Dalgleish. This didn't prove difficult, as he heard a glass crash to the floor in a room off the landing below when Spammy tiptoed loudly past it. Then he heard the bolt sliding home in the lock, which housed a keyhole from a Tom & Jerry cartoon and doubtless a mechanism installed in a gentler, less security-conscious age. He sighed at its innocent quaintness and pulled out his lock-picking wallet.

Dalgleish was standing in front of an antique bureau, holding the doorkey like it was a gun, quivering and apparently having pissed himself.

"Hi there," said Parlabane, turning on the light. "I'm selling
The Watchtower
. Does Jesus have a place in your life?"

"Wh-what? Who are you?"

"Joe Shmoe. Chuck Fuck. Who do you think?"

"I-I know why you're here, but listen to me, listen to me. I've got money. I can give you money. As much as you want. I'll double what Knight's paying you if you'll let me go. I'll treble it. Oh God,
please
."

Parlabane smiled. Dalgleish clearly didn't find it very comforting.

"I'm not from Knight, and I'm not here to kill you," he said. "I'm here in a kind of representative-stroke-advisory capacity. So take a seat."

Confused but tremulously wary, Dalgleish moved around behind the desk and sat in his chair.

285

"Good. Now there are some gentlemen here I think you should meet. Guys,"

he called, leaning back out of the doorway and making a beckoning gesture. Tam walked in first; followed by Paul, carrying a large black case, which he put down with an ominously heavy thump; and finally Spammy. They lined up behind Parlabane, Tam with his arms folded, Paul likewise, Spammy with his hands in his pockets. All of them were staring at Dalgleish. None of them quite looked delighted to see him.

"Just in case there's any confusion, Mr Dalgleish, this is Mr Thomas McInnes, this is Mr Paul McInnes, and this is Mr Cameron Scott. I take it that their names are familiar to you? Oh, tears, Mr Dalgleish? Perhaps you were moved by their dreadful ordeal?"

"Oh God, oh. . . " Dalgleish whimpered, gripping the desk as if it was the only thing preventing him being sucked backwards out of the window and into the Edinburgh night.

"These three men were framed for the murder of Roland Voss on Sunday night, along with a friend of theirs, Robert Hannah, who was murdered yesterday. They were supposed to be murdered too. So was I, in fact, along with my future missus and these men's lawyer, Nicole Carrow, whose boss, Finlay Campbell, was murdered on Tuesday. You know why. But more importantly, we know why too. And it would be safe to say we're not inclined to be very understanding about it."

"Look," Dalgleish said, sweating ruddily but mustering the last dregs of his professional composure. "I can pick up this phone and dial two numbers, an emergency code that will have the police here in moments."

"Aye, very good. Gaun yoursel'," Parlabane said, laughing coldly. "Mr Dalgleish, if you thought the police could protect you in your current plight, my guess is you wouldn't have been sitting in a locked room with the lights off, pissing your pants with fear. The police can't help you because it's Knight who's after you, and Mr Knight has, shall we say, certain influence in that profession."

Dalgleish seethed, allowing himself a moment of angry, outraged hatred before the fear took over again. He tried to look at the four men in front of him, but recoiled every time he caught one of their stares.

"What do you want?" he asked, voice starting to break up. Parlabane clapped his hands together, as if convening something.

"Well, here's the deal. Dinner is served."

"What?"

"I'm sorry, I was adapting the phrase for your unaccustomed ears, but it loses certain nuances in translation. In the native tongue it is - Mr McInnes, would you?"

"Your tea's oot," growled Tam.

286

Dalgleish perhaps didn't follow the phrase itself, but it was plain he understood the import.

"However, strangely enough," continued Parlabane, "much as they would dearly like to, and much as you eminently deserve it, my colleagues are not here to beat the shit out of you. In fact, ironically, we are all here to offer you some help. We are in a position to save what I was about to describe as your worthless neck, which would be inaccurate. Fortunately for you, the four of us tend to put a far higher value on human life than yourself or your associates. We also believe that, paradoxically, you consider your
own
life to be worth a great deal, so we are going to offer you the chance to purchase it. Obviously we'll take into consideration that your life's value has undergone a certain depreciation in light of the fact that you'll be spending the rest of it in prison, but we still figure even that's worth a few bob."

Parlabane's face became a cruel portrait of mock-sympathy as he noticed Dalgleish's confusion.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I don't think I made everything quite clear, and it would be unfair if I wasn't upfront about the whole deal. Paul?"

Paul opened the case at his feet and handed Parlabane a cardboard folder from inside, which he placed on the desk in front of Dalgleish, removing and spreading several sheets of paper across the wooden surface.

"You see, I'm afraid we're not offering you the chance to get out of this. I think you'll be able to grasp that from these documents and transcripts."

Dalgleish picked at the sheets, staring disbelievingly at them, mouth working wordlessly for a few seconds.

"But these. . . these prove nothing," he eventually stumbled. "Well, not nothing, but they don't prove I've anything to do with what you're accusing me of."

"Well, the picture changes when one takes into account where these documents came from, which was a CD-ROM locked in Voss's safe at Craigurquhart House and removed by the gentlemen before you. Add to that the fact that Voss stood to make billions if the FILM Accord was ratified by your chum Swan - who has subsequently rendered himself literally brainless rather than just metaphorically - and it starts to look pretty vivid, doesn't it? Except that we both know Swan didn't render
himself
brainless, don't we? Which leads us back to the current situation, viz, that you are well and truly humped. Knight doesn't know that, though. He still thinks he can walk away if he silences you. So as a future ex-Scottish Sec, your last major decision is a straight choice between violent death or a lengthy residence in one of those prisons you're always telling us are too cushy. Except that the latter option is going to cost you."

"You can save me from Knight? How?"

287

Parlabane shook his head.

"Afraid this is a seller's market, and you're going to have to cough up before I even tell you."

"What? You can't do that. It's absurd."

"Fair enough. We walk. After we've secured you in a very uncomfortable position and left the door on the latch for your big pal."

Dalgleish sighed furiously. "All right. Tell me what you want."

"Well, way I figure it, you couldn't write cheques out of your own account to Knight or any of his, er, subcontractors, and I don't imagine they'd want the conspicuousness of depositing huge amounts in cash at their banks, any more than you would the conspicuousness of withdrawing it. So I figure you've got a well-hidden account somewhere - front company, difficult to trace back to your good self - from which you were going to pay them. An account which is, I would guess, still full, as one tends not to pay upfront for this kind of thing, and I don't imagine you'll be receiving a bill after the way it worked out. Now, an operation like this wasn't going to come cheap. Taking out one of the most rich and influential businessmen in the world, then organising a fake manhunt, plus unforeseen extras like murdering lawyers, journalists, yakka yakka yakka. . .
Lot
of bread. Make with the front company chequebook, Ally."

Dalgleish clenched his jaws together, bit his top lip and generally steamed.

"I'd make my mind up quickly, I was you. You're expecting a visitor, remember. And he could be here at any minute."

"Christ," Dalgleish cursed, and reached into his jacket pocket. He produced a set of keys and opened a drawer in the bureau, pulling out a chequebook. Parlabane took it from him and examined it.

"Very good," he said. "Now, we'll start with a cheque for one hundred thousand pounds made payable to Mr Thomas McInnes."

"A
hundre
. . . "

"Then a cheque for the same amount made out to Mr Paul McInnes, and a third hundred K to Mr Cameron Scott."

"And a fourth," said Tam flatly. "Payable to Mrs Veronica Graham, Bob Hannah's daughter."

Dalgleish looked up, face colourless, lost and hopeless.

"Oh look, just fuckin' get on with it," snapped Parlabane, sitting on the edge of the desk. "It's not as though you'll be needing it where you're going. Besides, according to what's in these documents, it's effectively Voss's money. Jesus, there's Tory gratitude for you. Somebody subs you and you use his cash to take out a contract on him."

Parlabane collected the cheques and handed them out.

288

"Right," croaked Dalgleish in a soul-broken whisper. "What are you going to do for me?"

Parlabane smiled. "We're going to help you," he said cheerily, "to help yourself. We can put you in the protective custody of some police officers we can guarantee are not under Knight's influence, and you can confess everything to them."

"
Confess?
"

"Yup. You see," Parlabane lied, "we don't have any evidence of Knight's misdeeds. We know
what
he did, sure, but we can't prove it. As I explained, we've got enough to nail you anyway, without a confession. However, if you do confess, and you name Knight, he'll be arrested as soon as he shows his face, and you'll be safe, but you can't name him and his crimes without confessing your own. And obviously your cooperation will be noted - judge might even knock your sentence down to a hundred years. Of course, if you don't name Knight now, well, he stays loose, and I can't see him gambling that you'll always stay silent. Can you?"

Dalgleish put his elbows on the desk and sank his head into his hands.

"All right," he moaned. "All right."

"Cool," said Parlabane. Tam tossed him his portable phone, which he used to call Jenny, who was waiting outside with Callaghan and Nicole. Paul opened the black case again and removed from it a cassette recorder, a video camera and some lengths of aluminium tubing. He placed the tape deck on the desk and plugged in a microphone as Spammy assembled the tubes into a tripod to support the camcorder. Spammy then took hold of the Anglepoise on the bureau and re-posed it to shine on Dalgleish, hopping back and forth from the camera to make further minor lighting adjustments. Jenny, Nicole and Callaghan appeared in the doorway of the now very busy room, Tam and Paul moving into the hall to make space for them.