Eye of the Raven (29 page)

Under normal circumstances he would have felt confident about taking on either of the men in front of him. They were the usual schemie hard men, the sort spawned by run-down council estates all over the country, young and heavily built but relying more on attitude than expertise. Watching Clint Eastwood movies didn’t make you Dirty Harry when you came up against those who had trained and fought with the best.

But these weren’t normal circumstances: he was a long way short of being fully fit and still hurting badly from his last encounter. There were two of them and the one with the knife was starting to come towards him.

‘
Verdi says he’s a doctor,’ said the other one.

‘
Is that a fact,’ hissed the knife-holder. ‘Well, ah’m the one who’s goin’ to be doin’ the operatin’ today an’ ah’m gonnae cut this bastard’s balls off.’

Steven’s back was already against one of the work surfaces: there was nowhere left for him to go. He searched with the flat of his hands over the surface, feeling for something he could use as a weapon but his eyes never left the knife in the yob’s hand. The only thing his fingers touched was a jar of marmalade. He snatched it up and raised it threateningly. The yob stopped then grinned, displaying bad teeth as he weighed the blade lightly in his hand and feinted moves to right and left as if daring Steven to try it.

Steven kept threatening to throw the jar until the yob made the mistake he had been hoping for. In anticipation of having to move his head and shoulders quickly to the left or right to avoid the jar, the yob planted both feet firmly on the ground. That was the mistake.

Instead of aiming the jar at his head or body as the yob was expecting, Steven threw the heavy jar down at the man’s feet with all the strength he could muster. It hit him squarely on his right instep before he had time to get out of the way. He screamed out in pain, dropped the knife and started hopping around in a circle, clutching at his foot with both hands. He had barely got out his first intelligible curse when Steven’s right foot swung into his crotch and he let out another scream. He fell to the floor where Steven unleashed yet another kick into the side of his head and the noise stopped abruptly.

It was all over so quickly that the other man seemed mesmerised by what had happened but he recovered in time to snatch up the knife that had spun across the floor in his direction.

‘
Got lucky, ya fucker, did ye?’ he murmured as he stepped over his unconscious companion. ‘Well, ah’ve got news fur ye, pal. Lightnin’s no gonna strike twice in the wan day. You’re a dead man. Ah’m goin tae put yer lights oot just like that silly bitch, Manson.’

‘
So you killed Tracy Manson?’ said Steven, again watching the knife rather than the man.

‘
Whit’s it tae you?’

‘
I’m putting you under arrest for the murder of Tracy Manson,’ said Steven with a calmness that he in no way felt.

‘
A fuckin’ comedian, eh? Just how do ye propose doin’ that?’

‘
Over a cup of tea,’ said Steven. He snatched up the mug of tea from the worktop and threw its contents into the advancing man’s face. The water in it was no longer boiling hot but it was still hot enough to make him yell out in pain. More importantly, it made him drop the knife. Steven kicked him hard in the stomach and he went down like his companion before him. Steven knelt down and whispered in the man’s ear. ‘At Hereford, sonny, we were taught to make our own luck.’

Steven stood up again and looked down at the sorry figure, hands held to his face, knees brought up to his chest like a large, ugly foetus.

‘
Fucking bastard,’ the yob gasped.

Inside Steven’s head a training sergeant from a time long ago yelled at him. ‘This is not a game, Dunbar. When they go down, make sure they stay down!’

Remembering the beating he’d suffered at the hands of these men and the fact that this was the trash who’d murdered Tracy Manson, Steven sent another vicious kick into him, this time into his face. It broke most of his teeth, which scattered across the floor like slimy, red and white buttons. Now, both men lay silent.

‘
Gratuitous, Dunbar, gratuitous,’ Steven murmured as he took out his mobile phone and called McClintock.

While he waited for the police to arrive, he went through the contents of the tin he’d found behind the bath panel and quickly deduced that the making of pornographic films - mainly S&M, judging by the titles was a much bigger business than he had realised. The notebook contained a list of titles, dates and the addresses of film studios used in the making of them. He gathered that a linked website was used to provide download facilities for the material and attract customers for the mail order of films and videos.

Steven turned his attention to the three videos. They did not have titles on the spine, only girls’ names and dates. He put them to one side and sifted through the remaining material to come across a white card, which had three multi-digit numbers on it and a single printed word, ‘Nightingale’. He decided that he’d underestimated Tracy Manson. She’d been associated with Verdi for a long time and she’d obviously managed to glean a lot about how the operation was run – smack-head or not. He’d bet money on these being bank account numbers and ‘nightingale’ a password.

The police arrived in a fanfare of sirens and heavy boots on the stairs. The men on the floor were still unconscious when Steven opened the door and two uniformed men came through. They were followed by McClintock who was still climbing up the last flight and puffing.

‘
The fags’ll be the death of me,’ he gasped by way of greeting.

Steven waited for him and ushered him through. One of the uniformed men was radioing for an ambulance; the other was going through the pockets of the men on the floor. McClintock looked down at them and turned to Steven. ‘Temper, temper,’ he said with the only merest suggestion of a grin.

‘
This one admitted to the murder of Tracy Manson,’ said Steven, touching one of the men with his toe.

Steven handed over the shortbread tin to McClintock saying, ‘Frae bonnie Scotland. This is what Tracy mistakenly hoped would put her in a bargaining position. Everything you wanted to know about the life, love and the porn business.’

‘
Didn’t you do well,’ said McClintock, accepting the tin. ‘A fucking tour de force, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘
Didn’t do me much good though,’ said Steven. ‘There’s nothing about a connection between Verdi and the forensic lab.’

‘
Maybe an entirely different affair,’ said McClintock. ‘No reason for Tracy to be involved. Let’s see what comes out in the wash when we’ve had time to unravel this lot.’

‘
I’ll leave you to it then,’ said Steven. He left with McClintock holding the tin and all its contents save for the white card with account details. That was in his top pocket. He had a feeling that he should hold on to that for the moment.

As soon as he got into the car – which had attracted a parking ticket and a single expletive from Steven when he saw it – he felt an almost overwhelming sense of tiredness sweep over him. He leaned his head back on the headrest for a few moments, closing his eyes and taking slow deep breaths. The adrenaline that had been pumping through his veins to fuel his fight for life had now dissipated leaving him monastically calm and free to ponder over what might have been.

When he opened his eyes again he looked at his unmarked hands resting on the wheel and brought them slowly up to his face to run his fingertips lightly down his cheeks. He recognised that he had been incredibly lucky. He had managed to take out two hard men without suffering any further injury himself, not even a scratch. He didn’t doubt that the yobs would have killed him. One slip, one missed kick, a jar of marmalade that could have been in a cupboard instead of sitting on the work surface and it could all have turned out so differently. He would be lying dead on the floor of a tenement flat in Edinburgh and Jenny would have been minus a father.

A grey cat came out from underneath the car next to his where it had been seeking warmth and gazed up at him in a frozen, feline stare as if assessing whether he was friend or foe.

‘
Have a nice day, Puss,’ he said.

Steven called Macmillan as soon as he got back to the hotel and told him everything.

‘
But when all’s said and done, none of this has anything to do with the Julie Summers case or David Little for that matter,’ said Macmillan, seeing through the smokescreen of achievement that Steven was putting up.

‘
Verdi’s porn business is big,’ said Steven.

‘
And nothing whatever to do with Sci-Med,’ said Macmillan.

‘
True enough,’ said Steven, conceding the point.

‘
Have the police arrested Verdi?’

‘
Not yet.’

‘
When they do, you can have one crack at him and then you’ll call it a day and this time I mean it. Understood?’

‘
Understood,’ said Steven.

Steven was hungry. He treated himself to a large cooked breakfast, washed down with lots of sweet coffee to restore his depleted blood sugar levels and dispel the fatigue he felt. He saw no point in getting personally involved in the police analysis of the material he’d found in Tracy Manson’s flat so he’d wait until he heard back from Peter McClintock. That would take at least a day so he had time on his hands. He’d use it to re-charge his batteries. He’d walk in the fresh air, maybe climb Arthur’s Seat - the hill almost in the heart of Edinburgh - and generally seek relief from the sea of squalor he seemed to have been immersed in for the past week or so.

McClintock called just after four. He sounded strangely subdued. ‘Boy, did you come up trumps with these videos,’ he said.

‘
How so?’

‘
The girls in them were on our missing persons register. We know now what happened to them.’

‘
They became stars of the silver screen?’ said Steven.

McClintock didn’t laugh. ‘They
died
on the silver screen,’ he said. ‘They’re snuff videos, S&M taken to the limit. All three were tortured to death on film. I’ll spare you the details.’

Steven swallowed hard. He’d heard of such things – even films depicting the death of children but being this close to it made it feel different. All the good of the day was wiped out in an instant. ‘Jesus Christ.’

‘
We’ve had a busy day, raiding the addresses on the lists in the tin,’ said McClintock. ‘But we left the saunas alone. They pale into insignificance in the light of what we found in the videos.’

‘
And Verdi?’

‘
We’ve pulled him in but you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see him. The slimy little bastard has done a pretty good job at keeping everything at a distance – but then he’s a lawyer. If we’re not careful we could end up charging the clowns while the ringmaster walks. Our people are having a go at breaking him before he has too much time to think about things. He was expecting some kind of police action thanks to our illustrious leader pulling in Tracy but he didn’t reckon on us getting our hands on Tracy Manson’s shortbread tin. He won’t be getting much sleep tonight.’

‘
Good luck,’ said Steven. ‘How about the goons at Tracy’s flat?’

‘
We’ve charged both of them with her murder but under advice from their solicitor, they’re saying nothing. A shifty little prat in an Armani suit called Tomasso turned up as soon as we brought them in. These bastards carry solicitors’ cards in their wallets like the rest of us carry Visas.’

‘
C’est la vie,’ said Steven.

‘
It’s just a pity that Tracy Manson didn’t have any information about where the money goes,’ said McClintock. ‘If the others suspected for a moment that Verdi wasn’t in a position to look after them financially I reckon they’d start singing a different song.’

‘
Mmm,’ said Steven, feeling uncomfortable.

‘
I’ll let you know when you can see Verdi,’ said McClintock. ‘It’ll probably be tomorrow afternoon.’

Steven thanked him, feeling relieved that the conversation was over and knowing that he should have told McClintock about the existence of the account numbers but it was an ace he wanted to hold on to himself for the time being. He had plans about forcing Verdi into telling him what he wanted to know.

Steven was to hear from McClintock much sooner than he expected when he called just after eight pm.

‘
We have to meet,’ he said.

Steven was about to make a joke about McClintock never appearing to go home but the policeman’s tone stopped him.

‘
All right,’ he said. ‘The pub in Inverleith?’

‘
Too near headquarters,’ said McClintock. ‘Somewhere out of town. Do you know Queensferry?’

‘
Down by the Forth Bridge?’ said Steven.

‘
That’s right. There’s a hotel on the water called the Sealscraig. I’ll meet you in the bar in an hour.’

‘
I’ll be there,’ said Steven. The line went dead before he could say anything else.

He asked at the desk for directions and was told that he should follow road signs for the Forth Road Bridge but take the opening off to the right at the roundabout before it. He did this and found himself descending a steep hill into the village some ten minutes ahead of time. He parked the car by the waterfront and got out to look up at the rail bridge where a small commuter diesel was just about to complete its crossing from Fife. The noise of the train, amplified by the steel girders, stopped abruptly as it reached the permanent way. It was as if some giant hand had lifted it off the track.