Starburst (20 page)

“You didn’t dump it, did you?”

“How should I? It wis mine.”

“Why did you take the tape out, then?” T.K. managed to pause only fractionally before replying. “’Cause I’d just loaded it wi’ a new one.”

“You know Constable Lennox’s colleague went back to look for the camera. There was no trace of it.”

“Some thievin’ gypsy must hae picked it up, then. That cost us a packet, that did.”

“What model was it, Thomas?”

“A JVC digi’al compact.”

Gavin nodded. He had a half inkling to believe the boy. His experience was that those who stole cameras usually had no idea or interest in what model or make it was, only in what money they could raise from its sale.

“You seem to be a bit uncomfortable, Thomas. Are you back on the hard stuff?”

“No, I’m clean. I’m just sweatin’ ’cos ah’m due ma ‘script.’”

“Could you tell me why you’ve been filming people stealing cars?” T.K. eyed the solicitor distrustfully before shrugging a silent reply.

“It would help your cause if you gave me some sort of answer, Thomas. How did you know who was going off to steal cars?”

T.K. sighed and stared up at the bare fluorescent ceiling light. “They meet uvvy night on the estate. They talk aboot how they nick the different cars, some o’ them learn themselves, others learn fi’ the boys they meet in detention centres in other cities. That’s how it works.”

“It’s like a club, then?”

“Aye, s’pose.”

“And you were in this club, then?”

“No!” T.K. replied with vehemence. “If ye want proof o’ that, tak’ a look at the film. I never went near ’em.”

“Are you running some kind of racket, Thomas?”

“Whit?”

Gavin leaned over and leafed through the pages in the file. “Car theft does seem to be your speciality—”

“It wis,” T.K. cut in.

“Well, your knowledge of how it’s done is probably infinitely greater than the lads you’ve been filming, and even I know that anti-theft devices on modern cars are making it more and more difficult to break into them, so I’m wondering to myself if you’re not running some kind of elaborate training scheme.”

T.K. scoffed out a laugh. “Ye’re talking crap, mister. Ah dinnae wanna steal cars onymair, d’ya unnerstand that, ah wanna film stuff. Whit else is there tae shoot when ye live in a shitehole like Pilton Mains?”

Gavin sat biting at the side of his mouth, studying the gaunt, loose-lipped face of the young man. “Is that the truth, Thomas?”

“Aye, it is,” T.K. replied quietly, avoiding eye contact with the solicitor as if embarassed by what Gavin had just drawn out of him. “Ah’m tryin’ ti go straight, eh, but the breaks dinnae come easy.”

Gavin nodded and reached over and drew the buff file towards him. He closed it, replaced the rubber bands with a twang and got to his feet.

“Where you aff tae?” T.K. asked, sitting bolt upright in the chair, a sudden look of desperation in his eyes.

“I think it’s time we started the interview, don’t you, Thomas?” T.K. held his arms across his chest to stop the shakes that were developing due to his condition and to the thought of what was going to happen to him. “Honest, Mr. Mackintosh, I didnae dae onything. Ye’ve gotti believe me.”

Gavin shot him a wink. “Just stay cool, Thomas, and answer the questions. I’m on your side, lad.”

Fifteen minutes past the hour of midnight, Gavin walked out of the police station into the cool night air and stood on the pavement listening to the breeze rustling the leaves on the trees that stood in the grassed centre of Gayfield Square. A moment later, he heard the door of the police station open and he sensed someone come to stand beside him. He turned to see T.K. stick his hands into the pockets of his baggy threadbare jeans and pull in a long breath of relief.

“Cheers fae that, Mr. Mackintosh,” he said, nodding his appreciation at the solicitor. “I’m no’ sure what ye said in there aifter the interview, but…cheers onyway.”

“I did stick my neck on the block for you in there, Thomas, and judging from your notes, Mr. Anderson has done likewise in the past. However, I was willing to take the risk because I think you probably are making an effort to keep out of trouble. Just don’t disappoint me, Thomas.”

T.K. answered with a shake of his head before letting out a deep sigh and casting a glance up and down the street. He knew he wasn’t out of the shit yet. He now had to go back to Pilton Mains, and God only knew what kind of reception would be waiting for him there. No doubt the police would have been knocking on doors already, which meant it would be highly unlikely he’d get by the evening without getting knifed or having a broken bottle slice open some part of his body.

He turned to Gavin and shot him a sad smile. “Mr. Mackintosh, I dinnae like tae ask ye, but is there any chance you could gie’s some cash tae get hame? Ah’m skint.”

Gavin sucked on his teeth. “Where’d you keep your methadone, Thomas?” T.K. frowned quizzically at the solicitor’s unrelated question. “In ma bedroom in the hoose. How?”

“Well,” said Gavin with a slow, pensive nod. “I’m going to suggest we take a taxi back to my house, pick up my car and you can then show me where you live. Once I’ve fetched the methadone from your bedroom, I’m going to bring you back uptown and take you to a hostel for the night. It’s no five-star hotel, I’m afraid, but I reckon it’ll be a whole lot safer than you returning to Pilton Mains right now.”

“Ye’re no’ kiddin me,” T.K. mumbled disconsolately.

Gavin flicked a forefinger at the boy, gesturing for T.K. to walk with him up the road towards Leith Walk. “I don’t do this for all my clients, you know, T.K., but in your case, I do happen to have an ulterior motive.” He fixed the lad with a stern glare. “I have a real aversion to being called out to police stations at a time when I should be in my bed, and if I can do anything to avoid it, I will. So tomorrow morning, I shall come and pick you up at the hostel at nine-thirty sharp. Is that clear?”

T.K. nodded dolefully.

“Because then I’m going to try out an idea of mine which, if it comes to a favourable conclusion, might hopefully result in my never having to encounter you in a police station ever again.”

A
lbert Dessuin arrived just over three quarters of an hour late for the post-concert reception in the Sheraton Grand. His mobile had rung almost the moment he had walked out of the Usher Hall and he had sought out the quietest corner of Festival Square so that he could placate his mother as she reeled off her trials and tribulations for that particular day. He had listened and reasoned and accepted responsibility for gross negligence, and when eventually he had exhausted every form of appeasement, he had abruptly ended the call with a stab of his finger and made to hurl the mobile phone as far across the square as he could. Now, as he entered the function suite, he could sense the black cloud of frustration and irritation that resulted from such a call descend upon him.

He swept a glass of champagne from the waitress’s tray at the entrance door, downed it in one gulp and took another before skirting the outside of the room, hoping to locate Angélique Pascal and spirit her away before being engaged in conversation. He did not get far. A small grey-haired lady with a friendly smile approached him almost immediately and began to twitter away to him in bad French about the various concerts she and her husband had attended so far during the festival. Smiling disinterestedly at the woman, Dessuin looked up over the top of her head and scanned the assembled crowd, eventually fixing his eyes on the cluster of men who gathered around the unused bar in the corner of the room. In the midst of them, Angélique and another girl sat up on the high counter, chatting and laughing, and Dessuin immediately recognized the girl as being Tess Goodwin, the marketing assistant from the International office with whom Angélique had struck up a friendship at the welcoming reception two nights before. He watched as Angélique turned to Tess and, with cupped hand, whispered something in her ear. The girl reacted by staring at the young violinist with a wide-eyed, open-mouthed look of sheer disbelief, before both dissolved into fits of laughter. The men dutifully followed suit, even though they could have had no idea as to what had been said.

Albert left the woman still talking, hearing her conversation trail off to a stunned silence as he moved into a position where he could see the two girls more clearly, noticing immediately that the short length of their skirts and the high angle at which they were sitting no doubt afforded a greater attraction to the men than anything that was being said. Taking another glass of champagne from the tray of a hovering waitress, Albert started to walk across the room towards the group, but was waylaid by a hand on his arm, and he was introduced to the main sponsor of that evening’s concert, a small man with an almost claustrophobic air of self-importance, dressed in a perfectly cut dinner jacket with a deep red Thai silk waistcoat. He had at his side a woman with long straight blond hair and an over-tanned face, who not only had to be twenty years his junior, but also towered over him by at least four inches. Albert smiled and pretended to listen to what was being said, but his eyes kept glancing across the room to Angélique, his mind boiling over with anger and jealousy.

Ever since the concert in Munich two weeks ago, he had begun to notice unwelcome changes in the way Angélique was behaving towards him, and he had come to realize that she was no longer the pliable little working-class girl from Clermont Ferrand who, from the moment she had appeared at the Conservatoire, had held hard to his coat-tails in everything that she did. This new, grown-up Angélique Pascal was beginning to show too much independence and self-reliance, often questioning his judgement on a matter or taking little heed of the advice he gave her concerning her playing style. What’s more, she had begun to display an obvious aversion to those congratulatory embraces that had been commonplace between them since he had first started to teach her. And that was something he could not allow to continue. She had, after all, become his property, he had invested his life in her, and eventually he wished to possess every part of her, even though sixteen years separated them in age, because he knew it was the one way he could truly prove to his mother that he was of some worth and importance in the world, and not just an impotent lackey as she had so often described him. And how that would succeed in rankling her! It was therefore imperative to his own interests, and to his financial survival, that he should continue to keep Angélique reined in, under his control.

Nodding his appreciation to the sponsor and his wife, Albert took his leave of them and turned to watch Angélique at the very moment she placed her hand on the shoulders of one of the men, drew him towards her and kissed him on his forehead. She then threw back her head in a laugh and pushed him away, flicking her hands as if dismissing him from her presence. This action did nothing to help Albert’s already darkened mood. It was indicative of yet another unwelcome change in the character of Angélique Pascal as she demonstrated awareness of what both her status and her sexuality could do for her. She was learning the arts of flirtation and manipulation, qualities that were no different from the cunning deception employed by the whores in the Quartier Latin to attract their clientele each night. And if that was the way in which she wished to behave, then it was obvious to Albert that now was the time to forgo his kind, fatherly influence and educate her in ways other than simply playing the violin.

Wiping beads of perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief, Albert made his way purposefully towards the group.

“Albert?”

He turned to the person who greeted him with forceful words of dismissal ready to bubble like a hot geyser from his lips, only to gulp them back when he found a smiling Sir Alasdair Dreyfuss standing beside him.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been rather negligent of you this evening,” the director said, putting a hand on his arm. “I’m afraid Signor Montarino seems to be under the impression this whole party is for his own considerable self alone and he has rather commandeered my attention up until this point.”

Albert took in a deep breath, managing to flicker a smile at the director. “Please do not worry. I have also been engaged in numerous conversations.”

“And most of them would have been about the concert tonight, I am sure.” Alasdair Dreyfuss glanced in the direction of Angélique. “Quite startling. She seems to be becoming more accomplished every time I hear her play. You really are to be congratulated, Albert.”

“Thank you,” Albert replied distractedly as he too turned to stare at his protégée.

Alasdair eyed Angélique Pascal’s manager concernedly. “Are you all right, Albert? You’re looking a bit pale.”

Albert shook his head. “No, it is only a bit of a headache, but I was thinking I might slip away to lie down in my room for a while.”

“Well, I’d be grateful if you might just spare me a moment before you go,” the director said, taking his arm and guiding him away from the young violinist’s admiring group. “I want to have a quick word with you about the late concerts Angélique will be performing. Let’s head over to the recess by the window so we won’t be disturbed.”

And as Sir Alasdair led him across the room, Albert heard Angélique’s laughter sound out once more and he turned with paranoid fury burning in his eyes as the distance grew between them.

As Tess stood by the door of the function room, thanking the departing guests for their attendance, she heard her cellphone ringing in her handbag. She left Sarah Atkinson to carry on the duty and walked down the carpeted steps and into the centre of the nearly deserted room, scrambling in her bag for the phone. She glanced at the screen, took in a long steadying breath and pressed the “receive” button.

“What are you doing?” she whispered angrily, cupping a hand around the mobile and casting a furtive glance over to where Alasdair Dreyfuss stood chatting to a group of late departers. “I said I’d be the one to make contact.”

“I know,” Peter Hansen replied, “but I wanted to let you know I’ve booked a table for a week today in La Hirondelle at eight-thirty. I thought that as it used to be our favourite restaurant, it would be a good place to renew our friendship.”

“It’s not going to happen, Peter. The only reason I agreed to have dinner with you is because I love my husband and I love my job and I am certainly not going to lose either because of you. Is that understood?”

“Come on, Tess, there’s no reason to be like that. Let’s just take one step at a time. I have made it my plan not to leave Edinburgh without mending all our differences.” Tess heard one of his slow, seductive laughs, the very thing she had been idiotic enough to find so attractive at the outset of their relationship. “And I thought maybe you might wear that blue dress I bought for you? You always looked very beautiful in it.”

“What? You think I’d keep that?” Tess laughed derisively. “I chucked that ages ago.”

There was a brief silence. “Okay, no matter, then,” he said, the tone of disappointment in his voice satisfying Tess. “I am sure you will look wonderful in whatever you wear.”

“I have to go, Peter. Our guests are leaving.”

“All right. A week today, then, eight-thirty at La Hirondelle. I shall be there waiting.”

Tess did not bother to say any word of farewell. She ended the call and slipped the phone into her handbag, and then, taking a moment to compose herself, she fixed a smile on her face and returned to stand next to Sarah Atkinson.