Truth Lies Waiting (Davy Johnson Series Book 1) (22 page)

I’m on my third
glass of champagne. Everywhere I turn there are waiters ready to top up my
glass and it seems rude to say no.

A
choir from a local private school sings from the galleried landing as guests
arrive. After clapping for what seemed like ages I follow the line of diners
into the high ceilinged function room behind Palm Court, which is a giant
tea-room by the look of it, with china cups and saucers and silver trays of
finger sandwiches and mini cakes. I’d have been happy staying here but our
hosts are ushering us into a grand looking dining room where guests pause to
see if their name is on a board just inside the room’s entrance. I know it’s a
seating plan, Marcus told me as much, said I didn’t need to bother with it as
he’d take care of the arrangements. I pass the circular tables scattered around
the room, heading towards a long table in front of a raised platform.

‘Can
I help you, Sir?’ A waiter dressed like an extra from Downton Abbey approaches
me and I tell him my name, just as Marcus instructed. He consults a sheet of paper
and seems to perk when he sees my name beside the host’s. He practically clicks
his heels together. ‘Very good, Sir, please follow me.’ I follow him around the
table, a journey he obviously feels I’m incapable of doing alone, and wait
while he pulls out my chair.

‘Don’
hoffer to do it yerself, Davy,’
Marcus had warned me,
‘it juss’ confuse
dem.’

I
take my seat and nod curtly, looking about the room as other guests file in
scanning the name cards on each table.

‘One
advantage of the top table,’ a man states as he walks towards me holding out
his hand, ‘is you never have to remember what table number you’ve been
allocated,’ he chuckles, ‘The name’s Peter Campbell by the way,’ I take the
man’s hand and shake it, it’s firm and strong and I try to match his grip
without looking like that’s what I’m doing.

‘Stewart
MacAllister,’ I tell him, the name I’ve been rehearsing in the car on the way
over, ‘Pleased to meet
yew
.’ I’ve also been working on my accent. We
don’t have the opportunity to say anything more as people are arriving and soon
our table is surrounded by guests greeting each other with air kisses and
well-oiled back slapping. At least while all this is going on nobody gets the
chance to ask me any awkward questions like what the hell I’m doing here or
what business I’m pretending to be in.

Gus
is the last to arrive and for some reason the people round our table stand and
start clapping him in as though by reaching his seat he’s achieved something
special. I get to my feet as I don’t want to draw attention to myself and clap
my hands together like there’s a prize for the loudest applause.

‘Sit
down for Christ’s sake,’ Gus instructs jokingly, ‘You’re making the place look
untidy.’

Everyone
laughs at this and does as they’re told. The waiters begin unfolding napkins
and placing them on our laps before filling glasses with water and wine. Gus
waves his arm in the direction of the head waiter who seems to have stationed
himself permanently behind him. ‘G&T on the rocks.’ He barks, prompting
several other diners to order drinks from the bar even though they’re knocking
back the wine. I stick with the wine I’ve been given, if I mix my drinks I
might forget the life story Marcus helped me concoct should anyone try to make
conversation.

The
man who introduced himself to me – Peter – is sat to the right of Gus, on my
left is an entrepreneur who seems quite happy to talk for both of us so I nod
at him every so often while glancing at the others around the table. A couple
of people wear name badges, they are the event sponsors and seem hell bent on
making sure everyone is off their faces before the charity auction begins. One
of them catches my eye and smiles across encouragingly, I can see them racking
their brains as to who I am and my importance in the grand scheme of things. To
be on this table I’m a mover and shaker so I feign boredom and look pointedly
at my watch as though there are a thousand and one more exciting places I’d
rather be. My reaction seems to satisfy them and they smile back eagerly. The
food courses go on forever and I follow my companions’ lead when it comes to
which knife and fork to use with each dish.

Gus
relates a couple of stories which have the table laughing, even the people
seated out of earshot seem to think his stories are hilarious; I guess that’s
what having money does for you.

He
catches my eye a couple of times and I smile at him weakly; is it me or can he
see right through my act? During the auction a pattern emerges: Gus joins in
the final stages to get the bids bumped up then bows out magnanimously at the
end so the other millionaires around the room get to show how philanthropic
they are.

He
gives a speech at the end of the auction for which the audience give him a
standing ovation. His company are going to build a new hotel at Haymarket and
he pledges to recruit staff from Edinburgh’s poorer catchments. ‘Knighthood’s
in the bag.’ Peter murmurs in my ear.

The
waiting staff start to move in as the guest begin to disperse although a hard
core from our table seem intent on making a night of it. Gus has been collared
by a couple of business men but he brushes them off and locks eyes with me as
he returns to our table.

‘Not
your kind o’ thing then?’ he asks.

I
shake my head. ‘Don’t really know anyone.’ I say truthfully.

‘Come
wi’ me, Son.’ I follow him out of the function room obediently, attracting
curious glances as guests try to place who I am. We cross the large foyer
towards a smartly decorated bar with low lighting that draws attention to a
large oak panelled whisky cabinet which is the focal point of the room. Around
it are dotted cloth and leather winged chairs and settees clustered around
small tables. A group of Japanese business men are gathered around one table
reading a menu.

Gus
heads towards the granite bar.

‘Good
evening, Mr McEwan, your usual?’ The man behind the bar looks like a regular
barman but the title under his name tag reads
Whisky Ambassador.

Gus
nods an acknowledgement before turning to me: ‘They’ve got over four hundred
whiskeys here, from Speyside, Campbeltown, the Highlands and the Lowlands.’

He
is waiting for a reaction so I stare at the bottles in the cabinet and frown,
the way the experts do on
Cash in the Attic
.

‘Not
bad, eh?’ I reply. The barman with the fancy title puts three small plates onto
the bar. He sees me watching him and points to the contents of each plate in
turn: ‘Smoked almonds, Sir, wild boar salami and dark Swiss chocolate.’

I
look at him suspiciously, I can see the last plate is chocolate but then I
catch sight of myself in the mirrored tiles behind him and I’m not Davy the
Ned, but Designer Davy in a suit that he’d probably have to work a month to pay
for and I’m standing beside one of the most powerful men in Edinburgh. Of
course I’d want to know what kind of chocolate it is.

Gus
misreads my discomfort. ‘Can’t get your head around the choice?’ he asks
kindly, nodding towards the cabinet, ‘Let me recommend something,’ he offers,
‘see what you make of it.’

While
he is talking the barman retrieves an expensive looking bottle from the whisky
cabinet and places it on the bar beside two crystal glasses. Gus nods his
approval before the barman pours us both a dram. I want to tell him that I
don’t like whiskey. I drank a half bottle of Bells on my fourteenth birthday
and was so sick afterwards that it put me off the stuff for life. Gus slides a
glass towards me and lifts his own to his lips. I copy him, lifting the glass,
putting it under my nose to smell before rolling the liquid around in the
glass. Finally he takes a sip. I do the same. The flavour is intense, sharp,
like acid on my throat but it leaves a flavour that is warm and pleasant,
unlike the sour taste of Bells from a lifetime ago. I help myself to a square
of dark chocolate.

‘1940
Macallan,’ Gus informs me, ‘What do you think?’

‘The
dog’s bollocks.’ I smile.

Gus
laughs. ‘Aye Son, at £85 a dram it should be!’

Shocked,
I sip at my glass more slowly this time, rolling it around my mouth to show my
appreciation.

‘Same
again.’ Gus instructs the barman.

‘No,
seriously, I’m fine!’ I protest.

‘I
canny take it with me son, now do me a favour and enjoy the drink.’

I
can’t say I’m loving it, but the flavour is growing on me and at that price
it’s a certainty I’ll never taste it again. The barman pours our drinks then
moves a discreet distance away, polishing glasses and whatever else whisky
ambassadors do.

No
time like the present then:

‘You’ve
done a lot for the city Mr McEwan,’ I simper, ‘you must be proud of your
achievements.’

Gus
looks at me like a headteacher admonishing a straight A student.

‘Ah,
Son, don’t spoil it now by blowing smoke up my arse, I can go back into the
other room fae a’ that.’ He glances in the direction of the dining room with
contempt.

‘Wall
to wall pompous bastards, all expert at meaningless small talk. Desperate for
my money yet not one of them would take the steam from ma piss when I started
out.’

‘Does
it bother ye then?’ I ask him.

‘What?’

‘That
ye still not good enough.’

McEwan
casts a steely look in my direction. ‘If anyone else had said that to me they’d
be shittin’ teeth for the rest o’ the night.’ He stands back to study me: his
gaze sweeping my face, pausing on my squint nose and swollen jaw. I’ve the face
of a toe rag – a toe rag recently given a pasting – but the suit Marcus has
paid for throws him.

‘Ye
know, ye remind me o’ myself when I was younger.’ He concludes, ‘A Flash

Harry
but I didn’t have a pot to piss in. Dressed up to the nines but yer pockets are
empty, am I right?’

I
nod, deflated. All I’ve managed to do is wind him up and drink his whisky and
any second now he’ll summon his minders to throw me out on my arse.

‘Look.’
I plead, ‘I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just that, well, sometimes, it
seems to me that no matter what I do I never get it right, I never fit in.
Sometimes I make out I don’t give a shit but if I really didn’t give a shit why
would I need to convince myself it disnae matter? And I…..I just wondered if it
was like that for you too.’

‘I
think your problem is that you think too much.’ Gus jokes, then pauses, as
though trying to get his head around what I’ve said.

‘Kid,
I could buy every single person in this city if I had a mind to but what would
be the point? In truth I know most of them despise me. Or fear me. I’m a
necessary evil, a means to an end, but none of them actually like me. I’ve
tried to make up for some of the shit I’ve caused over the years, you know,
what’s the phrase? “Give something back”. I’ve donated paintings to art
galleries, bought scanners for the hospital, provided research funding for the
university but when it comes down to it all they see is some minted scrote
who’s had more good fortune than he deserves.’

‘Don’t
get me wrong,’ he concedes, ‘I was no angel, but that’s in the past now.’

Even
I know now’s not the time to mention the gun smuggling so I keep my mouth shut.

Gus
continues: ‘I don’t want this to be it, though.’ He jerks his thumb in the
direction of the function suite across the lobby we’ve escaped from, ‘Another
fuckin’ project sponsored by a political party that needs my cash or my
endorsement, one that’ll amount to fuck all in the grand scheme of things. I
want to
really
make a difference.’

‘And
you think lunching at the Balmoral will do that?’

He
laughs at this and I laugh with him.

‘Aw
fuck,’ he motions for the barman to bring the bottle of Macallan over and leave
it with us. ‘This place is like my constituency office, the place folk come
when they need a favour, one that requires a bit of muscle behind it.’

‘Mebbe
I should call ye Don Corleone.’

‘I’ve
been called worse.’ Gus grins. ‘De ye fancy getting hammered with me, son? I
don’t even know your name.’

‘It’s
Davy.’ I laugh and already it’s too late to take it back. Gus stares at me, the
cogs in his head working their way through where he’s heard that name recently,
followed by recognition when the answer wings its way to him. The message he
sent me via Marcus:

Tell
Davy he did a good job.

The
smile dies on Gus’s face, replaced by a flash of anger. ‘Ye need to start
talking, Son.’ He spits, ‘And fast.’

I
throw my hands up in mitigation: ‘Alright, I’m sorry Mr McEwan but I needed to
speak to ye and I didn’t know any other way to get ye on yer own. Marcus said
you wouldn’t speak to me direct, you’d expect me to approach you through him
but....well, he’s got his own problems right now.’

‘So
I hear.’ Gus says tightly.

‘Look,’
I say honestly, laying my hands out across the bar, like a card shark showing
he’s clean, ‘I’m desperate. I’m in serious trouble, and I think you’re the only
man in this city who can help me.’

Gus
picks up the whiskey bottle and following his lead I pick up our crystal
tumblers. We head towards two leather chairs in the corner of the room. ‘I
reckon I’m gonna need to sit down for this.’ He observes drily.

I
tell him about MacIntyre, how he killed Jude and the twins then Malkie and his
care worker, framing me for the murders. I tell him that Jude was like a Mum to
me, better at times, that just because she’s a prozzie doesn’t make her loss
easier to bear.

‘Ye
dinnea have tae tell me that,’ Gus states, ‘ma Da’ was a proper villain but I
cried like a banshee at his passing.’ I’m not sure what constitutes a proper
villain in Gus’s world but that’s a question for another day.