The glass box, p.7
The Glass Box, page 7
“It was my birthday. He was coming back from work. He was a restaurant manager. He left early, with a birthday cake. It was a Sunday. A tourist, we were told. From Germany. Driving the wrong side of the road. Head-on collision.” Paul wiped his face with a sweat-streaked forearm. He held Smith’s stare with hard, shining eyes. Shining with what? Tears, thought Smith. And anger.
“He died instantly. That’s what we were told. One second he was there. Next, he was gone. Like he never existed.” He gave Smith a puzzled look. “And here’s the thing. I’m beginning to forget what he looked like. How can that be? Why is that happening?”
“Your father,” said Smith.
“If he hadn’t left early. If it hadn’t been my birthday, then none of it would have happened.”
He blames himself.
Paul picked up a pebble, threw it into the water. It caused the tiniest ripple, then was gone, back to the flat calm.
As if it never existed.
“I’m sorry…”
“We should head back. Same interval. Five minutes walking, five minutes running. Let’s go.”
They got back to the cabin. The return route was easier, being mostly downhill. Smith increased the pace for the last quarter of a mile, and the kid kept up. When they reached the front porch, Paul collapsed on the grass, on his back, face to the sky.
Smith allowed himself a half smile. He went into the cabin. He had never bothered locking the front door. If anyone ever felt inclined to break in, then good luck to them. He had nothing worth stealing.
He got the bottle of water the kid had brought, tossed it on the grass beside him. He got a pork pie from a fridge marginally bigger than a shoebox, put it on one of two plates he owned, and put it on the seat on his porch.
“Eat,” he said.
Paul sat up, drank half the contents of the bottle, somewhat stiffly got to his feet, went to the porch, devoured the pork pie.
Smith waited until he was finished, then spoke.
“I’ll walk you to the road. And that’s it. You’ve done well today. If you want to take it further, join a running club. But that’s it. I can’t help you. I’m not what you’re looking for.”
“Why not?”
Because I’m broken.
“Because I can’t. I repeat – I’m not what you’re looking for. Leave it at that.”
Paul said nothing. They walked the few miles to the road in silence. When they got there, Paul said, “Were you in the army?”
“A long time ago.”
“Have you ever seen anything like that before?”
“The eagle? No.”
“That’s good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Because we both saw something amazing together for the first time. We’ve shared something important. It makes me feel good.”
Smith sighed. “Go home, Paul.”
“Can you tell me your name? It’s a simple thing. Unless it’s really weird, and you’re embarrassed about it. Which I get.”
Smith shook his head in exasperation. “You win. John Smith. There you are.”
Paul wrinkled his nose. “It’s not very glamorous.”
“I’m not the glamorous type. Now go home and enjoy the rest of your life.”
The kid took three steps in the direction of Aviemore. He turned and grinned.
“John Smith,” he said. “It’s cool.”
“Sure, kid. Cool.”
Smith watched him until he turned a corner, disappearing from sight. He retreated into the forest and ran, almost in a half sprint, back to his cabin.
The kid wasn’t his concern. But the image of the eagle plucking the fish from the loch stayed with him, and would probably stay with him all his life. And he found he was glad too. Glad that the kid had seen it, and glad they’d seen it together.
That night, for the first time in what felt like forever, he slept a dreamless sleep. He awoke early the next morning, and went out to his porch.
The kid was there.
18
A week after the charity event held in Chadwick Purkis’s back garden, Jacob got the call he had been expecting. From Purkis. The conversation was short, and entirely one-sided.
“It’s time. Bring him in.”
Saturday evening. North Kessock was a village just over two miles from Inverness, with a population of about eight hundred. There was little of significance about the place other than the North Kessock hotel, popular with tourists, and the Popinjay Tavern – popular, so it seemed, with everyone.
Also popular with Tony French. Saturday evening was ‘live music’ night. A band called The Steam Rollers played sixties hits from 8pm until 11pm. The pub closed at 1am. The music, and the late licence, meant the pub was packed.
Jacob had monitored Tony French’s movements with care. He was, if anything, a man of routine. And a loner. Which helped. And Saturday evening signified his weekly excursion to the Popinjay Tavern. He got there by taxi and had a seat by 7pm. He drank Blue Sapphire gin with a splash of tonic. He sat on his own. He left at 11.30pm by way of a pre-ordered taxi. The journey back to his flat was at most fifteen minutes.
Jacob waited in a car a hundred yards from the pub. He had a clear view of the front entrance. There were no CCTV cameras. On one side of the road, fields. On the other, houses set well back, enclosed by high hedges. Accompanying him, sitting in the front passenger seat, was his colleague, Mr Halliday.
It was 7.15pm. French was in the pub already. They had watched him leave a taxi and enter.
“Now,” said Jacob.
Halliday got out of the car, and made his way to the entrance. Jacob watched. Halliday walked like a man without a care – like a man going to a pub to listen to some live music, his manner giving no hint of the dark deeds ahead. Jacob pulled out a packet of Marlboro Reds, lit up. He lowered his window, blew smoke into the evening air. He reached over, got a paperback from the glove compartment, opened it, and began to read.
The pub filled up. Taxis came and went. At just after 8pm, noise blared. The band had started. People filtered in and out, stood in groups, sharing chat as they smoked by outdoor ashtrays. Jacob glanced up every minute or so. Still a little early. At 9pm he put the book away, focused on the front entrance. At 9.23pm, to the backdrop of ‘Sgt. Pepper’s’, two men emerged, one the worse for wear, being propped up by the other much larger man. The large man was Halliday. The other was Tony French.
Jacob started the car, did a U-turn, parked a further fifty yards up the road, on the opposite side, now out of sight of the pub. He watched the two men approach in the rear-view mirror, Halliday practically carrying the other.
Jacob got out, went round, opened the rear passenger door, waited. French was mumbling, voice slurred and low, his head lolling on Halliday’s shoulder. They got to the car. Halliday rolled French onto the back seat, where he lay, an arm and a leg drooped on the floor, motionless.
Jacob returned to the driver’s seat, Halliday got in the passenger side.
“No issues?” said Jacob.
“Simple,” replied Halliday.
Jacob eased the car away, heading south, to the home of his master.
Chadwick Purkis had decided the meeting should be held in the conservatory. In the strong morning sunshine it was the brightest and warmest room in the house, and as such, put him in a cheerful frame of mind. But then, he reflected, at such moments as these, he was always cheerful.
The conservatory, as per the norm, was constructed entirely of glass. The floor was marble the colour of burgundy, reflecting the sun in a warm glow, like old wine. It was large and at the far end, wide patio doors opened to his fairy garden. On one wall – the gable wall, to which the conservatory was attached – was mounted a collection of weapons. Broadswords, rapiers, scimitars, longswords, cutlasses. Different types of daggers – anelace, poignard and misericorde. Fifty altogether, blades glittering.
He sat on a grey velvet chaise longue. Before him, a low palisander Indian coffee table and placed on it, a silver tray with a blue teapot and three porcelain cups and saucers.
Opposite sat two men on high-backed rattan chairs. On one sat Jacob. On the other, Tony French. To one side, watching, the brooding presence of Mr Halliday.
French’s head rested on his collarbone. His wrists were bound to the armrests of the chair by heavy duty sealing tape, his ankles bound tight to the front legs.
Purkis nodded to Jacob. Jacob leaned over, gently slapped French’s face. French’s head twitched, swayed. He cracked open one eye, closed it, wincing. He made a small, incoherent mumble. Jacob slapped him again, a little harder. French opened his eyes, shook his head, blinked, focused. His pallor was bone-white, his eyes dark and hollow in their sockets. He still wore the clothes from the evening before.
“Sorry for the inconvenience, Tony,” said Purkis. “It’s good to see you again. It feels like forever.”
French licked his lips, swallowed. He worked his mouth, stretching his jaw. Eventually he spoke.
“What happened?”
“What happened?” repeated Purkis. “That’s an interesting question, giving rise to a host of possible answers. Wouldn’t you agree, Jacob? Is that an interesting question?”
Jacob said nothing, still as a waiting spider.
“What happened,” Purkis repeated. “I suspect you mean, how did you get here, when doubtless the last thing you remember is sipping a gin and tonic and watching a band thump out some old Beatles tunes. I was never a Beatles fan. I preferred the Stones.”
French stared at him, eyes reduced to bloodshot pinpoints, the bones in his face harsh and sharp.
Purkis continued. “The process was simple. Though Jacob is a master of making complex situations look simple. Your drink was spiked by a gentleman called Mr Halliday, Jacob’s assistant in such matters. A dash of Rohypnol while you were in the toilet. The effect was swift. You were helped out of the pub and into Jacob’s car. And now you are here. But that hasn’t really answered your question – what happened.”
He reached over and poured the contents of the teapot into the three cups.
“Please, Jacob. Let Tony enjoy his tea.”
Without a word, Jacob unbuttoned his jacket, unclipped a small leather scabbard attached to his trouser belt, pulled out a short fixed-blade hunting knife, and cut away the tape round French’s right wrist.
“I love Darjeeling,” said Purkis, voice smooth as soft silk. “Referred to as the ‘champagne of teas’. It still amazes me when I see people ruin it with milk and sugar. It’s a… what would you say, Tony?”
French swallowed again, blinked, said nothing.
“A violation,” said Purkis. “Please, drink.”
Purkis lifted the cup, holding the handle with thumb and index finger, sipped, placed the cup back on the saucer.
“Not like Darjeeling?” he said. “Fair enough. You can’t please everybody all the time. Now, back to your question – what happened.”
He fixed his gaze on French.
“Please,” said French. “I don’t…”
“I’ll tell you what happened,” interrupted Purkis. “We had an arrangement. I gave you £100,000. In cash. In return, I was to get planning permission to flatten the Royal Hotel and build thirty luxury houses on the land. You gave me your promise, and you took my money. You can understand my puzzlement when I got a letter from your department telling me my application had been refused.”
Again, he raised the cup to his lips, sipped, licked his lips with the tip of his tongue, savouring the flavour. Savouring the moment.
“And then when you didn’t respond to my calls, the puzzlement turned to consternation. And concern. I thought perhaps you were ill. Or in an accident. No?”
French didn’t respond.
“I didn’t think so. Breaking our agreement was one thing. But to ignore me was just plain rude. Rude, bordering on disrespect. And that’s something I cannot abide. Please, have some tea. No? You more of a coffee man? I understand.”
“Please,” mumbled French. “There was nothing I could do. It wasn’t my fault.”
“A hundred thousand is a lot of money. If you had doubts, you could have said no. But you said yes. As you always do when I pay you. Do you know what happens when I pay a person that type of money?”
“No.”
“It means I own them.”
French used his free hand to wipe away beads of sweat from his brow. In the strong sunlight his face shone, skull-like.
“Listen, please, Chadwick. The hotel is a listed building. Plus, because of its age, it’s protected by Historic Scotland. It’s… untouchable. I thought I could sway the planning committee, but there was nothing I could do. I did my best. I swear I did. Sometimes things just don’t work out.”
“Don’t work out,” echoed Purkis. “Not quite the response one expects after handing over a hundred grand.”
“I can give you it back.” His voice lowered. “Or some of it. If you give me time.”
“You’re missing the point, Tony. I don’t want the money back. The money, to be honest, is irrelevant. But when you didn’t return my calls. A bridge too far, I think. It’s the disrespect that’s the problem. How do you pay that back?”
French fidgeted in his chair. The drug had worn off, the dullness evaporated, and in its place, fear, sharp and cold. Purkis had seen it many times and saw it now. He was an expert in such matters.
Suddenly, French straightened his back, spoke in a louder voice, attempting bluster.
“I won’t be intimidated. You wouldn’t dare do anything. Do you know who I am? I’m the chief planning officer. Let me go and it won’t go further.”
“Won’t go further? I should think not. Do you know who I am? There’s a cliché. Better to understand exactly who I am, Tony. I’m the one relaxing in my conservatory, sipping Darjeeling, rather enjoying myself. You’re the one strapped to a chair, about to face some rather grim realities. Do you know what you need, Tony?”
French’s voice had lowered again to a husky croak. “What?”
“Perspective.”
Purkis gestured to Jacob with a delicate flutter of his hands, from which Jacob seemed to derive exact information. He raised the knife. The blade glittered. A swift movement. French shrieked, tried to twist away. Too late. Suddenly, from the side of his eye to the corner of his mouth, a thin crimson trail appeared, like slime from a snail, blooming thicker. Blood dribbled down his neck, onto the collar of his shirt.
Jacob casually cleaned his knife on French’s trouser leg, then replaced it back into the scabbard at his belt.
French touched the wound with his free hand. Blood now was running freely. His bottom lip quivered.
“Don’t cry, Tony,” said Purkis. “This was inevitable. Surely you understand the situation you find yourself in. You take my money. You treat me with breathtaking arrogance. Surely you understand it was never going to end well. This is the fun bit. Me watching you squirm. A precursor before the main event.” He finished off his tea and sat back. “I’m sorry, Tony, that it should end like this. But end it must.”
He flicked another meaningful glance at Jacob, who again, almost telepathically, understood. He got up and went over to a mahogany side cabinet. He opened it and took out a roll of plastic sheeting. Halliday now began to shift furniture over to one side – chairs, couches, low tables. He lifted lamps and ornaments and placed them with care also to one side, forming a space in the centre of the room.
Jacob spread the sheet across the marble, flattening it out with his feet. Then he and Halliday gripped either side of the chair French was sitting on, lifted it, and carried it to the centre of the sheet, then placed it down. They both stood back, waiting.
French began to babble. “I’m sorry, Chadwick. We can work this out. I can’t get all the money. Not right away. Give me a month. A week! I’ll find it. I’ll borrow it. A week!”
Purkis shook his head. “Tsk tsk. You’ve not been listening, Tony. The money is an irrelevance. It’s the disrespect, remember?”
He stood up, made his way to the stone wall behind him, and gazed at the display of weapons, hands clasped behind his back. He swivelled his head round. “Do you like my collection?”
French stared back, blood drained from his face, skin ghastly pale, the wound in his cheek open and weeping.
“Please, Chadwick.”
“These swords are all authentic,” said Purkis. “They’re not replicas. Do you know how difficult it is to obtain such items? And the cost! But worth it, Tony. I look at these and wonder whose hand clasped the grip, whose flesh did the blade pierce. These are so much more than sharp steel. They each have a history. A past. Forged in blood. They’re real.”
He reached over and gently lifted one from its silver brackets. “This is said to have been used at the Battle of Bannockburn. It belonged to the chief of Clan Cameron. It’s 110 cm long. Light enough to be used in one hand. Fish-skin-covered grip.” He held it in his right hand, stepped back, hefted it above his head, waving it through the air. From the sides, Jacob and Halliday watched silently. The blade was sharp and keen, shimmering in the strong sunshine, like a beam of light.
“But when used in a two-handed stroke, thus…” and here, expertly, Purkis switched the grip, arching the blade in great sweeps, to the left, to the right, “it could cut through textile armour and break bones through mail. It could even split hardened leather armour and dent metal plate. It’s a killer. Isn’t it beautiful?”
He stopped and with care placed it back on its brackets. “But it’s not my favourite. Can you guess which is, Tony?”
French spluttered and coughed. “We can work this out. Please.”
“You like to use that word – please. It’s a shame ‘sorry’ doesn’t appear as popular in your vocabulary.”
French responded instantly. “Sorry, Chadwick. A million times, sorry.”
“I like your style, Tony. A real joker. But you haven’t guessed. Which is my favourite? No? Then let me show you.”
He reached up, standing on his tiptoes, and removed a weapon somewhere between a dagger and a sword, the blade maybe eighteen inches long, the pommel encrusted with a cluster of tiny red gems, the grip bound in black leather, encircled by an intricate hand guard the colour of dull bronze.
“He died instantly. That’s what we were told. One second he was there. Next, he was gone. Like he never existed.” He gave Smith a puzzled look. “And here’s the thing. I’m beginning to forget what he looked like. How can that be? Why is that happening?”
“Your father,” said Smith.
“If he hadn’t left early. If it hadn’t been my birthday, then none of it would have happened.”
He blames himself.
Paul picked up a pebble, threw it into the water. It caused the tiniest ripple, then was gone, back to the flat calm.
As if it never existed.
“I’m sorry…”
“We should head back. Same interval. Five minutes walking, five minutes running. Let’s go.”
They got back to the cabin. The return route was easier, being mostly downhill. Smith increased the pace for the last quarter of a mile, and the kid kept up. When they reached the front porch, Paul collapsed on the grass, on his back, face to the sky.
Smith allowed himself a half smile. He went into the cabin. He had never bothered locking the front door. If anyone ever felt inclined to break in, then good luck to them. He had nothing worth stealing.
He got the bottle of water the kid had brought, tossed it on the grass beside him. He got a pork pie from a fridge marginally bigger than a shoebox, put it on one of two plates he owned, and put it on the seat on his porch.
“Eat,” he said.
Paul sat up, drank half the contents of the bottle, somewhat stiffly got to his feet, went to the porch, devoured the pork pie.
Smith waited until he was finished, then spoke.
“I’ll walk you to the road. And that’s it. You’ve done well today. If you want to take it further, join a running club. But that’s it. I can’t help you. I’m not what you’re looking for.”
“Why not?”
Because I’m broken.
“Because I can’t. I repeat – I’m not what you’re looking for. Leave it at that.”
Paul said nothing. They walked the few miles to the road in silence. When they got there, Paul said, “Were you in the army?”
“A long time ago.”
“Have you ever seen anything like that before?”
“The eagle? No.”
“That’s good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Because we both saw something amazing together for the first time. We’ve shared something important. It makes me feel good.”
Smith sighed. “Go home, Paul.”
“Can you tell me your name? It’s a simple thing. Unless it’s really weird, and you’re embarrassed about it. Which I get.”
Smith shook his head in exasperation. “You win. John Smith. There you are.”
Paul wrinkled his nose. “It’s not very glamorous.”
“I’m not the glamorous type. Now go home and enjoy the rest of your life.”
The kid took three steps in the direction of Aviemore. He turned and grinned.
“John Smith,” he said. “It’s cool.”
“Sure, kid. Cool.”
Smith watched him until he turned a corner, disappearing from sight. He retreated into the forest and ran, almost in a half sprint, back to his cabin.
The kid wasn’t his concern. But the image of the eagle plucking the fish from the loch stayed with him, and would probably stay with him all his life. And he found he was glad too. Glad that the kid had seen it, and glad they’d seen it together.
That night, for the first time in what felt like forever, he slept a dreamless sleep. He awoke early the next morning, and went out to his porch.
The kid was there.
18
A week after the charity event held in Chadwick Purkis’s back garden, Jacob got the call he had been expecting. From Purkis. The conversation was short, and entirely one-sided.
“It’s time. Bring him in.”
Saturday evening. North Kessock was a village just over two miles from Inverness, with a population of about eight hundred. There was little of significance about the place other than the North Kessock hotel, popular with tourists, and the Popinjay Tavern – popular, so it seemed, with everyone.
Also popular with Tony French. Saturday evening was ‘live music’ night. A band called The Steam Rollers played sixties hits from 8pm until 11pm. The pub closed at 1am. The music, and the late licence, meant the pub was packed.
Jacob had monitored Tony French’s movements with care. He was, if anything, a man of routine. And a loner. Which helped. And Saturday evening signified his weekly excursion to the Popinjay Tavern. He got there by taxi and had a seat by 7pm. He drank Blue Sapphire gin with a splash of tonic. He sat on his own. He left at 11.30pm by way of a pre-ordered taxi. The journey back to his flat was at most fifteen minutes.
Jacob waited in a car a hundred yards from the pub. He had a clear view of the front entrance. There were no CCTV cameras. On one side of the road, fields. On the other, houses set well back, enclosed by high hedges. Accompanying him, sitting in the front passenger seat, was his colleague, Mr Halliday.
It was 7.15pm. French was in the pub already. They had watched him leave a taxi and enter.
“Now,” said Jacob.
Halliday got out of the car, and made his way to the entrance. Jacob watched. Halliday walked like a man without a care – like a man going to a pub to listen to some live music, his manner giving no hint of the dark deeds ahead. Jacob pulled out a packet of Marlboro Reds, lit up. He lowered his window, blew smoke into the evening air. He reached over, got a paperback from the glove compartment, opened it, and began to read.
The pub filled up. Taxis came and went. At just after 8pm, noise blared. The band had started. People filtered in and out, stood in groups, sharing chat as they smoked by outdoor ashtrays. Jacob glanced up every minute or so. Still a little early. At 9pm he put the book away, focused on the front entrance. At 9.23pm, to the backdrop of ‘Sgt. Pepper’s’, two men emerged, one the worse for wear, being propped up by the other much larger man. The large man was Halliday. The other was Tony French.
Jacob started the car, did a U-turn, parked a further fifty yards up the road, on the opposite side, now out of sight of the pub. He watched the two men approach in the rear-view mirror, Halliday practically carrying the other.
Jacob got out, went round, opened the rear passenger door, waited. French was mumbling, voice slurred and low, his head lolling on Halliday’s shoulder. They got to the car. Halliday rolled French onto the back seat, where he lay, an arm and a leg drooped on the floor, motionless.
Jacob returned to the driver’s seat, Halliday got in the passenger side.
“No issues?” said Jacob.
“Simple,” replied Halliday.
Jacob eased the car away, heading south, to the home of his master.
Chadwick Purkis had decided the meeting should be held in the conservatory. In the strong morning sunshine it was the brightest and warmest room in the house, and as such, put him in a cheerful frame of mind. But then, he reflected, at such moments as these, he was always cheerful.
The conservatory, as per the norm, was constructed entirely of glass. The floor was marble the colour of burgundy, reflecting the sun in a warm glow, like old wine. It was large and at the far end, wide patio doors opened to his fairy garden. On one wall – the gable wall, to which the conservatory was attached – was mounted a collection of weapons. Broadswords, rapiers, scimitars, longswords, cutlasses. Different types of daggers – anelace, poignard and misericorde. Fifty altogether, blades glittering.
He sat on a grey velvet chaise longue. Before him, a low palisander Indian coffee table and placed on it, a silver tray with a blue teapot and three porcelain cups and saucers.
Opposite sat two men on high-backed rattan chairs. On one sat Jacob. On the other, Tony French. To one side, watching, the brooding presence of Mr Halliday.
French’s head rested on his collarbone. His wrists were bound to the armrests of the chair by heavy duty sealing tape, his ankles bound tight to the front legs.
Purkis nodded to Jacob. Jacob leaned over, gently slapped French’s face. French’s head twitched, swayed. He cracked open one eye, closed it, wincing. He made a small, incoherent mumble. Jacob slapped him again, a little harder. French opened his eyes, shook his head, blinked, focused. His pallor was bone-white, his eyes dark and hollow in their sockets. He still wore the clothes from the evening before.
“Sorry for the inconvenience, Tony,” said Purkis. “It’s good to see you again. It feels like forever.”
French licked his lips, swallowed. He worked his mouth, stretching his jaw. Eventually he spoke.
“What happened?”
“What happened?” repeated Purkis. “That’s an interesting question, giving rise to a host of possible answers. Wouldn’t you agree, Jacob? Is that an interesting question?”
Jacob said nothing, still as a waiting spider.
“What happened,” Purkis repeated. “I suspect you mean, how did you get here, when doubtless the last thing you remember is sipping a gin and tonic and watching a band thump out some old Beatles tunes. I was never a Beatles fan. I preferred the Stones.”
French stared at him, eyes reduced to bloodshot pinpoints, the bones in his face harsh and sharp.
Purkis continued. “The process was simple. Though Jacob is a master of making complex situations look simple. Your drink was spiked by a gentleman called Mr Halliday, Jacob’s assistant in such matters. A dash of Rohypnol while you were in the toilet. The effect was swift. You were helped out of the pub and into Jacob’s car. And now you are here. But that hasn’t really answered your question – what happened.”
He reached over and poured the contents of the teapot into the three cups.
“Please, Jacob. Let Tony enjoy his tea.”
Without a word, Jacob unbuttoned his jacket, unclipped a small leather scabbard attached to his trouser belt, pulled out a short fixed-blade hunting knife, and cut away the tape round French’s right wrist.
“I love Darjeeling,” said Purkis, voice smooth as soft silk. “Referred to as the ‘champagne of teas’. It still amazes me when I see people ruin it with milk and sugar. It’s a… what would you say, Tony?”
French swallowed again, blinked, said nothing.
“A violation,” said Purkis. “Please, drink.”
Purkis lifted the cup, holding the handle with thumb and index finger, sipped, placed the cup back on the saucer.
“Not like Darjeeling?” he said. “Fair enough. You can’t please everybody all the time. Now, back to your question – what happened.”
He fixed his gaze on French.
“Please,” said French. “I don’t…”
“I’ll tell you what happened,” interrupted Purkis. “We had an arrangement. I gave you £100,000. In cash. In return, I was to get planning permission to flatten the Royal Hotel and build thirty luxury houses on the land. You gave me your promise, and you took my money. You can understand my puzzlement when I got a letter from your department telling me my application had been refused.”
Again, he raised the cup to his lips, sipped, licked his lips with the tip of his tongue, savouring the flavour. Savouring the moment.
“And then when you didn’t respond to my calls, the puzzlement turned to consternation. And concern. I thought perhaps you were ill. Or in an accident. No?”
French didn’t respond.
“I didn’t think so. Breaking our agreement was one thing. But to ignore me was just plain rude. Rude, bordering on disrespect. And that’s something I cannot abide. Please, have some tea. No? You more of a coffee man? I understand.”
“Please,” mumbled French. “There was nothing I could do. It wasn’t my fault.”
“A hundred thousand is a lot of money. If you had doubts, you could have said no. But you said yes. As you always do when I pay you. Do you know what happens when I pay a person that type of money?”
“No.”
“It means I own them.”
French used his free hand to wipe away beads of sweat from his brow. In the strong sunlight his face shone, skull-like.
“Listen, please, Chadwick. The hotel is a listed building. Plus, because of its age, it’s protected by Historic Scotland. It’s… untouchable. I thought I could sway the planning committee, but there was nothing I could do. I did my best. I swear I did. Sometimes things just don’t work out.”
“Don’t work out,” echoed Purkis. “Not quite the response one expects after handing over a hundred grand.”
“I can give you it back.” His voice lowered. “Or some of it. If you give me time.”
“You’re missing the point, Tony. I don’t want the money back. The money, to be honest, is irrelevant. But when you didn’t return my calls. A bridge too far, I think. It’s the disrespect that’s the problem. How do you pay that back?”
French fidgeted in his chair. The drug had worn off, the dullness evaporated, and in its place, fear, sharp and cold. Purkis had seen it many times and saw it now. He was an expert in such matters.
Suddenly, French straightened his back, spoke in a louder voice, attempting bluster.
“I won’t be intimidated. You wouldn’t dare do anything. Do you know who I am? I’m the chief planning officer. Let me go and it won’t go further.”
“Won’t go further? I should think not. Do you know who I am? There’s a cliché. Better to understand exactly who I am, Tony. I’m the one relaxing in my conservatory, sipping Darjeeling, rather enjoying myself. You’re the one strapped to a chair, about to face some rather grim realities. Do you know what you need, Tony?”
French’s voice had lowered again to a husky croak. “What?”
“Perspective.”
Purkis gestured to Jacob with a delicate flutter of his hands, from which Jacob seemed to derive exact information. He raised the knife. The blade glittered. A swift movement. French shrieked, tried to twist away. Too late. Suddenly, from the side of his eye to the corner of his mouth, a thin crimson trail appeared, like slime from a snail, blooming thicker. Blood dribbled down his neck, onto the collar of his shirt.
Jacob casually cleaned his knife on French’s trouser leg, then replaced it back into the scabbard at his belt.
French touched the wound with his free hand. Blood now was running freely. His bottom lip quivered.
“Don’t cry, Tony,” said Purkis. “This was inevitable. Surely you understand the situation you find yourself in. You take my money. You treat me with breathtaking arrogance. Surely you understand it was never going to end well. This is the fun bit. Me watching you squirm. A precursor before the main event.” He finished off his tea and sat back. “I’m sorry, Tony, that it should end like this. But end it must.”
He flicked another meaningful glance at Jacob, who again, almost telepathically, understood. He got up and went over to a mahogany side cabinet. He opened it and took out a roll of plastic sheeting. Halliday now began to shift furniture over to one side – chairs, couches, low tables. He lifted lamps and ornaments and placed them with care also to one side, forming a space in the centre of the room.
Jacob spread the sheet across the marble, flattening it out with his feet. Then he and Halliday gripped either side of the chair French was sitting on, lifted it, and carried it to the centre of the sheet, then placed it down. They both stood back, waiting.
French began to babble. “I’m sorry, Chadwick. We can work this out. I can’t get all the money. Not right away. Give me a month. A week! I’ll find it. I’ll borrow it. A week!”
Purkis shook his head. “Tsk tsk. You’ve not been listening, Tony. The money is an irrelevance. It’s the disrespect, remember?”
He stood up, made his way to the stone wall behind him, and gazed at the display of weapons, hands clasped behind his back. He swivelled his head round. “Do you like my collection?”
French stared back, blood drained from his face, skin ghastly pale, the wound in his cheek open and weeping.
“Please, Chadwick.”
“These swords are all authentic,” said Purkis. “They’re not replicas. Do you know how difficult it is to obtain such items? And the cost! But worth it, Tony. I look at these and wonder whose hand clasped the grip, whose flesh did the blade pierce. These are so much more than sharp steel. They each have a history. A past. Forged in blood. They’re real.”
He reached over and gently lifted one from its silver brackets. “This is said to have been used at the Battle of Bannockburn. It belonged to the chief of Clan Cameron. It’s 110 cm long. Light enough to be used in one hand. Fish-skin-covered grip.” He held it in his right hand, stepped back, hefted it above his head, waving it through the air. From the sides, Jacob and Halliday watched silently. The blade was sharp and keen, shimmering in the strong sunshine, like a beam of light.
“But when used in a two-handed stroke, thus…” and here, expertly, Purkis switched the grip, arching the blade in great sweeps, to the left, to the right, “it could cut through textile armour and break bones through mail. It could even split hardened leather armour and dent metal plate. It’s a killer. Isn’t it beautiful?”
He stopped and with care placed it back on its brackets. “But it’s not my favourite. Can you guess which is, Tony?”
French spluttered and coughed. “We can work this out. Please.”
“You like to use that word – please. It’s a shame ‘sorry’ doesn’t appear as popular in your vocabulary.”
French responded instantly. “Sorry, Chadwick. A million times, sorry.”
“I like your style, Tony. A real joker. But you haven’t guessed. Which is my favourite? No? Then let me show you.”
He reached up, standing on his tiptoes, and removed a weapon somewhere between a dagger and a sword, the blade maybe eighteen inches long, the pommel encrusted with a cluster of tiny red gems, the grip bound in black leather, encircled by an intricate hand guard the colour of dull bronze.
