Double proof, p.6
Double Proof, page 6
Gould looked down at himself. ‘Great. I’m doing Strictly this year.’
‘Out the ring now, eh?’ said Mears, with a smirk that pressed like a knuckle into Gould’s stomach. ‘I’ve been in the Octagon myself lately.’
‘You should take an opponent next time.’
The Cube laughed.
‘Training quite a bit,’ said Mears, ignoring the comment. ‘Mostly Brazilian jiu-jitsu, bits of Muay Thai.’
‘MMA is quite intense for an older guy,’ said Gould.
Mears grinned, nodded. ‘Keeps me sharp,’ he said, patting his trim middle. ‘Knocked a guy out cold on Monday. He was about your age. Lighter, though. You’d be a much more solid proposition.’
Gould finished his coffee, put the mug on the edge of the desk. ‘So you don’t know anything about Albie?’ he said, standing.
Mears stood and opened his hands. The sinews were visible in his lean neck, and his knuckles, Gould noticed, were freshly scabbed.
‘Not a thing,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be psychic?’
‘Supposed to be,’ said Gould.
‘Why would I get involved in a kidnapping? I’m running a legitimate business here. And I’m clean.’
‘Aye?’ said Gould, wondering what kind of legitimate business kept three hundred pounds of minced beef on the door.
‘Aye,’ said Mears. ‘Spotless record – never had anything worse than a parking ticket. Check me out if you like.’
Gould moved towards the door. The Cube watched him come closer.
‘Bertie thinks it’s all you,’ said Gould, over his shoulder.
‘What?’
‘Who’s taken Albie.’
Mears narrowed his eyes. ‘Why?’
Gould put his hands in his pockets. ‘To put pressure on the family. Make them withdraw their claim. Ransom gets paid – the Dalziels have no choice but to use the last of their funds – no court case.’
Mears shook his head. ‘He’s way off, man. I don’t want him to withdraw his “claim”.’
‘Why not?’ said Gould.
Mears met his stare. He leaned over the desk, stabbing down with his finger. ‘Because I’m going to destroy that wee prick in court,’ he spat. ‘In front of everyone. This is going to be one of the highlights of my fucking life.’
The beep of a reversing forklift filled the office.
‘All right,’ said Gould. He turned to go – and stopped.
The Cube had moved to open the door, exposing a framed artwork consisting of stripes of thick acrylic paint, inlaid with sheafs of scrap metal and torn paper. There was a hand-written price attached.
‘I’ve seen one of these before,’ said Gould, leaning in. The painting was called Man’s Inhumanity to Man. It was on sale for £5,000. There was another, almost identical, piece beside it. ‘You selling these?’
‘Aye,’ said Mears, moving out from the desk, heading to the door. ‘You interested? They’re quite collectible.’
‘No,’ said Gould. ‘Bit out of my price range. You know the artist or something?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
Gould looked at him. ‘You did these?’
Mears winked. ‘Like I say, they’re becoming quite collectible. If there’s anything else I can do, Mr Ghoul, let me know. Be good to get you back in the ring one of these days – see if you’ve still got that famous jab in your locker.’
He snapped a punch that stopped just short of Gould’s chin.
‘Sure,’ said Gould, shouldering his bag. ‘Maybe you should commandeer the old shipyard – get that pack of welders working on a gumshield.’
The Cube laughed, then opened the door.
Mears dropped his fist and flashed his teeth. ‘One of these days,’ he said again.
The door hit Gould on the back of the legs.
9
Everyone was seated, laps filling with phones as they settled in. One guy – American, going by the big white sneakers – was pressing tobacco into his lip.
The coach driver did the announcement (no smoking, seatbelts on, thirty-five minutes from Haneda Airport to Shinjuku), checked his mirror – then jumped on the brakes, knocking the American into the seat in front and spilling his tobacco.
‘Hey!’ the man shouted. ‘What’s going on?’
The driver pointed. ‘Yakuza.’
A convoy of black Mercedes limousines was pulling on to the red tarmac, the airport lights bright against the tinted glass. Their drivers removed the baggage from the trunks and reached for the rear doors.
A group of eight men, all somewhere between thirty and fifty, emerged before the lead car was opened, and a slim, elderly man climbed out. He was dressed in a dark suit, his silver hair swept back. When he turned to look at the coach, his eyes were hidden by the glare on his frameless spectacles.
‘Check this guy out,’ said an Englishman, nudging his friend.
‘Kumicho,’ said the coach driver.
The kumicho motioned to the man who had followed him out of the lead car. The coach driver craned his neck around. ‘Wakagashira,’ he said, pressing his finger to his lips. ‘Number two.’
The wakagashira was taller and younger, his narrow suit tight, his long hair tied on top of his head. His skin was dry, boiled like cotton on to his bones by a life that had left him shrunken and hard. The streetlight fell over his deep-set eyes, leaving them in shadow.
His name, the coach driver knew from coverage of a recent trial, was Kenzo Sasaki.
Sasaki kept his hands in constant motion – curling his fingers, pressing his knuckles into his thumbs, smoothing the beard on his chin – and stood with his feet apart, as though preparing for a sudden, balletic leap. He bowed to the kumicho, who returned the gesture. Neither of them smiled. They spoke quietly for less than a minute.
Then they bowed again and parted. Sasaki jerked his head, and the others dropped their cigarettes. The limousines pulled into traffic, and the yakuza disappeared into the terminal building.
‘Now can we go?’ said the American. He spat into an empty soda can.
‘Godfather,’ muttered the driver, starting the engine only once the convoy’s lights had vanished round the bend. ‘Make him an offer he cannot refuse.’
10
Imelda opened the door as the bell was ringing. ‘Robbie?’ she said as Gould strode past, his feet slapping on the tiles. ‘Is everything okay? Do you have news?’
‘No,’ said Gould, taking the stairs two at a time. ‘I have questions.’
She ran to keep up. ‘Questions? About what? Did you find Thomas?’
Gould pushed open Albie’s bedroom door and went straight to the far wall.
The painting, purchased a year earlier for Albie’s eighteenth birthday, was exactly as he’d remembered: swoops of acrylic inlaid with bits of scrap and torn paper.
‘This is one of Ben Mears’, isn’t it?’
Her face was impassive. ‘Yes. Is that relevant?’
Gould laughed. ‘Is it relevant that you’ve got a personal connection to Picasshole, the guy you’re up against in court, the guy your brother-in-law thinks has kidnapped your son? What do you think?’
Imelda sat on the bed. Her hands were folded in her lap, her back straight. ‘I don’t have a personal connection to him. I met him once – he’s a creep. But I don’t see how–’
‘And by the way,’ Gould interrupted, ‘your man is made – there’s a guy in his office you need a map to walk round.’
‘So? Maybe he works there. Robbie, how does this–’
‘Yeah? Tell me this, then: why was he was the only one wearing a suit in the whole fucking place, and why did he laugh when I took the piss out his boss?’
She released the tension from her shoulders. ‘I have no idea, Robbie. Maybe he–’
‘Doesn’t work there,’ said Gould. ‘He’s laughing because he doesn’t work for Mears. He works as muscle for some gangster – which means Mears has gangster muscle on his office door. So, tell me again, do you think it’s relevant there’s a personal connection to this guy?’
Imelda looked at the ceiling. ‘Well, I don’t have a connection to him.’
‘No?’ Gould waved at the painting. ‘Then how come this was so cheap?’
She frowned. ‘Cheap? Bertie paid nearly–’
‘Two grand, aye. And speaking of two grand, Thomas McKenzie tells me Albie was paid something like that for a few posts he made recently. Why didn’t you mention that?’
Imelda’s eyes widened. ‘I didn’t know. He never . . . why wouldn’t he tell me that?’
‘Maybe he was planning on surprising you. Mears has two paintings exactly like this hanging in his office for five grand each. Bertie paid less than half that. Why the discount?’
Imelda clasped her wrists, then folded her arms across her chest. The room was cold, up high under the eaves. It felt, Gould thought, emptier than before – like a pupal sac desiccating in the wind.
‘Bertie knows him.’
‘You don’t say? Mears obviously knows him pretty well. Thinks he’s a wee prick – can’t wait to destroy him in court. What’s that all about?’
She shrugged. ‘He would never say. All I know is they fell out. There was a fight.’
‘An actual fight?’
Imelda nodded. ‘Bertie ended up in hospital. He was peeing blood for a week.’
Gould put his hands in his pockets. ‘I’m not surprised. Mears looks like he can punch his weight. He was talking about doing MMA.’
‘What – ecstasy?’
‘That’s MDMA,’ said Gould. ‘MMA is mixed martial arts. Muay Thai, kickboxing. It’s full on. I wouldn’t give Bertie much of a chance against him.’ He cocked his head. ‘Unless he can keep those boots on.’
She laughed, a nervous rush that ended in a sigh. ‘He’s gone out, otherwise you could ask him about it yourself. But I doubt he’d tell you anything. He won’t discuss it at all. Even with Albie. Just acts like it never happened.’
Gould took Mears’ painting from the wall and laid it face down on the bed. ‘There probably wouldn’t be much point anyway. Getting the truth about a fight is always a bit like Begbie’s story – the reality varies wildly depending on who you ask. Where did it happen?’
‘At the club.’
‘The members’ club? Which one is it again?’
‘The Tobacconists’ Guild. It was after a charity night, back in March. One of Bertie’s things, I can never remember the name . . . there’s an otter on the logo.’
‘What kind of charity night?’ said Gould. ‘Like a dance thing?’
She laughed, then saw he was serious. ‘It’s an all-male club. There are no dance nights. They eat and drink, listen to a couple of speeches, then have a blind auction for golf days and bottles of whisky.’
‘Whisky, aye? No wonder Bertie made president.’
She stood up, shivered, looked at the door. ‘Look, Robbie, I don’t know anything else about it,’ she said, once they were in the hall. ‘There was a falling-out during the meal, and Mears gave Bertie a beating. That’s it.’
‘What’s in there?’ said Gould, pointing.
‘Howard’s – Bertie’s office.’
Gould ducked inside. The room was lined with bookcases, on which stood labelled binders, spotlit whisky and more monochrome photos of the Dalziels with various dignitaries.
‘Anything in here about the Double Proof?’
Imelda nodded. ‘Take your pick,’ she said, gesturing to the binders. ‘Howard treated its disappearance as a hobby, but Bertie took it to another level. He’s been obsessed for years.’
‘And now it’s back,’ said Gould. ‘You really don’t know why Mears beat him up?’
‘No. It happens, doesn’t it? You never get into a daft fight?’
‘I was a boxer,’ said Gould, flicking through a folder. ‘Daft fights were my starting point.’
She pulled a face. ‘Were you any good?’
‘Aye,’ said Gould. ‘I was.’ He thought for a moment. ‘There would be a record of the event, wouldn’t there?’
‘I suppose. Yes, there must be. The seating plan was always very important – who he was sitting with, making sure he was close to the right people.’
‘Great,’ said Gould, lifting the two biggest folders. ‘I’m taking these,’ he added, leaving the office.
He descended two steps, then paused with his hand on the banister. ‘If I can find out who he sat with that night, then surely one of them would remember what they’d argued about? It can’t be all that common for one of the members to get his head kicked in between courses.’
She stopped beside the grandfather clock, fingers inches from his. ‘Yes, but . . .’ Her hand curled into a fist. ‘I don’t see how this will help find Albie. I’ve no idea what the fight was about, but I just don’t see how it has anything to do with him.’
Gould withdrew his hand, pushed his bag up his shoulder. ‘Well, for what it’s worth, I believe you. I think Albie has been kidnapped.’
Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘Oh,’ she said, lip trembling. ‘Oh God, really? Robbie, I’m–’
‘And remember what I said to you this morning,’ Gould went on, opening the door. A chilly autumn wind blasted into the house. ‘With your family, everything is relevant.’
She moved beside him in the doorway. The glow of a police hi-vis wobbled in the frosted glass. ‘Where are you going?’
‘The Tobacconists’ Guild,’ he said. ‘Bertie lied to me.’
‘He didn’t. Not really.’
‘Withheld the whole truth, then, whatever. I want to know what he’s hiding. Plus, Mears is an arsehole. I’d love to tie him into this somehow.’
‘But–’
‘Look, Bertie deliberately didn’t mention this. Maybe you’re right, maybe he spilled Mears’ spritzer and got his head kicked in. But maybe I’m right. I think there’s something in it, and, seeing as I’ve got time until my appointment with Albie’s dealer, I think it’s worth checking out.’
‘They won’t just hand out information like that,’ said Imelda, grabbing his arm. ‘It’s a private club, and some of their members are pretty high profile. They want their time there kept private.’
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘The office. The events records should be in there, and the manager’s always out schmoozing the members. But you can’t turn up in flip-flops. They’ve got stewards on the door – there’s no way they’ll let you in.’
‘Right,’ said Gould. He thought for a moment. ‘Bertie got any spare boots?’
11
The Tobacconists’ Guild perched atop Garnethill, its grand doors peeking, like a shy child through the legs of her parents, between Grecian pillars. Once, it had gazed imperiously over a rabbling, industrial mass – now it was hemmed in by tenements, with the Art School’s burnt-out shell opposite. In the mid-sixties, the Guild had been briefly thrust into the tabloid spotlight when it emerged that a serving Secretary of State had spent the night rolling around one of its opulent bedrooms with a local waitress, who was later convicted of spying for the Soviet Union.
Gould rolled down Buccleuch Street and into the car park, a high-walled garden that sparkled with luxury badges and private plates. He climbed out and looked around. Every inch of the place had a manicured texture that set his teeth on edge. The hedges were short and square, the stones bright and free of moss, and the whole atmosphere, including the muted shell sound of the streets beyond the sandstone boundary, had the hermetic breathlessness of comfortable wealth.
He stopped to retuck his shirt.
‘Well,’ Imelda had said when he’d emerged, brushed and clean-shaven, his legs hidden by long trousers for the first time in over a year. ‘Who knew?’
‘I look like I’ve beaten up an accountant and stolen his clobber,’ Gould had replied. ‘They’ll spot me a mile away.’
She’d folded his collar and brushed lint from his shoulder. ‘Just pretend you’re annoyed about the stock market – Bertie loves moaning about dodgy tips from his broker.’
‘I don’t have a clue about the stock market,’ he’d said.
She’d smiled, fingernail on his collarbone. ‘Perfect.’
Gould caught his reflection now in the side of a Range Rover. Imelda had been encouraging, but she hadn’t persuaded the clothes to sit properly: not only was the shirt too short, its hem springing out whenever he moved his arms; the whole arrangement sat badly, like a Stetson on a costumed dog.
As he approached the big doors, he wondered quite how, on a morning when he’d woken in his own bed, anticipating nothing more than a day of leisurely pissing about, he’d arrived at such an absurd circumstance: squeezed into a ludicrous borrowed outfit, his nose deep in the hunt for a kidnap victim, his beardless face as cold as sliced ham. And who’d have thought Bertie would have such ginormous feet? he mused, flapping up the steps in his borrowed boots. I look like a kangaroo.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said the steward – a squat man with a long belly and a short moustache. ‘Meeting someone today?’
The unexpected question caused Gould to break his stride. ‘Yes,’ he said, recovering. ‘Bertie Dalziel.’
The man consulted a little tablet, swiping his thick finger up and down. ‘In the Plantation Suite?’
‘I believe so. We’re comparing share portfolios over coffee.’
The steward, eyes on the screen, raised an eyebrow. ‘Buying or selling, sir?’
‘Buying,’ said Gould. ‘I thought maybe a latte.’
‘He means the shares,’ said the steward’s assistant, all drinker’s nose and pitted cheeks. ‘Are you buying or selling?’
Gould gave him a knowing nod. ‘Yes.’
‘All right, sir,’ said the steward, looking up. ‘There aren’t many bookings this afternoon, and I’m afraid I can’t find yours. Are you sure it’s today?’
‘Definitely. I remember because we were talking about Wednesday being the day we’ – he coughed, then unleashed his googling – ‘streamlined our asset allocations. Mine are all over the place just now.’
‘Sorry to hear that, sir,’ the assistant said tonelessly.
