Gravy just shrugged.
‘How did he ever think he’d get away with it?’
Another shrug.
‘And Don. You do know Don, don’t you?’
A shake of the head.
‘You don’t know Don?’
‘I know it’s his car.’
‘So how exactly do you fit in, Mr Gravy?’
‘It’s just “Gravy”, not “Mr Gravy”.’
‘Whatever. Which floor are we going to?’ They were entering the car park.
‘This one,’ Gravy said.
The level was only half full, and Renshaw spotted Don Empson’s BMW straight away. He gave a low whistle, almost jogging towards it.
‘I tried cleaning up the blood,’ Gravy was explaining. ‘I did my best.’
‘Sure you did, kid,’ Renshaw said. He rubbed a gloved hand over the car and peered inside. Then he turned to Gravy. ‘So?’
‘The boot,’ Gravy said.
‘Got the key?’
Gravy nodded.
‘Give it here then.’
The key changed hands. Renshaw pressed the button and the boot clicked open half an inch. He yanked it all the way up and stood there, mouth hanging open. Benjy’s body was curled into a ball. It was swelling and leaking and starting to smell. Renshaw began to cough. He took a step back, then turned towards Gravy. Gravy was holding the blue bag. He was pointing it at Renshaw. Then he pulled the trigger and the bag exploded. The kick sent the gun flying from Gravy’s hand. Renshaw winced and went down on one knee, then fell backwards, clutching his right leg. The bullet had gone into his upper thigh. Blood was pumping out. Renshaw’s face was screwed up in pain. Gravy knelt down and touched the man’s forehead.
‘Warm,’ he said. ‘Warm, warm, warm, warm.’ Five times for luck. Then, curious, he touched the man’s chest. Stood to reason. If the head was warm, then the heart should be cold.
Stone cold.
But it wasn’t.
People were coming. A woman and two men, running. Gravy didn’t know them. He stood up, and one of the men shouted for him to step away from the vehicle. Gravy was happy to do that. The woman was walking slowly towards him. The other man was phoning for an ambulance. The woman glanced inside the boot of the car, then she locked eyes with Gravy.
‘My name’s Detective Inspector Harris,’ she said.
‘Mine’s Gravy.’
‘Yes, I know. What are you doing here, Gravy? You’re a long way from home.’
Gravy nodded his agreement with this.
‘Are you working for Don Empson?’ she asked.
Gravy shook his head. ‘I’m just Benjy’s pal, that’s all.’
‘I’m guessing this is Benjy?’ She meant the body in the boot. Instead of answering, Gravy looked over towards George Renshaw. Renshaw was clutching his wounded leg, cursing and swearing and making pained noises as he rolled around on the floor.
‘I don’t like swearing,’ Gravy stated. ‘My mum told me it’s not clever.’
‘Your mum was quite right.’ DI Harris was studying the car. ‘This belongs to Don Empson, doesn’t it?’
Gravy nodded again. ‘But I thought it was Benjy’s. Can I go back to work now?’ he asked.
Harris didn’t answer straight away. She had her own phone out and was telling someone on the other end of it that they should enter the bar and check the cellar. Flicking the phone shut, she asked Gravy if he was sure he was all right.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to shoot him. I just didn’t know what else to do. Benjy wanted me to hide the gun.’ He looked at her. ‘I’ll get into trouble, won’t I? I didn’t do what he wanted.’ He took a deep breath and gave a long, loud sigh.
‘Is there any money, Gravy? I’m thinking there should be money.’
But Gravy was shaking his head. ‘If you’re looking for Celine,’ he told the detective, ‘she’s not here. I don’t know where she went, so there’s no use asking, is there?’
‘Celine?’ For the first time, the detective looked confused.
Gravy pointed to the ground where the remains of the blue bag had landed. There was a CD lying there. ‘My fingers feel funny,’ he said, studying them. ‘I don’t think I want to do any more shooting.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Harris had crouched down to pick up the CD.
Gravy was pressing the palm of one hand against his chest. ‘Warm heart,’ he told the detective. ‘That’s got to be a good thing, hasn’t it?’
Jane Harris nodded, but she was still left wondering… what on earth did Celine Dion have to do with any of this?
Ian Rankin
