“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Sorry. The sketch. It’s Peter Cook and Dudley Moore.”
The two men looked at each other and shook their heads. “Whatever,” the bald one said. “Anyway, like I said before I was so rudely interrupted, our Ciaran’s no surgeon. Bit of an amateur, really. But he likes the tools, and he likes to dabble. The collection’s a bit of a ragbag, no rhyme nor reason to it, except Ciaran’s personal tastes.” The bald man picked up the sharp gleaming instruments one by one. “Now, I don’t know what these all are, but I do know that some of them are used in dermatology. Know what that is? A clever boy like you should do, university education, Latin and all. No? It means they’re sharp enough to peel an eyeball. Gives a whole new meaning to keeping your eyes skinned, doesn’t it? Others are meant for making deeper cuts through layers of fat or muscle. And then there are things that keep the edges of the wounds open or hold back the underlying organs and tissue while the doctors do their business and put their hands inside, or rip things out.” He held up a hooked instrument. “Retractors of various sizes and designs. Clamps, too, to slow down the bleeding. And most of these other blades are so sharp that they probably don’t hurt very much at first, like when you cut yourself shaving, you don’t really feel it. But eventually the pain comes. Delayed reaction. The blood’s already there, of course. All over the place by then, I should imagine.”
As the bald man talked, Victor felt his spirits sinking and his heart rate rising. He knew the kind of damage and pain these instruments could inflict. Even the dental probe terrified him. His mouth was dry and his skin clammy. “Why are you doing this?” he croaked. “What do you want? I haven’t done anything. You don’t have to do this.”
Ciaran busied himself with the instruments, lovingly and carefully polishing each one with a white cloth.
The bald man looked on, smiling. “What a perfectionist. I tell him not to bother, they’ll only get bloody again, but every time, without fail, he has to polish his instruments. Maybe he’s just an optimist? Maybe he thinks he won’t have to use them this time?”
“He doesn’t,” said Victor, licking his lips. “He doesn’t have to use them. What do you want? I’ll tell you. If it’s money, take it.”
“We don’t want your money, and I’m sure you’ll tell us plenty,” said the bald one. “But I’m also sure you can understand that we have to be certain you’re telling us what we need to hear, not just what we want to hear. There’s a subtle difference.”
“I’ll tell the truth.”
The man laughed. “Hear that, Ciaran? He’ll tell the truth. That’s a good one. Where have you heard that one before?”
“What do you mean?” Victor’s mind was clear enough now for him to worry because the bald man had no hesitation about calling Ciaran by name, if that was his real name. And that couldn’t be good, could it? “I won’t talk. I won’t tell anyone,” he added, for good measure.
“No, that you won’t,” said the bald man. “See those tongs and that blade there? Very good for loose tongues, those are.”
Victor swallowed. His tongue felt too big for his mouth.
The bald man clapped his hands. “But that’s all further down the road. After we’ve reached what I call the point of no return. First off, let’s just have a go, shall we? See how we start off. Starter for ten, eh? An educated lad like you ought to know University Challenge. Let’s see how far we can get without resorting to any serious unpleasantness.”
“That’s fine with me,” said Victor.
“Good. The way it works is like this.” The man turned the hourglass until the sand started slowly sifting through the tiny hole into the other glass bowl. “I’m not sure exactly how long this takes,” he said. “To be honest, I’ve never actually timed it. But while the sand is still running, Ciaran here will hold back with his instruments. That’s the amount of time you’ve got to give me the answers I need. Understand?”
“Yes. Yes. Please. Go on. Ask me anything. Hurry.” Victor glanced at the sand. It was moving far faster than the laws of physics allowed, he was certain, rushing through at an alarming rate.
“Calm down, Victor. There’s no hurry. Plenty of time.”
“Please. Ask me what you want to know. Start now.”
“Need to know.”
“All right. Need.” Victor wanted to yell, “Just bloody get on with it!” as he eyed first the cascading sand, then the shiny curved retractor that Ciaran was polishing. He felt his bowels loosening. He said nothing.
“We’ll start with questions we think we know the answers to already. That way we’ll know if you’re lying. A kind of litmus test. You’re a friend of Jaff McCready’s, yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Good start. Did he come to see you recently?”
“The other day. Yes. Monday, I think.”
“Well done. What did he want?”
“To swap cars for a few days.”
“Did you swap?”
“Yes. He’s a mate. He was in a jam. You help out a mate in a jam, don’t you?”
“Highly commendable. Tell me the make, color and number of your car.”
Victor told him. “What else?”
“I don’t understand.”
“What else did he want?”
“Nothing.”
“Tut-tut, Victor.” The bald man tapped the hourglass. It seemed to make the sand move even faster. “Time’s running out.”
“All right, all right! He wanted a shooter.”
“And you just happened to have one lying around?”
“I have a source. I help people out sometimes. Jaff knew that.”
“So you gave him a gun?”
“Sold him one. A Baikal. With a silencer.”
“I’m not interested in the make. You’re wasting time. Is that all?”
“Yes, I swear.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He just drove off. I didn’t even see which way he went.”
“Where was he going?”
“I told you. I don’t-”
“Victor, you don’t have long left. Better stick to the truth.”
“I…he…he said he had a girl waiting outside in his car.”
“Tracy Banks?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see her, and he didn’t mention her name. I thought his girlfriend was called Erin, but you never know with Jaff.”
“Quite the ladies’ man, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Where were they going?”
“All he said was that they were going to chill out at her dad’s place in the country for a couple of days while he got things organized, then he was heading down to London.”
“Where in London?”
“I don’t know. Honest, I don’t. He didn’t say.”
“Victor…”
“Why would I lie?”
“I don’t know. Your time’s running out. I certainly wouldn’t lie in your position. But you are lying, aren’t you?”
Victor licked his lips. “Look, he’s got a mate in Highgate. Bloke called Justin. I’ve only met him once. He’s involved in people-smuggling and all kinds of nasty shit. It’s not my scene at all. I don’t know his last name. Jaff said Justin would help him out if it came to it. Fake passport and all that. That’s all I know. Honest.”
“Highgate’s a big place.”
“I’m sorry. That’s all I know.”
“Maybe Ciaran will be able to get a bit more out of you?”
Victor struggled at his bonds, but it did no good. “I don’t know any more.”
The bald man watched the sand contemplatively for a few moments, then he said, “What do you think, Ciaran?”
Ciaran stared at Victor for what seemed like an age. The sand flowed through the tiny hole. It was almost all gone now. Victor’s mouth was so dry that it hurt his throat when he tried to swallow. He felt that if this went on much longer he was going to start crying and begging for mercy.
“Nah,” said Ciaran, and rolled up his instruments. “Not worth it. He doesn’t know any more.” Victor’s mouth dropped.