Then it's the hot coffee from the mug but only briefly, it's not enough; then the ice again, then the coffee then the ice and I'm crying now, actually crying with pain and lust and the unbearable frustration of it, crying and begging; pleading with her to stop until finally she spits the last ice cube out and puts the glass and the mug down beside the wine glass and comes forward and straddles me, slipping me quickly, easily deep inside her and she feels hotter than the coffee, hot enough to scald, hot enough to burn and I give a small, shocked "Ah!" as she moves up and down on me and puts her fingers to my neck and the other hand down behind her to my balls and suddenly I'm coming, still crying and sobbing now as the spasms shake me and she goes suddenly very still, whispering "Baby, baby" to me as I jerk and pump and the motions make the pain in my legs and arms and joints worse and better at the same time.
The scarves have gone too tight to undo; she has to cut them with the gleaming weight of the hunting knife she keeps under her side of the mattress in case any rapist ever breaks in.
I lie cradled in her arms, panting, spent, exhausted, the agony in my muscles and bones and sockets gradually easing and the tears on my face drying and she says softly,
"How was that?" and I whisper,
"Fucking brilliant."
Next morning I arrive at the paper bright and early, toting my new machine, all happy after my sprint through to Cumbernauld via the building society and back and then my evening with Y (she was disappointingly unimpressed with the super-sexy new machine, but I guess not everybody's into computers and fuck it, given the choice of it or her on my lap I'd take her) after which I returned to Cheyne Street — Y likes me to leave before it gets too late, worried that her neighbours in the exec development will talk. I was so tired that even though I was just dying to get the new lap-top going and make sure Despot runs all right (portable at last! The screaming orgasmic joy of it!) I fell asleep on the couch instead and somehow transferred myself to the bed at some point and so had a good night's sleep for a change. I get up with the dawn or not long after anyway, make it into the office slightly early for once and Frank's there in reception when I come in and I'm about to show off the new machine when he looks worriedly at me, draws me to one side away from the receptionists" desk and the small-ads and back-issues counter until we're standing in a corner and says, "Cameron, Eddie wants to see you. He's got a couple of policemen in with him."
"What's this?" I ask, grinning. "Fettesgate again?" Fettesgate is a minor scandal involving the Lothian police force: a gay guy who felt he was being victimised broke into the cop HQ out at Fettes (with embarrassing ease) and found and copied lots of sensitive papers.
"No," Frank says. "Nothing to do with that, apparently. They're asking for you."
"Me?"
"Yes; you, quite specifically."
"Know their names?"
"No."
"Hmm." I know quite a few cops, some fairly high up, just like I know lawyers, advocates, doctors, politicians, civil servants and people in a variety of agencies. No big deal. "Can't imagine why." I shrug. "What's it about, any idea?"
Frank looks uncomfortable. He glances at the commissionaire behind his desk, nearby, and turns away from him. He leans his head close to mine and says quietly, "Well, Morag overheard something of what they were saying on the intercom…"
I put my hand over my mouth and do a stage-snigger. I thought Eddie's secretary eavesdropped on him. I didn't know until now she confided in Frank.
"Cameron," Frank says, dropping his voice still further. "Apparently they're investigating some murders."
CHAPTER 5: NAKED FLAME
The Mercedes estate comes grumbling down the drive, splashing in dark puddles under the dripping trees, car draws up by the blank gable end of the dark cottage. As the headlights are switched off, you turn the night sight on. He gets out of the car carrying a large leather flight and walks to the front of the cottage. He is balding and of medium build, though with a paunch and rather a fat face. You watch unlock the front door to the cottage. He enters, turning on the light and closing the door. You hear the alarm delay beep briefly before he turns it off. The rain patters down in front of you, heavier drops from the overhanging trees plop all around. A light comes on at the back of the cottage, in the kitchen.
You give him a couple of minutes while you put the night sight away and take out a pair of thick, wire-rimmed glasses, then you go to the front porch, put the glasses on and bang urgently on the solid wooden door.
You take the bottle and the sanitary towel from your pocket, the towel's loops over your fingers, soak the towel with the liquid in the bottle, then put the bottle away again, holding the reeking towel closed in your fist.
You hammer on the door again.
"Sir Rufus!" you call when you hear noise behind the door. "Sir Rufus! Ivor Owen here, from down the road!" You are modestly pleased with your gruff Welsh accent. "Quick, Sir Rufus; it's your car!"
You hear an English voice saying, "What!" and then a bolt slides. You let the door open. Mr Carter is holding a shotgun, but it is pointing downwards. You can't tell whether he has his finger inside the trigger guard or not but you have no choice; you dart forward, punching him hard in the stomach. He goes "Oof!" and starts to fold at the waist and knees. The gun drops from his hand as you jump to one side and clamp the sanitary towel over his mouth, then get behind him and lock your other arm round his neck. He manages to fling you back against one wall and your glasses come off but you hold onto him. He is still winded, struggling for breath, and the ether works quickly. He sags and collapses. You go with him to the floor, keeping the towel tight over his face. He moves once more, weakly, then goes still.
The keys to the cottage are in his trouser pockets. You put him in the recovery position and go to the door. You put out the hall light, take the night sight from your day-pack and look around. It looks peaceful enough. You close the door and lock it but leave the alarm system off. You take off your moustache and wig, pick up the cracked glasses from the floor and stuff them all in the day-pack. From it you take your black ski balaclava and slip it on.
You have a look in the kitchen but it's a slate floor. You drag him into the living room, put more ether on the towel and leave it over his face, then you roll back the carpet. You take the nail gun out of the day-pack and use it to nail him to the floor through his clothes, pinning each leg of his trousers and arm of his jacket and shirt to the thick boards in five or six places. It's a noisy business. You take the sanitary towel off his face and pry his mouth open with the nail gun, to make sure he hasn't swallowed his tongue. You turn his face to the side.
Sir Rufus Caius St Leger Carter, to give him his full, wonderfully English title, dribbles saliva onto the dusty boards.
You take off one of his shoes and a sock, then shove the balled sock into his mouth and seal his lips with masking-tape. You hesitate, then you put the barrel of the nail gun onto the right cuff of his jacket, over the point where his upper wrist joins the bones of the arm; the place to put nails where they can't be torn out. You're not sure whether to do this or not; the nails through his clothes will hold him, trapped like an Armani-suited Gulliver; you don't need the nails through his arms, and it seems more elegant to use the nail gun and yet not do the obvious thing. You shake your head and put the nail gun aside.