‘Morning, Jim,’ Cary Oakes said, wiping egg yolk from the corners of his mouth. He gazed out of the window. ‘Grey old day, just the way I remember.’ He picked up the last triangle of fried bread and started working on it. ‘Cops are still out there.’
Jim Stevens looked out of the window. An unmarked car, but unmistakable. A man in the driver’s seat, chewing on a roll.
‘How long do you think they’ll keep it up?’ Oakes asked.
Stevens looked at him. ‘I tried phoning your room.’
‘When?’
‘Fifteen, twenty minutes ago.’
‘I was down here, partner, soaking up the ambience.’
Stevens looked around for a waiter.
‘You help yourself to fruit juices and cereals,’ Oakes explained, nodding towards a self-serve area. ‘Then they take your order for the hot breakfast.’
Stevens looked at Oakes’s greasy plate. ‘After last night, I think I’ll stick to orange juice and coffee.’
Oakes laughed. ‘That’s why I don’t drink.’ Last night he’d been on pints of orange and lemonade: Stevens remembered now. ‘Besides,’ Oakes said, leaning over the table towards the reporter, ‘when I drink I do crazy things.’
‘Save it for the tape machine, Cary.’
When the waiter came, Oakes asked if he could have another cooked breakfast. ‘Just the bits I missed out on last time.’ He studied the menu. ‘Uh, how about fried liver, some onions and maybe some fried haggis and black pudding.’ He patted his stomach, smiling at Stevens. ‘Just today, you understand. The fitness regime recommences tomorrow.’
When the food arrived, Stevens, who’d been knocking back orange juice and trying to steel himself for toast, took one look at the plate and made his excuses. He drifted outside, lit a cigarette. There was a cold breeze blowing in from the docks. Just through the dock gates, he could see the Scot FM building. Turning his head, he saw the cop in the car watching him. He didn’t recognise the face. Through the dining room window, Oakes was tucking in with exaggerated relish, teasing the detective. Smiling, Stevens walked around to the car park, examined the executive motors: Beamers, Rover 600s, an Audi. Noticed something on the windscreen of his own car. At first he took it for a piece of rubbish, gusted there. Then thought maybe it was a flyer for a carpet sale or antique show. But when he unfolded it, he knew who it was from. Two words:
DROP HIM.
Stevens tucked the note in his pocket, headed back to the hotel. Oakes had finished breakfast and was sitting on one of the sofas in reception, flicking through a newspaper: one of the broadsheets.
‘I’m hurt,’ he said. ‘After that scrum at the airport...’
‘Try the tabloids,’ Stevens said, sitting down opposite him. ‘Plenty of coverage there. I think my favourite is “Killer Cary Comes Home”.’
‘Well, isn’t that nice?’ Oakes tossed the paper aside. ‘So when do we get down to work?’
‘Let’s say fifteen minutes in your room?’
‘Fine by me. Before that, though, I’ve another favour to ask.’
‘What?’
‘Someone I want to find. His name’s Archibald.’
‘Plenty of those around.’
‘That’s his surname. First name, Alan.’
‘Alan Archibald? Should I know him?’
Oakes shook his head.
‘Care to tell me who he is?’
‘He was a policeman — maybe still is. Got to be getting on a bit, though.’
‘And?’
Oakes shrugged. ‘For now, that’s all you need. If you’re a good boy, I’ll maybe tell you the story.’
‘For what we’re paying you, we want all the stories.’
‘Just find him, Jim. You’ll make me happy.’
Stevens studied his charge, wondering just who was pulling the strings. He knew it should be him. But all the same...
‘I can make a couple of calls,’ he conceded.
‘That’s my boy.’ Oakes got to his feet. ‘Fifteen minutes in my room. Bring all the papers with you. I like being the day’s news.’
And with that he set off towards the stairs.
14
It was Jamie’s job to fetch milk, papers and breakfast rolls from the shop. He’d turned it into an art, skimming cash by lying about the prices. His mum complained, knew they could be found cheaper elsewhere, but ‘elsewhere’ wasn’t walking distance for Jamie. She didn’t like him straying too far. That was fine: whenever he wanted to wander the city, he had Billy Boy to say he’d been round at his house.
Jamie thought he was pretty smart.
He stopped outside the shop for a cigarette. He didn’t buy them there — it was against the law and the Paki owner wouldn’t let him. Instead, he had a deal with an older kid at school, who supplied packets of twenty in exchange for scud mags. Jamie got the mags from under Cal’s bed. There were so many of them, Cal never seemed to notice. Even in freezing weather, Jamie liked his smoke outside the shop. Early-rise kids on their way to school would stare at him. Friends would sometimes join him. He got noticed.
A neighbour once told his mum, and she’d tried whacking him, but he was super-fast and dodged beneath her arm, spinning out of the door, laughing at her curses. One time she’d really gone for him had been when the school had sent the letter home. He’d been skiving, whole weeks at a time. His mum had belted him purple and sent him crying to his room, face red with shame at his own tears.
He’d probably go to school some time today. Cal was good at forging letters. He’d been doing it so long, the school thought his signature was their mum’s, and when she’d signed some note about going on a school trip, the headmaster had quizzed Jamie about its origins. He’d even picked up the phone to talk to Jamie’s mum, which had made Jamie smile: they didn’t have a telephone in the flat. About two dozen ashtrays, most of them from holidays or nicked from pubs, but no telephone. Cal had a mobile, and that’s what they used in emergencies — when Cal was in a mood to let them.
That was the problem with Cal. He could be great... and then he could lose the rag. Boom: like a bottle exploding against a wall. Or he’d get all quiet and lock himself in his room and refuse to write notes to the school. Jamie would go out and get him something, maybe nick it from a shop: peace offerings for some wrong he hadn’t done. On good days, Cal would rub knuckles hard against Jamie’s head, tell him he was the peacemaker: Jamie liked the sound of that. Cal would say he was the United Nations, sustaining an uneasy truce. He got stuff like that from the papers: ‘United Nations’; ‘uneasy truce’. Jamie asked him once: ‘If nations are supposed to be united, how come we want to split away?’
‘How do you mean, pal?’
‘Split from England.’
Cal had folded the newspaper on his lap, flicked ash into an ashtray on the arm of his chair. ‘Because we don’t like the English.’
‘How no?’
‘Because they’re English.’ An edge to Cal’s voice, telling Jamie to back off.
‘We’ve got cousins in England, haven’t we? We don’t hate them, do we, Cal?’
‘Look...’
‘And fighting the Germans, we fought with the English, didn’t we?’
‘Look, Jamie, we want to run our own country, OK? That’s all it is. Scotland’s a country, isn’t it?’ He’d waited for Jamie’s nod. ‘Then who should be in charge of it? London or Edinburgh?’
‘Edinburgh, Cal.’
‘Right then.’ Picking up the paper: discussion adjourned.