— Heard ye wir back in toon, Tyrone says, without looking at him. — Sorry for your loss. Losing a kid, that’s a bad yin.
Frank Begbie remains silent. One. . two. . three. . He watches Tyrone’s pattern of breathing. You can tell a lot about somebody from the way they breathe. Power inhales his air evenly through his nose, but then suddenly gulps at a big mouthful, like a shark rising to the surface to swallow prey. Some might see only aggression and strength in that motion, but Frank Begbie registers weakness. It is maybe indicative of an anxiety. Or perhaps just too much coke has gone up his hooter.
He looks at a cable snaking out from Tyrone’s electronic cigarette lighter. His pulse rises. Surely not. — That phone charger, he ventures, pulling out his mobile device, — will it fit ma iPhone here?
— Dinnae see why not. . Tyrone looks at the connection. — Aye, plug it in.
— Barry, Frank says, instantly aware it has been years since he’s used that word, as he snaps the plug into the phone socket with a satisfying click. The device starts to throb, a sliver of red soon visible at the edge of the battery icon.
— So an artist, then, Frank? Tyrone turns to him with a jesting twinkle in his eye. — Ah’m no gaunny bullshit ye wi aw that ah-kent-ye-hud-it-in-ye shite. I’d never have seen that yin coming in a million years!
Frank Begbie responds with a measured smile. — It surprised me tae.
— Heard you moved in wi some American lassie. Art therapist, Tyrone probes.
Franco feels his spine stiffen. He sucks in a steady, slow breath. Always the way with these cunts. Ferreting for a weakness. He senses his stomach soft against Melanie’s naked back. One. . two. . three. . — Still at the same place?
— Naw, new hoose, up the Grange, Tyrone says, cursing a driver in a slow-moving Mini in front of them.
It is to the Grange they head. Tyrone drives with scowling impatience through the traffic, to the south side, and a leafy neighbourhood, where, behind prodigious stone walls, gravel driveways lead to grand villas. He stops at an enormous sandstone house that exudes wealth. Several cars are parked outside a garage, some covered in custom sheeting, indicating all belong to him. Tyrone was always daft about cars, Frank Begbie recalls.
Tyrone cuts the engine and unplugs Franco’s phone, which has stopped at 21 per cent charge, the battery icon barely in the green zone. The wallpaper has fired up, showing a picture of a smiling Melanie, with prominent white teeth of the sort almost unknown in Scotland. — Nice, Tyrone smiles, handing the phone back to Franco. — The missus?
— Aye.
— So is she still an art therapist, then?
Melanie is now employed part-time at the university, but mostly works on her own art projects. But this is none of Tyrone’s business. — Aye, Frank Begbie says, following him into a grand hallway that is luxuriously furnished, with paintings adorning most of the wall space. Franco doesn’t recognise the artwork, but can tell from the quality of the frames that what is inside them will have substantial value.
— You’ll appreciate this, being an artist, Frank, Tyrone says, with a self-styled raconteur’s delight, as he leads him through to a large drawing room, with a dining area to the rear, and two monumental, ornate chandeliers above. And there are more paintings. — One ay the biggest private collections of Pre-Raphaelite-influenced Scottish art. This one is a David Scott, and these two are by William Dyce. And I’ve got these original Murdo Mathieson Taits. He sweeps his hand over a wall festooned with several canvases of figures and landscapes. — No bad for a boy fae Niddrie Mains!
— Dinnae really git art, Franco says dismissively.
— But you’re an artist, man! Ye make your living by –
— Ever listened tae Chinese Democracy, Guns n’ Roses?
— What?
— A lot ay people say it’s overproduced. That it cannae be spoken aboot in the same breath as the likes ay Appetite for Destruction. I think that’s shite. Frank Begbie looks challengingly at his old boss. — You have tae use the production values available at the time.
— Dinnae ken that one, Tyrone says irritably.
— Check it oot, Franco smiles. — It comes highly recommended, and he moves over to the dining table, running his hand along the polished sheen of its surface. — Nice. Mahogany?
— Aye, Tyrone nods, gesturing at Frank to sit down, and he accordingly flops back into a well-upholstered couch. Tyrone then lowers his own bulk, with surprising daintiness, into the armchair opposite.
Frank Begbie looks around for traces that might help him ascertain who else lives here. Tyrone had been married, with grown-up children, yet there is no evidence of any cohabitee in this grand room. — So how’s things? You still wi what’s-her-name? he fishes.
The face on the man across from him barely registers anything, no indication that Franco has spoken, let alone that the subject is off-limits. Then Tyrone’s eyes suddenly narrow. — You know that your boy. . Sean, he says, stretching out the word to make it sound like yawn, — Sean was mixed up with that wee cunt Anton Miller?
— No.
— And this bird, Frances, Frances Flanagan, they say that she was there on the night he got done.
This is certainly news. Two new names. Anton Miller. Frances Flanagan. The police hadn’t confirmed anyone was with Sean, yet this makes sense; somebody had tipped off the ambulance, even if it was too late. Maybe the girl had been there, and had let in the murderer, not knowing what he was going to do, then panicked when he’d killed Sean, and perhaps ran away and called the police. Or maybe she’d set him up. Or even stabbed him herself. Yet Frank Begbie is suspicious. He’s heard this type of talk before, and it just isn’t in Davie Power’s nature to do good turns. — So why ye telling me this?
— It’s no just about old times’ sake. Tyrone shakes his head slowly, then cracks a smile of genuine delight. — And I won’t insult ye by even pretending that’s the case. See, I owe several bad turns to that wee Miller cunt. In fact, I wish nothing but a shower of shite to come down on him. You do bad very well, Frank, Tyrone says, trying to gauge Frank Begbie’s reaction. — He’s a nasty little cunt. Shooters, the lot. Cowardly drive-by gun-downs in the street. That’s not on, he says, shaking his head again. — And he’s behind your laddie’s death, as sure as night follows day. Sean was serving up for him. Drugs. So we have a mutual interest, he contends, rising and heading to an opulent-looking marble cocktail bar built into a corner of the lounge.
— If some wee cunt was bugging you that much, Franco says, watching him pick up a dimpled glass bottle of whisky from a shelf behind the bar, — you’d have done him by now. Aw they wide cunts that came through fae the schemes over the years, Pilton, Sighthill, Niddrie, Gilmerton. . you’ve done them all, he says, thinking about an old mate of his, Donny Laing, who had publicly challenged Tyrone and had then vanished. — What’s different about this boy?
— Miller is the epitome of cunning. Tyrone’s shaven dome bobs. — A whole new breed of schemie, a proper gangster instead of a mindless thug. He gazes at Franco a second too long. — He has brains and knows how tae play politics and build alliances. He’s united all the north Edinburgh mobs; Drylaw, Muirhoose, Pilton, Royston, Granton and even the new-build scheme part of Leith, doon by Newhaven, Tyrone explains, lowering the whisky bottle to the marble-topped bar.