The Bullet Trick

'Mum, you should have buzzed my mobile. I would have come down and got her.

William, this is my mother, Margaret.'

Margaret’s voice was on the edge of politeness.

'We’ve already met.'

'I was just giving Eilidh a hand with the chairs. Is this Grace?' Suddenly I felt awkward.

'I’ve not seen her yet.'

Margaret cradled the child close, her hand supporting its head.

'She’s just dropped off.'

'Give her here, Mum, she’s getting too big to carry any distance.'

Margaret kissed her granddaughter’s crown and for a moment I thought she was going to refuse, but then she passed Grace to Eilidh.

'There was no way I could manage that buggy up the stairs, I told you when you bought it that it was too heavy.'

'I wanted something sturdy.'

The two women had the same strained look round the eyes and the same sharp defiant chins. There was no doubting they were mother and daughter. I said, 'I’ll nip down and get the buggy for you.'

Margaret looked like she’d rather reject my offer, but Eilidh smiled gratefully.

'Would you mind, William? Then I can put her down in it.'

'No problem.'

When I returned, Margaret was sitting in one of the far rows of chairs with the baby on her lap.

'Thanks, William,' Eilidh’s voice was low and amused. 'They’re both knackered.'

We chatted a while about arrangements for the gig and then I said, 'Do you remember I asked you about old evidence?'

Eilidh nodded.

'Of course.'

'Well, if you had something like that who would you go to?'

'My lawyer, which in your case is me.'

Eilidh smiled. I thought again how beautiful she was and was tempted.

'I’d rather keep you out of it.'

'Then it’s obvious, the police.'

'Sure, but is there anyone in particular? Especially if it was something a bit unusual.'

Eilidh raised her eyebrows.

'You’re intriguing me, William.' She thought for a moment. 'You’d want someone experienced, but with a bit of imagination. After a while there’s nothing policemen won’t believe given the right evidence, they’ve seen so many odd things, but sometimes you find they can’t be bothered. They’ve burnt out.' She paused. 'I’d probably go to Blunt, the guy who interviewed you the other week.'

'Why would I want to deal with that cunt?'

Margaret was too far away to hear our conversation, but maybe some instinct alerted her to the nature of it, or maybe she could lip-read swear words. She looked up in her chair and called over, 'Eilidh, have you almost finished?'

'Just a minute, mum.' Eilidh turned back to me. 'He is a cunt but he’s a straight cunt.

Take your lawyer’s advice. If you won’t show me, show Blunt. I happen to know he’s back on nights this week.'

The voice came again from the back of the hall.

'Eilidh.'

'Whoops.' She took the buggy from me. 'I’d better go. Good luck.'

And she turned and ran towards her mother and child.

I waited a long time until Inspector Blunt walked into his local. He was alone, wearing the same tired suit and weary expression he’d worn the last time we’d met. He stepped up to the bar without looking at me, though I knew I’d been marked as soon as he came in. The barmaid set Blunt’s drink in front of him without waiting to be asked. I let him have his first swallow then joined him at the bar. Blunt looked at my not-so-fresh orange juice and asked, 'You signed the pledge?'

'No, I’ve made a resolution. No strong drink till after 8.30 in the morning.'

Blunt raised his pint to his lips.

'Aye, well, some of us have already done a full day’s work.' He sucked the froth from his moustache. 'Been bedding down with any winos lately?'

'No. You?'

'Only the wife.' He pulled out his cigarettes and lit up without offering me one. 'I thought I said you weren’t welcome round here.'

'If I listened to everyone who told me that I’d never leave the house.'

'That might not be such a bad thing.'

I lit my own cigarette.

'I’ve got something that might be of interest to you.'

'So come and see me in shop hours.'

'It’s a bit delicate.'

'There are days I feel like a nurse at the clap clinic. Everyone wanting to show me their sores.' He looked at me through the smoke of his cigarette as if trying to make up his mind about something. 'Jesus Christ.' The policeman shook his head. 'OK then, what’s the worst that can happen?' He laughed and I wondered if this was his first stop on the way home or if he had a bottle in his locker to ease the pain. 'Just give me a chance to order my breakfast.' Blunt leaned across the bar. 'Mary, goan throw us a packet of dry roasted over.'

'Not fancy a nice fry-up on the house, Mr Blunt?'

'Naw, hen, the wife’ll have mine waiting when I get back.' He put the peanuts in his suit pocket, and straightened up muttering, 'Will she fuck.' He looked at me. 'Remind me of your name again.'

'William Wilson.'

'That’s right. Down-among-the-dead-men Wilson. Right then, Mr Wilson, show me what you’ve got.'

'Can we go somewhere a bit more private?'

'As long as you promise not to slip into something more comfortable.'

We settled ourselves at a table with the kind of logistics favoured by teenage dope smokers, out of sight of the bar and away from the gents and the puggy machine. Blunt took another inch off his pint.

'Right,' he spanned his hand from the bottom of the glass to where the dark liquid ended. 'I’ll give you this long.' I calculated it as two and a half seconds at his current rate of drinking, but there was no point in arguing. I reached into my pocket, took out a transparent plastic bag holding the envelope containing Montgomery’s photographs and put it on the table. Blunt looked at the envelope, but made no effort to pick it up. 'Tell me about it.'

I started to regret not buying myself a short, but I took a deep breath and began.

'Twenty years ago a woman named Gloria Noon disappeared under mysterious circumstances. She never turned up, neither did her body. Her husband was chief suspect, but nothing was ever proven. This is a photograph that shows him with a guy who was then a junior officer and is now a recently retired chief inspector in the Met. They’re standing next to what I believe could be her grave. The policeman is married to the sister of the murdered woman.'

Blunt snorted.

'I don’t know what I expected but it certainly wasn’t that.'

'Will you look at them?'

'Hold your horses. A few questions first.' I nodded, trying to keep a lid on my impatience. 'Question number one, why land them in my lap?'

'I asked around, you’ve got a reputation for being straight.'

Blunt rubbed a hand over his face.

'And this is my reward I suppose? OK, question number two, what makes you think it’s a gravesite?'

'I don’t know, the look of the place, the two men standing there holding an edition of the newspaper from the day after she disappeared. That and…'

'And?'

'And the policeman in the photo is extremely eager to get a hold of it.'

'Oh lovely. Is this documented evidence?'

'No.'

'And how did you come across it?'

'I’d rather not say.'

'I see.' He paused, staring at me as he had probably stared at hundreds of men across tables in police interview rooms. 'OK, we’ll come back to that if we need to. Why aren’t you giving it to this eager detective?'

'I think it implicates him.'

Blunt looked at my untouched orange juice.

'Are you going to drink that?'

The sour liquid looked set solid inside the glass.

'No, probably not.'

'Well, get yourself a proper drink and another one of these for me while you’re at it.'

I looked at the envelope and he said ‘Leave that here, it’ll be safe enough for the meantime.'

'No offence but I’m a conjurer by trade. I know how easy it is to make things disappear.'

I reached out to take it and Blunt put his glass on the envelope.