Set in Darkness (34 page)

‘Did Mr Hastings have an office?’

Alicia nodded. ‘In Canongate, not far from Alasdair’s flat.’

‘Can you remember the address?’

She recited it, seeming pleased that she still had the ability.

‘And his home?’ Siobhan was writing in her notebook.

‘A flat in the New Town,’ Lorna said. But again it was her mother who gave the address.

The hotel’s downstairs dining room was quiet at lunchtime. Diners either preferred the bistro-style restaurant on the ground floor or else didn’t know of this second restaurant’s existence. The décor was minimalist, oriental, and the elegantly set tables had plenty of space between
them. A discreet place for a conversation. Cafferty got to his feet, shook Barry Hutton’s hand.

‘Uncle Ger, sorry I’m late.’

Cafferty shrugged, while a flunky helped Hutton into his chair. ‘Long time since anyone called me that,’ he said with a smile. ‘It’s not like it’s true.’

‘It’s what I always called you.’

Cafferty nodded, examining the well-dressed young man before him. ‘But look at you now, Barry. Doing so well for yourself.’

It was Hutton’s turn to shrug. Menus were being handed out.

‘Any drinks, gentlemen?’ the waiter asked.

‘Calls for champagne, I think,’ Cafferty said. He winked at Hutton. ‘And this is on me, so no arguing.’

‘I wasn’t about to. It’s just that I’ll stick to water, if that’s all right.’

The smile stuck to Cafferty’s face. ‘Whatever you want, Barry.’

Hutton turned to the waiter. ‘Vittel, if you have it. Evian otherwise.’

The waiter bowed his head, turned to Cafferty. ‘And will you still be requiring the champagne, sir?’

‘Didn’t hear me say otherwise, did you?’

The waiter made his little bow again and headed off.

‘Vittel, Evian . . .’ Cafferty chuckled and shook his head. ‘Christ, if Bryce could see you now.’ Hutton was busy adjusting his shirt cuffs. ‘Rough morning, was it?’

Hutton looked up, and Cafferty knew something had happened. But the younger man was shaking his head. ‘I don’t drink at lunchtime, that’s all.’

‘Then you’ll have to let me buy you dinner.’

Hutton looked around the restaurant. There were only two other diners in the place, seated at a far corner and deep in what looked like a business conversation. Hutton studied the faces, but didn’t recognise them. He turned back to his host.

‘You’re staying here?’

Cafferty nodded.

‘Did you sell the house?’

Cafferty nodded again.

‘And made a fair bit on it, I’d guess.’ Hutton looked at him.

‘Money’s not everything though, is it, Barry? That’s one thing I’ve learned.’

‘You mean good health? Happiness?’

Cafferty pressed his palms together. ‘You’re young still. Wait a few years and maybe you’ll see what I mean.’

Hutton nodded, not really sure what the older man was getting at. ‘You got out pretty early,’ he commented.

‘Time off for good behaviour.’ Cafferty sat back as one waiter produced a basket of bread rolls, and another asked if he wanted the champagne chilled or served slightly cool.

‘Chilled,’ Cafferty said, looking at his guest. ‘So, Barry, business is good, eh? That’s what I hear.’

‘I’m not complaining.’

‘And how’s your uncle?’

‘Fine, as far as I know.’

‘You ever see him?’

‘He won’t set foot back here.’

‘I know that. I thought maybe you headed out there. Holidays and stuff.’

‘I can’t remember my last holiday.’

‘All work and no play, Barry,’ Cafferty counselled.

Hutton looked at him. ‘It’s not all work.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

Their food order was taken, and the drinks arrived. They toasted one another, Hutton refusing the offer of ‘just one wee glass’. He took his water neat: no ice, no lemon.

‘What about you?’ he asked at last. ‘Not many people come straight from the Bar-L to a place like this.’

‘Let’s just say I’m comfortable,’ Cafferty said with a wink.

‘Of course, you kept a lot of your business interests going while you were away?’

Cafferty heard the quotation marks around business interests. He nodded slowly. ‘Lot of people would be disappointed if I hadn’t.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’ Hutton tore open one of the tiny, glazed rolls.

‘Which brings me to our little lunch here,’ Cafferty went on.

‘A business lunch then?’ Hutton asked. When Cafferty nodded, he felt a little more comfortable. It wasn’t just a meal any more; he wasn’t wasting his time.

Jerry’s face recoiled from the slap. He was getting used to slaps recently. But this wasn’t Jayne.

This was Nic.

He felt his cheek beginning to sting, knew the imprint of a hand would be forming there, pinkish red against his pale skin. Nic’s hand would be stinging, too: small consolation.

They were in Nic’s Cosworth. Jerry had just got in. It had been Nic who’d called – Monday night – and Jerry had jumped at the chance of escape. Jayne was in front of the telly, arms folded, eyes drooping. They’d eaten their tea watching the news: sausage, beans and egg. No chips: the freezer was bare, and neither of them felt like taking the trip to the chip shop. That was when the argument had started.

Ya useless lump of
. . .

It’s you needs to get off your fat arse, no’ me
. . .

Then the phone call. The phone was Jayne’s side of the couch, but she ignored it.

‘Two guesses who that’ll be,’ was all she said. He was hoping she’d be wrong, that it would be her mum. Then he could say, ‘That’s you quietened,’ as he handed over the receiver.

Because if it was Nic . . . Nic on a Monday night, he never usually went out Mondays . . . that could probably mean only one thing.

And now here they were together in the car, and Nic was having a go at him.

‘See that stunt you pulled, you ever do something as stupid as that again . . .’

‘What stunt?’

‘Phoning me at work, ya donkey!’

Jerry thought he was in for another slap, but Nic punched him in the side instead. Not too hard: he was calming down a bit.

‘I wasn’t thinking.’

Nic snorted. ‘When did you ever?’ The engine was already turning over. He slammed the car into gear and got a squeal from the tyres as they sped off. No indicator or mirror; a car behind tooted its horn three or four times. Nic checked the rearview, saw an old guy, all by himself. So he gave him the finger and a mouthful of abuse.

When did you ever?

Jerry’s mind was working back, forming answers. Hadn’t
he
been the one who’d done most of the shoplifting? And the one who bought them their booze when they were under age, because he was that bit taller and older-looking than Nic. Nic: smooth, shiny face, still like a kid’s even now; thick dark hair always cut and styled. Nic was the one the girls went for, Jerry hanging back to see if any of them would find him worth talking to.

Nic at college, telling Jerry stories of shagging marathons. Even then, even back then there’d been glimpses:
she didn’t fancy that, so I slapped her till she did
. . .
had her wrists held in one hand and I was pumping away like
.

It was as if the world deserved his violence, and would accept it because in every other way he was just fine, just perfect. The night Nic had met Catriona . . . he’d given Jerry a slap that night, too. They’d been to a couple of bars – Madogs, trendy but pricey, Princess Margaret was supposed to’ve drunk there, and the Shakespeare, next to the Usher Hall. That’s where they’d met Cat and her friends, who were off to see some play at the Lyceum, something to do with horses. Nic knew one of the girls, introduced himself to the group, Jerry mute but keen
beside him. And Nic had got talking to this other girl, Cat, short for Catriona. Not a bad looker, but not the best of the bunch either.

‘Are you at Napier?’ someone asked Jerry.

‘Naw,’ he said, ‘I’m in the electronics business.’ That was his line. They were supposed to think he was a games designer, maybe ran his own software company. But it never seemed to work. They asked questions he couldn’t answer, until he laughed and admitted he drove a fork-lift. There were smiles at the news, but not much more in the way of conversation.

When the group headed off to their play, Nic nudged Jerry. ‘Solid gold, pal,’ he said. ‘Cat’s meeting me after for a drink.’

‘Like her then?’

‘She’s all right.’ A wary look. ‘She is, eh?’

‘Oh aye, she’s rare.’

Another nudge. ‘And she’s related to Bryce Callan. That’s her surname: Callan.’

‘So?’

Nic going wide-eyed. ‘Never heard of Bryce Callan? Fuck me, Jerry, he runs the place.’

Jerry looking around the pub. ‘This place?’

‘Ya tube, he runs
Edinburgh
.’

Jerry nodding, even though he still didn’t understand.

Later, a few more boozers down the road, he’d asked if he could go with Nic when he met Catriona.

‘Don’t be wet.’

‘What am I supposed to do then?’

They were walking along the pavement, and Nic had stopped suddenly, facing him, his eyes glowering.

‘I’ll tell you what would be a start – you growing up. Everything’s changed, we’re not kids now.’

‘I know that. I’m the one with the job, the one that’s getting married.’

And Nic had slapped him. Not hard, but the act itself shocking Jerry rigid.

‘Time to grow up, pal. You might have a job but everywhere I take you, you just stand there like a drink of fucking water.’ Grabbing Jerry’s face. ‘Study me, Jer, watch how I do things. You might start growing up.’

Growing up
.

Jerry wondered if this was what growing up brought you to: the two of them, in the Cosworth, and, it being a Monday night, out on the hunt. There were Monday-night singles clubs, usually catering to a slightly older clientele. Not that Nic minded what age the women were. He just wanted one of them. Jerry risked a glance at his friend. So good-looking . . . why did he need to do it this way? What was his problem?

But Jerry knew the answer to that. Cat was the problem. The problem of Cat was there at every bloody turn.

‘Where we going then?’ he asked.

‘The van’s parked in Lochrin Place.’ Nic’s voice was cold. Jerry was feeling the boak again in his stomach, like he was breathing bile. But the thing was . . . once they got started, he knew it would be joined by a completely different feeling: he’d get excited, same as Nic. Hunters, the pair of them.

‘Treat it like a game,’ Nic had said the first time.

Treat it like a game.

And his heart would beat faster, groin tingling. With the gloves and the ski mask, and sitting in the Bedford van, he was a different person. Not Jerry Lister any more, but someone out of a comic book or a film, someone stronger and scarier. Someone you had to fear. It was almost enough to tamp down the dry boak. Almost.

The van belonged to a guy Nic knew. Nic told the bloke he needed it now and again for a bit of moonlighting, helping a friend shift second-hand stuff around. The bloke took two tenners from him and didn’t want any other details. Nic had these licence plates, got them from a scrapyard. He’d fix them on with wire, covering the real
plates. The van was rusty, a dull white respray. It didn’t stand out at all, not when the streets were dark and cold and you were hurrying home, maybe a bit the worse for wear.

The worse for wear was what Nic wanted. They’d park near the nightclub, pay their money and go in. Plenty of guys turning up in pairs, nothing suspicious about them, nothing to mark them out from anyone else. Then Nic would pick out the tables with parties at them. He seemed to be able to tell which ones were singles clubs. One time, he’d even got one of the women up for a dance. Jerry had asked him afterwards, wasn’t that risky?

‘What’s life without a bit of risk?’

Tonight, they drove around a bit first. Nic knew the club would be at its best come ten o’clock. The post-pub drunks wouldn’t have arrived yet, but the singles clubs would be in full swing. Most of them had work in the morning, couldn’t make too late a night of it. They’d stay till eleven, maybe, then start heading home. And by then, Nic would have picked one or two. He always had a reserve, just in case. Some nights it didn’t work out; the women all headed off together or with partners, none of them branching off on her own.

Other nights, it worked to perfection.

Jerry stood at the edge of the dance floor, lager in hand. Already he could feel the surge in him, the dark excited tide. But he was twitchy, too, never knew when some friend of his or Jayne’s would come wandering up.
Jayne know you’re here, does she
? No, she didn’t. Didn’t even ask any more. He’d get home at one or two in the morning, and she’d be asleep. Even if he woke her up coming in, she wouldn’t say much.

‘Hammered again?’ Something like that.

He’d go back through to the living room, sit there with the remote in his hand, staring at the TV without switching it on. Sitting in the dark, where nobody could see him, nobody point an accusing finger.

It was you, it was you, it was you
.

Not true. It was Nic. It was always Nic.

He stood by the dance floor and held his drink in a hand just barely shaking. And inside he was praying:
Don’t let us get lucky tonight!

But then Nic was coming towards him, a weird gleam in his eyes.

‘I don’t believe it, Jer. I
do not
believe it!’

‘Calm down, man. What’s up?’

Nic was running his hands through his hair. ‘
She’s
here!’

‘Who?’ Looking around, wondering if anyone was listening. No chance: the music was just this side of the pain barrier. Orbital, it sounded like. Jerry kept up with the latest bands.

Nic was shaking his head. ‘She didn’t see me.’ His mind was working now. ‘We could do this.’ Looking at Jerry. ‘We could
do
this.’

‘Aw, Jesus, it’s not Cat, is it?’

‘Don’t be dense. It’s that slut Yvonne!’

‘Yvonne?’

‘The one Cat was with that night. The one who took her along.’

Jerry was shaking his head. ‘No way. No way, man.’