Two-Way Split (29 page)

"They'll come. Even without Carol's I.D., they'll discover her name and connect her to you."

"We have different surnames. It'll take them a while."

"Suppose we go inside. Then what?"

Robin looked at his watch. "When Eddie arrives at three thirty, you'll be hiding. I'll invite him in as if nothing unusual has happened. After a while, you jump out and confront him."

"He has a gun. What if he shoots me?"

"I'll get it off him first."

Don said, "What then?"

"I'll kill him."

"No."

"Why not? Look, we can drive him at gunpoint to some secluded spot and get rid of him. We both benefit."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"It just isn't right, Robin."

"You're an honest man, Don. I admire that." He tried to keep a straight face. "You want to beat a confession out of him?"

"He won't confess."

"I hope not." Robin saw Don's Adam's apple slide up and down. "He killed my wife and set you up." Robin smacked the steering wheel with his palm. "We're in this together."

"Till the end." Don touched his head and grimaced. "Like real brothers."

Robin opened the car door. The wind instantly chilled him. He stepped outside and slammed the door shut. Seconds later Don closed the passenger side door. Robin led the way to his flat, apologising for the unsightly scaffolding. He looked up. Already the light was fading. He walked over to his doorway and talked about Edinburgh's problem with falling masonry while he jiggled his key in the lock. Don clapped his gloved hands.

Robin pushed the door open. The stair lights hadn't come on yet. Robin and Don slid through almost total darkness towards the stairs, where trickles of silvery light ran down the steps. On the first floor landing pools of dusk gathered in the corner. Up another flight, the light was brighter, a shade darker than the light of a full moon.

Robin stuck his key in the lock.

Footsteps rushed towards him and something heavy slammed into his back. His face smacked into the door. His nose hurt. His lower lip started to bleed. He nearly dropped the key. "Eddie?"

He heard Don say, "Who are you?" Not Eddie, then. They'd already met. Don said, "Okay, okay, okay."

Something cold pressed against the back of his neck. A voice whispered in his ear, "Open the door." The voice sounded familiar. He couldn't place it, though.

He expected Don to run, but he hadn't moved. Maybe he'd frozen. Poor old Don, getting into even more trouble. Whoever this joker was, he wasn't playing for fun.

Robin turned the key and the door swung open.

"Turn on the light," the voice whispered.

When Robin flicked the switch, bright light flooded the hallway and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust after the darkness in the stairwell. If there had been a chance of exploiting his assailant's surprise, Robin blew it when he turned to look at him. Recognition was instant. Hilda Pearce's son was hard to forget. Over-developed arms, cropped hair, boots, jeans. He'd changed the t-shirt. This one wasn't covered in blood.

He had a gun and it was pointed at Robin.

Pearce closed the door with his foot. "Be a good boy and sit down."

Don said, "Who the fuck are you?"

"You know who I am."

Robin said, "I don't know who you think I am but you've got the wrong person."

"You're Robin Greaves. This is his flat. You have his keys. I might not have been able to see your face behind that balaclava, but I remember your voice."

Robin's thoughts were flying around his head like a flock of swallows. He reached out and grabbed one by the wing. It almost got away. "I'm his brother. That's why we sound alike. Tell him, Don."

Pearce said, "Who are you talking to?"

Don said, "Me."

Pearce said, "Stop this shit. Are you Robin Greaves or not?"

 "Why do you want to know?"

"Because I don't want to kill the wrong person."

3:18 pm

Kennedy stood on the planks that formed the lowest level of the scaffolding outside Robin Greaves's tenement building. His head was spinning and he felt sick. Having managed to shimmy up a pole, swing his leg onto the flooring and drag himself onto the first platform, he now wished to pish that he hadn't. He sat down, back pressed against the tenement wall, knees drawn up to his chest, and took regular, deep, slow breaths. There was no safety mesh. Not even a series of planks lying lengthways along the edge. Which would have been a very false kind of security, anyway. He guessed scaffolders lined up planks like that to stop their tools rolling over the side, because an eight-inch high wall of end-to-end planks of wood certainly wasn't going to stop a body plummeting to the pavement. Okay, it was only a seven feet drop, but when he'd glanced over the side earlier, seven feet seemed a hell of a long way down. And he had to get higher. Much higher.

He shouldn't be here. It was a bad idea. What was he thinking, climbing scaffolding outside a block of flats where someone was likely to be murdered? That was asking for shagging trouble. Jesus pish. Well, he'd handed in his notice, which was something to be positive about. Mind you, it was either resign or get fired. Immediately after the meeting with Pearce – where Kennedy had given the big tosser all the information he needed and got absolutely SFA in return – Kennedy turned to his boss and said, "I quit." It felt good, for all of a couple of seconds.

His boss said, "See you."

Kennedy couldn't leave it there. He had to have the last word. "I'll be in touch. About my wages."

His boss had his hand over his nose. Well, to be accurate, his ex-boss had his hand over his nose. When he nodded, his eyes screwed shut and he shrieked in pain. After a moment he said, "I'll kill that bastard."

Kennedy laughed in his face.

He wasn't laughing now. He struggled to his feet, which was quite an achievement under the circumstances. Next task was to free the ladder, each leg of which was lashed to three separate upright poles. Only then could he risk climbing up to the next level. Trying not to look down, he started to work on the ropes.

They had been tied with a special kind of knot and it took him a minute to discover how best to unravel it. It didn't help that his fingers were about as dextrous as frozen sausages. It was hard, painful work, but, eventually, he sussed it out. After the first one, the rest were relatively easy. Nonetheless, it took a couple of minutes to untie all six bindings.

He dragged the ladder into position underneath the entry to the next level. Lifting the ladder, he pushed it until the top poked through the hole above him. Propped against the side, the ladder seemed steady enough. He let go and wasted a couple of minutes watching a young couple on the other side of the street. Eyes focussed on the pavement in front of them, they were lugging a dozen carrier bags homewards. They didn't take their eyes off their feet. Around here, to do so was to step in dogshit. They disappeared round a corner and Kennedy turned his attention to a Ford Escort van, back door tied shut with orange string. Well, it looked orange. Fifteen minutes ago, the sky had clouded over and the light wasn't too good. The colour had faded from everything and it looked like it was going to rain, maybe even snow.

He had to do this. And he had to do it now. He couldn't postpone it any longer.

The top of the ladder was solid enough. The foot of the ladder was a problem, though. There was nothing to stop it slipping when he put his weight on it and there was nobody around to ask to steady it.
Here goes.

When he set his foot on the bottom rung, the ladder tilted to the right. Instantly he withdrew his foot. He repositioned the ladder until it felt more secure and tried again. This time it didn't budge under his weight. He moved his other foot onto the rung above. He was breathing rapidly now and his fingers were gripping the ladder far too tightly. He told himself to calm down. He wasn't that high, yet. Even if he fell, which he wouldn't, he couldn't hurt himself. Not unless he fell awkwardly and landed on his head or something, in which case he'd probably break his neck or his skull or his spine and probably die or live the rest of his life in a wheelchair.

He forced himself up onto the next rung. And then the next. A gust of wind lifted his hair off his forehead. It bounced back. Lifted. Bounced back. He no longer felt cold. Sweat was stinging his eyes. If anything, he was too hot and the wind helped cool him down. He leaned his head against the ladder. Two more steps and his head would break through to the next level. One.
Yes.
And two.
Come on.
He didn't look down. Why should it be such a struggle
not
to look? Yes. He'd done it. He was on the next level. Only from the neck up, admittedly.

He wondered if his boss, shit, ex-boss, had gone to hospital this time. Kennedy hadn't hung around to find out. After his ex-boss – fuck it, call the man by his name – Gray's ridiculous threat on Pearce's life, Kennedy had laughed all the way downstairs and out the salmon pink main door. Out on the street he decided to give himself one more shot at the money.

Which was why he was here, climbing a shaky ladder fifteen feet up in the air, with another twenty feet to go.

Greaves's address was the only information Pearce had been given. There was no need to tail him, since he'd have to turn up here at some point. It was just a matter of waiting and Kennedy had lots of practice at that. Sure enough, Pearce had made an appearance shortly before two o'clock. He tried Greaves's buzzer and made a few phone calls. He hung around for a while, disappeared for twenty minutes and returned with a bunch of flowers. Then somebody let him into the building and he hadn't reappeared since. Greaves had got out of his Clio just a few minutes ago.

This was Kennedy's big chance. He had to do it. He owed it to himself.

He dragged himself up the last step and fell onto the wooden planks. This high up, he knew he'd never get back down. He had to carry on. If he didn't manage to get into Greaves's flat, he'd be stuck up here forever. He turned round, grabbed hold of the ladder and pulled it through the opening. He half-carried, half-dragged it towards the gap above his head. He turned the ladder upright and placed it in position. Only when he set foot on the bottom rung did he notice he was directly outside someone's window. Fortunately, the light wasn't on. But could he assume that no one was home? He started to climb, fast. He got to the top, dragged the ladder up after him and lay still, panting like a dog on a treadmill. He looked over the side and nearly fainted.

He didn't remember those hardboiled private eyes ever having to climb scaffolding. But, in the hypothetical event of his fictional heroes having to do so, he was sure they'd do it gracefully and without any fuss. And, no doubt, without the aid of a ladder. Inspirational characters who met all challenges with a stubborn, arrogant self-confidence.  Kennedy felt deflated and wholly incompetent in comparison. He thought he might just stay here for a while, at least until his bowels stopped feeling quite so loose.

What spurred him on was the sound of gunfire. It came from above. At first he thought it was Pearce. After a while, he realised it was unlikely that, supposing Pearce had a gun, he would have quite that many bullets. And supposing he had, at some point he'd need to stop and reload. The shots were from a TV, of course, and it sounded like they were coming from a room on the second floor, which was where Greaves lived.

One more flight. Quick sprint up the ladder and that was it. Easy.

Once again he positioned the ladder. Again it tilted when he put his foot on it. He repositioned it. Still it tilted. He countered the imbalance by placing his weight on the left side of each rung. Five steps up, the ladder started to slide backwards. It only moved an inch or so. Hurriedly, he stepped onto the next rung. And the next. The ladder slid underneath him. His foot missed the rung. He looked up and watched in horror as the ladder scraped away from the edge where it had been resting. He flung out a hand. His fingers grabbed cold metal as the ladder clattered to the floor below. He swung by one hand, slowly rotating. His legs kicked out in the hope of locating a solid surface with his feet, but all they hit was air. He launched his other hand upwards. Couldn't find the vertical pole his right hand clung to. He tried again. No joy. His wrist hurt. If he could hold on until he stopped spinning, he might be able to pull himself up, grab hold with his other hand, swing a leg up, maybe hook it over the pole. He just had to hold on. He kept spinning and his fingers were growing numb. He was slipping.
Don't look down.
He looked down.
F
ucking hell.
He was dangling over the edge. There was nothing but space between him and the pavement. If he could just hold on a little bit longer.