A Deviant Breed (20 page)

Dunbar hated animal cruelty and snares in particular, being such arbitrary devices.  His grandfather had once taken him along to check his traps and snares.  It was the day that young Alec decided he would not be following in the old man’s footsteps.  Carswell wasn’t their man, but Dunbar ordered his car be impounded and shipped to Edinburgh for forensic examination anyway.  It would no doubt prove a fruitless exercise, but he did it partly just to inconvenience the poacher, and because he knew that Molineux and Watt would ask.  No stone unturned, no box un-ticked. 

It had been a long day and as it turned out Falk did not need to delegate.  The DCI had a word with the duty shift sergeant to set up a rendezvous with the rural policing team from Galashiels to take Archie home and take Dean Carswell off their hands, so that he could show one them and the local gillie where he had set his snares.  Carswell’s protests fell on deaf ears and he was left in no doubt by a frustrated DCI and menacing Glaswegian DS that his card had been well and truly marked.

A team talk was called for – over a pint and so, he proposed ‘The Thistle Street Bar’.

13

His decision to take the car home first and walk back to the pub proved wise.  The first pint had not so much quenched his thirst as given him one.  The Thistle Street Bar had more-or-less become Dunbar’s local.  It was only a brisk five minutes’ walk from his home, showed sports programmes on the two widescreens and was a stone’s throw from Henderson’s restaurant.  He would often adjourn to ‘The Thistle’, after eating at the deli’s bijou basement diner on the corner of Thistle Street and Hanover Street.  Or slip away for a ‘quick one’ if he and Elspeth were joined by one of her gossipy friends.

By the third pint, shop talk had made way for football.  The two civvies had excused themselves and left sensing that his suggestion of “a quick pint” was heading towards an epic session.  The mood changed when first politics, then the recent Scottish independence referendum cropped up.  What really surprised him was not Neil Conroy’s fervent nationalism but his rousing, if cliché-riddled, rhetoric.  All that was missing was the swirl of a piper providing a soundtrack to go with his predictable jingoism.  Conroy, the office quiet man had morphed into a tub-thumping separatist.

His arguments for Scotland to revisit the ballot over a break with the United Kingdom were roundly applauded by DC Reece, the pub’s landlord and an old bar-fly who was already blootered when Dunbar arrived.  Conroy alone was taken in by the drunken man’s harrumphing, as he pounded out his approbation on the bar top.  Only when the old drunk tapped the DS for a wee dram, “for a fellow patriot”, did his true motives become apparent.

Falk’s ambivalence was a feint.  It was quite clear that he saw little merit in the nationalist argument and their economic forecasts, based on oil revenues, struck him as hopelessly optimistic.  Republican heart, Unionist head, he would be a ‘no’ then.  Tyler and DC Donald were emphatically against the proposal and the two civvies who had tagged along declared themselves steadfastly on the fence.  When pressed, Dunbar offered only an observation, not his decision.

‘We fought the English on and off for a thousand years or more, and have been allied to them since 1707. Were we better off before or after the Act of Union?’  Before Conroy could interrupt he added.  ‘And, if this case has taught me anything, it’s that none of us can be sure who we are.  For that matter, how far back do you want to go to define your identity, Neil?  Let’s face it.  The likes of Professor Geary would have it that the whole human race can trace its ancestry back to a tiny wee biped in Africa.  So, am I a Scot, or am I African?’

Conroy hissed and shook his head. “Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, who never to himself has said, this is my own, my native land.”

‘Quoting Sir Walter Scott is a cheap shot, an’ I dinnae appreciate the inference, pal.’  Dunbar snarled, which took them all by surprise.  ‘Nationalism doesnae hold exclusive rights over patriotism.’

‘I was just –’Conroy began to say.

‘I know exactly what ye game is, Neil mon.  Dinnae play it with me.’

Falk cranked the tension further with a nod towards the door.  Gordon ‘Doc’ Monaghan and a couple of his henchmen had entered the bar.  As awareness of Doc’s presence quickly spread through the pub, so the noise level dropped.  Nobody wanted to catch his eye or those of his two companions.  The previously jolly landlord fidgeted nervously and forced a smile.

‘Gentlemen, what’s ye pleasure?’

Doc scanned the impressive selection of malts that filled the shelves above the row of optics. ‘Got a Chivas Regal Royal Salute up there?’ he eventually said.

The landlord gagged. ‘Royal – Sal – oow’ – err, nae, I – I’m sorry, Mr Monaghan, I doubt any pub in –’

‘You asked, pal,’ Doc cut in coldly.  Game on!  Doc had control of the man and the situation.  And the rule of the game, as those familiar with Doc Monaghan’s ways know, is:
“Once in his crosshairs, dinnae take your eyes off him. ‘Cos that’s when he will strike.”
 

The landlord was obliged to serve them but dare not drop his guard.  Tricky, dare not look away, but both men knew that at some point, he would have to.  So there he was, caught between a rock and a
hard case
.  His only hope of salvation was the posse of detectives seated in the far corner, but he could not be sure they were aware of Doc’s presence.

Doc Monaghan had built his reputation with such ploys.  In this case, a malt whisky that retails at around £6,500 a bottle, which he knew perfectly well the landlord would not stock.  The barman was right, none but one or two very exclusive private members’ clubs in the city would, but it was his way of drawing the man into one of his wicked little games.  Often as not, his victims would be subjected to nothing more harmful than mental torment and humiliation, before being let off the hook.  On another night though, if Doc was in a bad mood, his random target was likely to end up needing a real doctor. 

Although they were not privy to the conversation, across the room, all but DI Tyler quietly bridled at what was to them a familiar routine: Doc effortlessly menacing almost everyone he came into contact with, certainly everyone that knew of his cold-blooded reputation. 

As it happened the landlord was in luck. Doc was in a playful mood, and he had spotted Dunbar’s team seated at the back of the pub.

‘Vodka an’ Iron Bru with ice then, same for Dixie – less the vodka an’ ice, he’s drivin’ an’ we’re law abidin’ citizens.’ Victor ‘Dixie’ Dixon sulked until Doc nodded in Dunbar’s direction.

‘Bastards!’ Dixie hissed, under his breath.

‘What you havin’, Salty?’

Wayne Salter tapped one of the pump tops.

‘Vodka, Iron Bru, Iron Bru straight, nae ice and a pint o’ lager on the house comin’ right up, Mr Monaghan,’ the landlord recited with a relieved sigh.  Doc sneered, turned and met Dunbar’s withering gaze.  His eyes glinted and a barely discernible smile turned up one corner of thin lips as he strode towards the detectives.

‘De-fective Chief Inspector Dumbo, how the hell are ye?’ 

Dunbar fixed him blankly.  Doc stopped short of their table with his chuckling sidekicks flanking him.  It was a well-practised manoeuvre.  Back the boss up and cover him but leave him room to work in case things get ‘tasty’.  Doc nodded at the team of detectives without attempting to mask his contempt and then fixed upon Briony Tyler.

‘Jesus! The recruitin’ standard’s gone off the scale, mon.  Who’s this wee honey?’

‘Detective Inspector Tyler,’ she answered curtly.

His eyes widened. ‘DI ye’ say,
wow!
’ He glanced around at his two henchmen who had by now cleared a nearby table for their boss by simply looking at its occupants. ‘Check oot the new, De-lectable Inspector boys,’ Doc said, turning back to Tyler. ‘Ye can conduct an intimate search o’ me any time you fancy, darlin’.’

Salty guffawed loudly. Falk shot to his feet. Doc calmly squared off to the tough detective sergeant and grinned.  ‘Ye no’ gonna’ go all commando on me are ye, DS Faulkner?’  The two henchmen burst into fits of laughter at that.  Doc eyed them again.  ‘Liked that one, hey boys?  DS Faulkner here’s an ex-Royal Marine Commando.’ A fact that surprised Salty but not the older, weasel-faced Dixie. ‘Go commando – just came to me.’ He turned back to face Falk.  ‘Nae offence, mon – just a wee joke.  I have nothin’ but respect for oor soldier boys.  Look see!’  He raised his right arm and drew back his sleeve to show his
‘Help for Heroes’
charity wristband.

‘I’ve got none for you, Monaghan,’ Falk hissed.

‘Then I can see I’m gonna have to earn it, hey, Falk mon?’ Doc replied.  Suddenly his smile melted away into a cold hard stare.

‘Sit down, Falk,’ Dunbar said.  His DS reluctantly complied.

‘Good boy!’  Doc teased, the smile having returned.  ‘Obedience trained; does he fetch sticks as well?’

Falk moved to spring up again but Dunbar gripped his forearm.  Falk seethed but complied and relaxed into his seat.

‘Reckon his bark’s worse than his bite anyway – don’t you boys?’ His two sidekicks sniggered and nodded their agreement.

‘I see young Salter’s had to step out of Bull Heid’s shadow,’ Dunbar observed.

Doc turned again and studied his bulky minder. ‘Ach!  Casts a big enough one o’ his ean – don’t ye, Salty mon?’  Wayne Salter nodded, puffed himself up to show off his massive bulk and sneered at them.  ‘So, I hear folk are losin’ their heids doon the way.’

‘You heard right,’ Dunbar replied. ‘Can you shed any light on it?’

‘I have a wee theory.’ Doc replied. ‘Maybe it’s got somethin’ te do wi’ this outbreak o’ leprosy in Gowrie,’ he offered flashing a grin at his henchmen who, being in on the joke burst into fits of laughter.

‘Leprosy?’ Dunbar repeated.

‘Aye, did ye no’ hear about Chick Pea Little?’

‘Lost a toe,’ Falk said.

‘
Ach!
  More than
one
toe, mon – an’ a pinkie since.  Skag-heided wee fella’s fair fallin’ te bits.’

His henchmen cackled as their drinks arrived at the table.

‘This must be the loan shark you told me about?’ Tyler suddenly said to Falk, in an effort to alleviate the tension that was reaching critical mass between him and the gangster.

Doc snorted at that and shook his head. ‘
Tsch!
  What a thing te be tellin’ the lass, mon,’ he protested, with faux indignation.

‘No, Briony, he’s –’ Dunbar began.

‘
Oooow’
, lovin’ that name, Bri-Honey,’ Monaghan sneered.

‘– the IMF of loan sharking,’ Dunbar continued. ‘They lend and lean on the punters and do the collecting –
and
cutting.  If payments are late, Doc puts the squeeze on them.’

‘Awa, mon, fair’s fair – where would the scum economy be without regulation? I mean look what happened when the banks just pleased their sels’.  Austerity’s the buzz word, just like the banks, us freelance lenders have te make cuts.’  Salty choked on his pint and Dixie squeaked hysterically. ‘Aye, a wee bit o’ fiscal prunin’s a necessary evil te keep the capitalist economy on track.’

Dunbar drained his pint and stood up. ‘We’re away.’

‘Aye, well, nice seein’ ye all – an’ specially you, Bri-Honey.’

Dunbar made sure he got between Falk and Doc as his team filed out of the bar but the eyes of two tough-guys remained locked on each other.

‘Ever considered anger management therapy, Falk?’ Doc asked.

‘Ever considered, you-and-me, a quiet place, nae tools, nae hired muscle, just mon-te-mon, shit-heid?’ Falk hissed.

  Doc chuckled and made a pretence at being frightened, much to the amusement of his two friends.  As Dunbar brushed past Doc, the gangster locked eyes with him.

‘Give my regards te Elspeth.  She’s a canny big miss at Rennie an’ Co.  The wee body that replaced her’s a dead ringer for Jimmy Crankie.’

As the cops exited and strolled off up the street, laughter erupted from inside the pub.

***

Dunbar had been enjoying the crack until Monaghan gate crashed the party.  Light duties had robbed him of that sense of camaraderie that working with a dedicated team brought.  Falk was still fuming and Dunbar feared he might go back to sort Monaghan out.  That man-to-man threat Falk had issued was not a hollow one.  The tough ex-marine would beat Doc in a straight fight, no question, however, he would pay for it with his life.  Not there and then, and never in front of witnesses, but it would happen when there was no one around, when Falk was least expecting it.  That was the reason Doc reigned supreme over his Edinburgh rivals.  The price of taking his crown carried the risk of a life or a death sentence.

It was still early, so Dunbar suggested they adjourn to his place.  It was the nearest any of them lived to the pub and unlike them, with the exception of Tyler; he would be going home to an empty house.  No spouse to disturb or upset.  No potential for an embarrassing domestic dispute in front of colleagues.

As it was, the party never really happened: DC Reece cried off, Conroy stayed for one drink only. Fifteen minutes later DC Donald and Falk, at Dunbar’s insistence, got a cab and he charged the burly DC with the responsibility of ensuring that Falk did not go looking for Doc; which only left Briony Tyler.

No sooner had she said, ‘I’d better be off too,’ and reached for her coat, than the front door opened and a pair of high heels clip-clopped down the hallway.  Elspeth came to an abrupt halt as Tyler hesitated, one sleeve on, the other off.  They looked at each other for a moment as Elspeth put her travel bag down.

‘Wasn’t expecting you tonight,’ Dunbar said.

‘Apparently.’

Tyler slipped the other arm into her coat and extended her hand. ‘Briony Tyler, nice to meet you, Elspeth.’  She was all too aware of how crimson her face must have gone.  It was an awkward moment on so many levels.  She had been fantasising about sleeping with the woman’s husband, only to be caught, in what appeared to be, the act of doing a runner.  Could she – could they look any more guilty?  Tyler doubted it.

‘Even prettier in the flesh,’ Elspeth replied, shaking her hand but with her gaze fixed on her husband.  She had adopted her Ice Queen alter ego.  Urbane Elspeth was a character she had developed to go with her job where she was often forced to mingle with people she despised but had to be civil to for her boss’s sake. She thought it made her appear sophisticated and he, that it created the impression she was a condescending bitch.  She wasn’t, well, not habitually.