Christopher Brookmyre - Parlabane 04 (27 page)

Ger was confidently pessimistic about Sir Lachlan's chances, theorising that there weren't actually any cartridges to find.

'Lady Jane'll have binned them yonks ago. If you knew him as well as she does, do you reckon you'd allow him access to live ammunition?'

It was a very plausible point, and one that pointed all the more stiffly towards a meat-free repast. Then this chancer had appeared with his poly bags, his agitated body language screaming out POACHER, or so they thought until they saw what he was punting.

'It's pork,' he'd insisted, though he wouldn't elaborate how he'd come by it. His offering already butchered, Alison revised poacher to simply 'thief'. Without any guarantee - nor even clue - of source, and no use-by date to go with, Ger was not quite ready to let desperation override his professional judgement.

'Okay,' the guy said, sensing that Ger's deliberations were ultimately tipping against him, 'I'll give you it for a round thirty quid. Come on, we can help each other out here. We both know I could still flog this tomorrow, but it sounds to me like you need something for the table tonight.'

'I'm not trying to drive the price down, mate. I'm just not quite ready to take your word for the freshness of this meat. I'm not even convinced what kind of meat it is. It doesn't look like pork to me. Where did you get it?'

158

'Fuck's sake,' the guy sighed. 'Okay, I stole it. I think we both fucking know that. And it's not pork, but as far as your guests are concerned it could be.'

'What is it?'

The guy swallowed, sighing again. 'Ostrich,' he admitted.

'Ostrich?'

'There's a farm just outside Blairhaugh. They do the slaughtering on-site but package it down in Perth. It's the in-thing in London restaurants,' he offered winningly.

'My baws it is,' Ger replied.

'Everybody'll be eating this stuff soon, mark my words. Sainsbury's are already stocking it.'

'Brilliant. So we can look forward to seeing that wee mockney prick riding aboot on wan in an advert next year?'

'Dunno aboot that pal, I'm just tryin' tae make a few bar.'

'Twenty.'

'Twenty-five.'

'Done.'

'So what are we going to call it?' Alison asked, once the purchase was made, the chancer departed and the meat transferred to the fridge. 'Or do we just come clean?'

'Bollocks to that. I mean, we can't lie about what it is, but we need to be a wee bit coy. That's usually the cue to resort to French.'

'How about
Icare d'Afrique
?'

'Icarus?'

'Yeah. His wings were useless too.'

Ger grinned, '
Ca plane pour moi
,' he confirmed. 159

A Matter of Taste

A loud rumbling boom from outside cut through every conversation and silenced the room at a stroke. There was a moment's pause before people began laughing at their own startlement, sudden frights being something that had already been an understandably pervasive theme of discussion. The curtains were closed in the bar, rain-lashed windows not making for a decorative view, so Parlabane hadn't noticed any lightning flash, but the encroaching low-sky gloom of the late afternoon had made it no surprise. That said, given the engineered thrills of the preceding hours, there was something about the thunder's very portentousness that was bordering on camp.

He wasn't the only one to think it.

'So, Donald,' Rory asked loudly, 'was that an actual clap of thunder, do you reckon, or a UML-generated, artificial, scare-the-pants-off-you clap of thunder?'

'No point asking him,' Toby replied. 'Neither he nor Francis are going to tell us the truth about what is and isn't their doing, are you?'

'Granted,' Campbell admitted. 'But I think you might be paying us an undeserved compliment if you think we can control the weather.'

'My point still stands, though,' Toby went on. 'The pair of you are now officially unreliable sources of information. Anything you deny responsibility for remains suspect, given your vested interest in things appearing to be beyond your control.'

'Including the weather?' Baxter asked.

'We'll give you the benefit of the doubt over that,' Toby conceded. 'Mind you, they used to say the Scots blamed Margaret Thatcher for the rain, so I wouldn't be the first to be so paranoid.'

'Oh God, let's not go there again tonight,' Campbell said, laughing nervously in the transparent hope that overt - even affected - good humour would encourage everyone to maintain the day's hard-forged esprit de corps.

'We didn't really believe that,' Kathy assured Toby. 'We knew fine that if she really could make it rain on Scotland, there'd never have been a dry day.'

'Touche.'

161

'Well, anyway,' Campbell said, cutting through any possible further contributions, 'I think now would be an appropriate time to issue you all with your first UML campaign medals.'

He stepped away from the table he'd been leaning against and drew their attention to the aluminium box sitting in the centre of it. With a magician'slovely-assistant arm-waving flourish, he flipped open the lid and revealed ten metal badges snuggling amidst a bed of dark-grey protective foam. Then he called the guests forward one by one and pinned the badges to appropriate places on their evening attire, a cheer and a round of applause greeting each mini-ceremony.

Parlabane examined his. It was a surprisingly heavy and substantial wee number for such a pointless trinket, but here in the world of corporate stupidity, it was bad for the image of both parties if anything came across as cheap. Things like the UML gig were aimed at suits, whose self-importance had to be stroked on a regular basis, and needless expense was a guaranteed way of achieving that. Economies were what those on the shop floor had to worry about.

Talk predictably returned to how they had 'earned' their medals, lots of perspective comparisons and not a little revisionism on certain parts. Rory was happy enough to admit buying the whole scam at face value, his only tilt at its plausibility having been his off-the-mark claims that the soldiers were feigning pursuit. Others were allowing retrospect to skew the extent to which they were willing dupes, not least Max as he attempted to back-pedal from his ballistics beamer; and then there was Grieg. The word 'twat' could have been invented for him, its role as a pejorative gynaecological reference and thus crude term of lazily bandied abuse merely groundwork in preparing itself for its one true and destined application to this glaikit bawbag. With every sentence he was appropriating more and more of Parlabane's evidence as things he'd noticed himself, and if he kept on at this rate, within the hour he'd be recalling sauntering down the hillside puffing on a stogie while all the fools rushed obliviously around his centre of unhurried calm. Parlabane would have put the house on his Y-fronts telling a different story.

'So where are the other UML guys,' Rory was asking Baxter. 'Or are you not introducing us so that we can't ID them too early in your next stunt?'

'There will be no more stunts,' Baxter said with gleefully open dishonesty.

'You have my word. But to answer your question, the villains today weren't UML personnel. Just some locals, blokes from the village down the way. We bung them a few quid, they get to dress up, shoot replica rifles and play soldiers of a Saturday afternoon.'

'They earned their pay today,' Rory said, smiling. 'So did you. A fine performance, Mr Baxter.
The point at which I was in complete control of the day's
162

activities has passed
,' he mimicked. 'If you ever fancy turning your hand to acting, I know a few directors. One question that eludes me, though: You told everybody to leave their mobiles because you obviously didn't want us trying to call the cops, but I was a naughty boy and took mine anyway, until you confiscated it; and by the way, good thing for you it's waterproof. What I would you have done if I'd asked you to dial 999?'

'Why didn't you?'

'Dunno, it didn't really occur to me. Panic, I suppose, and I didn't think anybody would be able to get there in time to make any difference. Plus you said there was no signal.'

'There you go, then.'

'Ah come on, you couldn't rely on that. What would you have said, what was the contingency? Go on, it's over now - or might I be anticipating something in tomorrow's scenario?'

'Not at all. Try calling the cops now. There's a signal here.'

Rory whipped out his ostentatiously tiny M-Kard mobile and snapped it into operation with affected nonchalance, hopelessly failing to disguise the delighted nine-year-old who thought the gadget made him the coolest kid in baseball boots. The nonchalance turned quickly to consternation and browfurrowed scrutiny as the device failed to come to life.

'Works better with the SIM card in,' Baxter said.

Rory nodded, remembering. 'At the tunnel.'

'No, while you were in the gym this morning, actually. Courtesy of the light-fingered Francis.'

'Sneaky bastard. So do I get it back now, or. . . ?'

'Oh sure, don't worry. It's your property and we're not school prefects. You're the paying customers, after all, or would be, theoretically. Francis has them planked somewhere safe. I'll get him to sort you out in a minute.'

'Them?'

'He removed everybody's. It was to add that moment of the-car-won't-start panic if anyone did manage to sneak a phone out on to the hike. Not that anybody seems to have noticed. Francis,' he called theatrically, to attract everyone's attention. 'When you've got a moment, could you retrieve distribute our valued guests' SIM cards?'

This provoked widespread patting of pockets and confirmatory pressing of keys, Joanna and Liz distinct in mentioning that they'd each discovered the faults that morning but assumed their phones to be on the blink, and useless here besides.

Baxter produced his own mobile and displayed the inactive screen for Rory's benefit. 'In case you assumed your guide had one and demanded he dial 999

with it when yours failed.'

163

'But what if there'd been a genuine emergency?'

'I had mine,' said Campbell. 'And despite appearances, I was never very far away, believe me.'

Baxter followed Campbell to the door, the pair of them flagrantly conspiratorial in their quiet chat, clearly lapping up the curiosity.

'Well, they didn't get
my
SIM card,' Grieg was telling anyone in earshot, 'because I left my phone back in car.' He announced this with inexplicable pride, as though it would be interpreted as a demonstration of uncanny prescience in addition to his already established ice-cool composure, rather than merely proof that he was a gormless twat who'd forgotten to lift his mobile from the hands-free dock.

With his colleague gone, Baxter returned to the bar and signalled to Parlabane to join him near the door. He grabbed a handful of peanuts and obliged, dangling a bottle of Beck's between two fingers.

'I just wanted to say,' Baxter began quietly, 'I've heard the accounts of the day and I appreciate your cooperation in keeping your mouth shut when you could have easily blown the gaff.'

'I'd like my not mentioning the SIM cards over breakfast this morning taken into consideration too. Does it get me a room upgrade?'

'Only if you don't mind sharing a four-poster with Lachlan,' Baxter replied, nodding towards the loudly be-tartaned patron who was tonight cheerfully and energetically manning the bar. 'His is the only one bigger than the guest accommodations.'

'Nah. If that's what he's wearing, I seriously don't want see the bedclothes. And I don't want to
think
about the pyjamas.'

'Seriously,' Baxter resumed. 'I know you don't owe us anything and I can't even ask that you be fair in what you write, but I do ask, humbly, that you don't give away our secrets. We'll be asking everybody to be circumspect, but you're the one in a position to really spoil the surprise. I mean, we've got other tricks up our sleeves for when that one's worn thin, but if you give away the principle. . . '

Parlabane shook his head. 'It's one thing being the smart-arsed critic who takes the piss out of a movie he didn't like: it's all about opinions and that's his prerogative. But the type who gives away the ending is a fascist, because he wants to put you off going so you won't
have
an opinion.'

'I think we understand each other.'

'Well, not entirely. A bottle of Cragganmore would pretty much guarantee nothing inadvertently slips out when I'm at the keyboard writing the final draft.'

'Jack Parlabane in bribery and corruption shocker. Now that would be a headline.'

164

'I only expose the ones who don't pay me off.'

A couple more rounds were downed throughout the throng, dispatched with a surprisingly unflustered efficiency by Sir Lachlan, who Parlabane would have to admit had struck him initially as of the bumbling aristo genus, chocolateteapot subspecies. Last night it had been a champagne-or-orange-juice, helpyourself affair, down possibly to a lack of staff, as suggested by the flustered and rarely sighted waitresses, in likely combination with UML's wise reluctance to allow this drouthy shower unfettered access to the single malts. Tonight, however, though the waitresses were but invisible, the bar was in full service, capably staffed by a man whose title, Parlabane appreciated, was unlikely to have been conferred in recognition of pouring drinks. Not that a knighthood was in any way intrinsic proof of being much cop at anything, given that if your aristo family successfully retained its wealth throughout your lifetime and you could sit through a civic reception without spitting food at other guests, it was pretty much impossible to avoid getting some kind of honour from the establishment. However, there weren't many aristos comfortable at the sharp end of the service industry, so if Sir Lachlan was being forced to slum it, then he was wearing it well (though the odd fly snifter he was helping himself to was no doubt playing its part in easing his dignity). With the atmosphere thus augmented, it was a while before people started to notice that the passing of time had not brought the three magic words they'd been waiting for (and increasingly feared never hearing) since finishing their sandwiches at the foot of the spur. Eventually, though, insistent stomachs prompted the checking of watches and the odd baleful glance at the thoroughly looted-looking lazy Susan, now bereft of olives, peanuts and Bombay mix.