Murderers Anonymous (29 page)

Barney gave him an awkward sideways glance. 'You did murder three people, though,' he said.

Socrates polished off the remainder of his starter and took a satisfyingly large swallow of cheap Bulgarian white. Dry, with a gravelly texture, lemony overtones, fruity underbelly, a long nose and a rare skin condition.

'Suppose you've got a point,' he said. 'Anyway, I always thought that wee Jerry was a pain in the arse, myself. Vicious little bastard. Vicious.'

They were arranged around the table for maximum effect, with regards to the situation of eight men and only three women. Arnie Medlock had free range at Dillinger, with Barney left to stew in his jealousy and pent-up testosterone more than three seats away. Annie Webster had Sammy Gilchrist on one side and Billy Hamilton on the other, and was constantly being dragged between the two. And just to keep them both on edge, she continually sent enticing looks the way of the legendary Barney Thomson – who had so far completely failed to notice. He had caught her eye once, but he'd thought she'd been having trapped-wind trouble. Meanwhile, Ellie Winters was surrounded by Bobby Dear, Fergus Flaherty and Morty Goldman, all of whom were vying for her attention; although Goldman was only doing it in a strange, silent, non-interactive kind of way. They all supposed themselves in with a chance, and despite Winters' general dislike of the opposite sex, fifteen glasses of wine and she could be anyone's. Of the assembled company only Socrates was uninterested. Or perhaps just playing it cool.

The dining room was hung with huge pictures of boring men in red riding jackets and austere women with that
I've been standing here for fifteen hours in this enormous dress; I'm starving, I'm dying for a pee, I could kill for a Marlboro Light, and I can't wait to be emancipated
look on their faces. The cornices had been carved by master craftsmen of old – craftsmen for whom angels sang and elves wove spells of necromancy and magic, and who had been smoking large quantities of drugs. The sideboard was bedecked with crystal and silver, the dining table was large and opulent, the drapes thick velvet, the fireplace sixteenth-century Venetian; a chandelier hung above the table, lights sparkling in opalescence. A Christmas tree, decorated as if by Cary Grant in
The Bishop's Wife
, shone in the corner.

'Fucking flash gaffe this, i'n't it?' said Socrates, for he was a man who needed conversation.

'Aye,' said Barney after a while, the question again taking its time to penetrate.

'You seem distracted, mate,' said Socrates.

Barney nodded and pushed the remainder of his starter away from him. Arnie Medlock was on the verge of success. He could tell. The two of them were almost smooching. If they started that up, Barney might as well go home; a walk to the nearest bus station, however far it was in the pouring rain, and he could be gone. No problem.

'Fancy our Katie, do you?' said Socrates, following the doleful look of Barney across the great expanse of the table to the far side of the room. Barney was no longer one for bullshit and lies. Not after all he'd been through.

'Aye,' he said. 'I do.'

'Well go for it, then, Big Man.'

Barney turned to look at Socrates, gestured up the table at the two of them, Dillinger whispering some seeming affection in Medlock's ear, and shrugged his shoulders.

'Ach, don't you worry about that, Big Man,' said Socrates. 'Medlock's full of shite. Always makes his move every year, never gets anywhere. Reckon Katie's a lesbo myself, which doesn't do you much good either, but at least Medlock won't be feasting on her the night, know what I mean? So I think you just ought to charge in there and take control. You're a hard bastard, mate, are you no'? I've read all about you in the papers.'

Barney gave him a sideways glance. If only he'd known. But then maybe he'd get more respect from these people if they believed all that nonsense.

'What about Medlock?' he said. 'What's he doing here?'

Socrates snorted into his wineglass.

'That big poof? Shagged a couple of farmer birds, their blokes came after him, and he did the business. Cut one of the guy's testicles off, then left the bloke bound and gagged in some deserted house in a scheme on the edge of Springburn. Couple of council workers found him six months later. Arnie had stemmed the flow of the guy's blood from his gonads, so he died of starvation or some shite like yon.' Barney swallowed. 'And he just clean chopped the other guy's head off with an axe. He'd just been watching
Highlander
apparently, so he was into all that decapitation stuff. Then he mashed up the bastard's body and fed it to the pigs.'

Barney swallowed again.

'And how long'd he get?'

Socrates finished off his wine and reached once more for the carafe.

'Arnie? Bastard's never been caught. Who knows how many more he's killed? So I'd watch him, I suppose, but I still reckon he's a total poof.'

'Oh,' said Barney.

The large wooden door leading towards the kitchen swung open, and Miss Berlin, housekeeper to the weird and dishonest, entered slowly, ready to clear away the plates.

A brief description: short, strong, old, grey hair, bespectacled, could crush a man's bollocks with a snap of her fingers. In her younger days she'd used to lift whole cattle and put them into the back of lorries. A hardy country gal, with the strength of ten men; hairy armpits and terribly robust underwear.

The chatter and laughter continued as she cleared away the remnants of the
scampi à la lettuce
. Men hitting on women; women being coy with men; men pretending not to hit on women; women pretending not to notice that men were hitting on them; men pretending that women were hitting on them and not the other way about; women attempting to hit on men in a passive-aggressive, non-sexual, fudged-outlines kind of a way; men looking on in seething jealousy and impotence as bastards like Arnie Medlock stole their women. The usual roundabout of a Saturday night cattle market. Miss Berlin had seen it all before, and knew that inevitably it would end in tears. Or even murder.

Socrates quickly downed his third glass of wine as he surveyed the scene. A new man since he'd got his murderous past off his chest. Relaxed, confident, more chilled than a '93 Australian sauvignon blanc which has been in the fridge for a fortnight.

'Might have a go at one of the chicks myself tonight. You never know, eh? I'll leave Katie to you, mind you, if you're going to get wellied in there. You are going to have a go, right?'

The big question. When it came to it, the biggest question of all. Love was involved.

'Are you finished?'

Barney looked up at the clipped tones of Hertha Berlin. Voice like a skelped buttock, she waited with a handful of plates. Tone of voice which meant that what she said actually translated as, 'So you hated my food, then, did you, you bastard? Well, I'm coming into your room in the middle of the night to either garrotte you with my nose hair or disembowel you thoroughly with a blunt instrument'.

Barney swallowed.

'Aye,' he said. 'Finished.'

The new, improved, low-cal, sodium-extracted, warp-enhanced, plutonium-enriched, caffeine-inhibited, aluminium-free Barney Thomson was still intimidated by a strong woman, and in part he wilted. But she rudely lifted his plate from in front of him and was gone in a whirr of legs, plates, arms and a long-since-faded blue rinse.

'What about the old bird?' said Socrates, smiling and leaning towards him. 'Would you shag that?'

Barney screwed up his face. To tell the truth, such was his infatuation with Katie Dillinger, should Madeleine Stowe have walked in, fettered by neither clothing nor morals (nor taste), he would pass her on to the next poor sap.

He was about to attest to the negative when he saw the inevitable unfold across the table. The horror, oh! the horror, he thought, becoming frighteningly, pretentiously poetical.

It almost happened in slow motion. There was laughter, there was arm-touching, there was an obvious connection. The words of Socrates McCartney had meant nothing to Barney. He'd known there was something between Dillinger and Medlock; and now, as if watching a slow-motion replay on
Match of the Day
, analysed from twenty different angles by Alan Hansen, it unfolded before him in frightening detail. The laugh, the grin, then the lasting smile, the touch of the arm, the lean forward, and then the soft kiss on the side of the cheek. And not Medlock kissing Dillinger, for that could be almost acceptable. It was her, the Desdemona, the harlot, the siren of enticement, who leant forward and planted her soft red lips onto Medlock's cheek, and then left them there for that second or two longer than was normally required by Chapter 5, Paragraph 3, Sections 5a to g of the Department of Environment, Transport and the Regions Official Charter on Cheek Kissing.

Barney felt it as sure as if it was his cheek that was being kissed, or his cheek that was being crushed to a pulp with a battering ram, along with his heart. His mouth closed, his eyes half shut, his shoulders wilted, and the potential of the weekend died like an animal downed by a sniper. He might as well go home. And first thing tomorrow morning, that was exactly what he was going to do.

Socrates saw it too, and rested his hand quietly on Barney's shoulder.

'Too bad, mate,' he said. 'Too bad.' Barney did not respond, for what was there to say? 'Looks like he's going to get his fill of her, no mistake,' said Socrates, continuing. Barney stared into the mire. 'Yep, he's going to be up to his armpits in that baby tonight. Goes like a tank, apparently, that's what all the other guys who've shagged her say. Old Arnie's going to be pumping away like a piston for most of the night.'

His words began to penetrate. Barney gave him a look.

'Lucky, lucky, lucky,' said Socrates. 'Yesiree. It's all-night action for Arnie. The old studster's hitting the back of the net, no question. The Big Man is in there, pure in there. Shag-a-roonie. She'll be lying on her back when he comes,' he added, beginning to break into song.

Barney breathed deeply and sat back in his chair. The laughter continued; Dillinger held on to Medlock's arm with ever greater tenderness. Barney eyed Miss Berlin and decided that he just wasn't desperate enough. It was Dillinger he'd wanted, but now Medlock was firmly in his way.

I could kill him, he thought. Fucking kill him. And with his jealousy and his seething resentment, he meant it. Absolutely, he meant it.

'Lucky, lucky, lucky,' said Socrates. 'Lucky guy.'

It was one of those days when it seemed the whole world was on the streets. It was hot, so that your shirt stuck to your chest and your armpits smelled like they'd been napalmed.

But not Jade Weapon's armpits. They were smooth, delicious and fragrant, and smelled of sex.

'Who's she shagging this time?'

Proudfoot looked over the top of the book. Mulholland looked tired; older, she realised suddenly, than when they'd first started working together the previous year. Hadn't really noticed in the last couple of days. Lines on the face; not yet any grey hairs, but all in the eyes. They had seen too much. And in that moment, it also occurred to her that she saw the same thing when she looked in the mirror. They had both seen enough misery and death to fill anyone's boots, and unquestionably it was time to get out before they saw any more.

A blinding flash of light, but perhaps it'd lead to nothing. She'd never just acted on these things. Usually blinding flashes of light were gone when you woke up the next morning.

'Oh, everyone,' she said.

Mulholland smiled. Wearily; time to go.

'Where've you been?' she asked. Nearly two hours since she'd received the call from Crammond, and she'd spent the time concocting the stories she would use to explain why she was so late. Flat tyre, called out to something by the chief, couldn't be bothered, dum-de-dum...