The Amulet (12 page)

I muttered something that I hoped sounded like agreement, not wanting to get drawn into the argument. Joe believed that all of societies ills would be cured by bringing back the birch, locking up everyone under the age of twenty-one, then putting them in the army. He also advocated the automatic death penalty for anything involving bodily harm, forced repatriation for all non-whites, and the cutting off of body parts for theft.

Some days I knew how he felt and even came close to agreeing with him, but today wasn't one of them.

"Anyway," he said, "the funeral's tomorrow-twelve o'clock at St Bridget's in Clarkston. Will I see you there?"

"Aye, sure," I said. "I'll come and see the old chap off. Somebody's got to."

"Oh, you needn't worry on that score. The old man had plenty of friends. There'll be a big turnout."

I gave him a wave as I left. He went back to standing still behind the counter. The old man stood there, day in, day out, for more than fifteen hours. He had a wife who took over to allow him time to eat, but the rest of the time he stood there, from six a.m. to nine p.m., every day including Christmas. It was either dedication or stupidity. I wasn't sure which, but I wished I had his stamina.

I also wished he'd find something new to sing-it had been 'Just One Cornetto' for ten years now, and at times I could cheerfully strangle him. Today, though, I gave him a smile as I left. I didn't tell him that three of the people I'd talked to in the last forty-eight hours were dead. He'd probably stay behind the counter and wait for it to come for him.

It was only when I got to the car and threw the paper down on the passenger seat that I noticed the headline:

UNCLE KILLER STRIKES AGAIN

Pawnbrokers close all over the city as terror strikes

Beneath that there was an old picture of Tommy McIntyre and some sparse details of his murder. From the story it was obvious that the police weren't giving out any info. I guessed that some of the more prurient information came from Mandy. Sure enough, on page three there was a full-length picture of her in a bikini. I nearly choked when I read the text.

* * *

Mandy McDowell, 29, a glamour model, was the last person to see the deceased alive. She had entered his shop in search of some fashionable lingerie to wear at a photo shoot later in the day. McIntyre, 58, known in the trade as Pervy Tommy, had obviously been attracted to her charms and made a crude pass at her. She left the shop, disgusted. That was at seven o'clock yesterday evening, barely an hour before the police found his mutilated body in the back office.

"He was an old pervert," Miss McDowell sobbed. "But nobody deserves to die like that."

* * *

'Glamour model'? '29'? The reporter obviously hadn't looked too closely. On second thought, maybe he had-the picture that accompanied the piece had obviously been airbrushed.

Some smarter reporter had linked Tommy's death to auld Jimmy's, but that was all they were able to do. 'Stan and Ollie' wouldn't give them any more unless they thought it would advance the case. I knew that from long experience.

I checked the full article three times, but my name wasn't mentioned, not even as someone helping the police with their inquiries. I said a prayer of thanks for small mercies as I drove away.

Twenty minutes later I was back in the coffee shop opposite Durban and Lambert's premises, nursing another cup of strong coffee and trying not to wallow too deeply in self-pity. It wasn't working too well-a night in the cells has that kind of effect on a body.

It wasn't as if it was the first time I had been pulled in. The first had been while I was still a first year student.

We had been out on the town-the happy wanderers, Doug, three others, and myself hitting all the bars in Byres Road. Doug and I had come out of the Aragon, having failed as usual to pull any nurses, when three policemen approached us. Two took me to one side while the third led Doug and the others off. Ten minutes later I found myself in Patrick police station, being grilled on suspicion of rape.

I knew I was innocent, but they didn't. It was 'Where were you on Tuesday 20th, November' and 'Did you know Caroline Moore' and 'Where did you get rid of the knife you used to threaten her'. After a night of none-too-friendly questioning, they let me go. When they finally caught the right man his picture was plastered all over the front of the evening paper. For me, it was like looking into a mirror.

That had been the first time. Others had followed, several times for being found in the street too drunk to move, once for doing a favor for Wee Jimmy that turned into somebody trying to kill me, and me having to put somebody in hospital to save myself.

More recently I'd been brought in under the kindly eyes of Newman and Hardy on one pretence or another, and for various degrees of seriousness. Nothing before had ever been as bad as last night, though.

The waitress asking me if I wanted 'some fancies' jerked me awake. I hadn't noticed that I was in danger of falling asleep over my coffee. I fought off the urge for facetiousness and politely refused. Maybe I was getting more mature. On the other hand, maybe I was just tired.

Eileen wasn't on duty-I didn't know whether to be happy or sad at the fact.

"Is Eileen around?" I asked the waitress, who had just moved along to the next table.

"No, sir," she said. She was polite, but her eyes told a different story. "She's got the day off. But Mr. Durban's still in the shop."

So Eileen had told the other waitresses? That didn't bother me-if anything happened in the antique shop from now on, I was sure to get to know about it, now that they knew there was a tenner available for the right information.

There wasn't much activity around Durban and Lambert's, and I found my mind wandering, trying to make connections, but I still couldn't figure out who had killed the three men, or what it had to do with the amulet. I suspected that Dunlop was at the center of it all. I'd have to get round to interviewing him, and sooner rather than later. Thinking of him reminded me that I hadn't talked to my client for more than thirty-six hours.

This time her phone rang three times before she replied.

"Mr. Adams," she said, before I even spoke. "Are you any closer to finding it?"

"Every day in every way I'm getting closer and closer," I said. I didn't get any laughs this time.

"My husband is most anxious that you retrieve it," she said. "He is getting ill with worry."

"You could try singing to him?" I said. "A bit of light opera? 'Three Little Maids from School' maybe?"

I heard the sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line.

"You have been a busy boy," she said. "But don't get distracted with peripherals. The amulet is the thing you're getting paid to investigate, not my private life."

I wasn't too sure that they weren't inherently intertwined, but I let it ride for now.

"I need to talk to your husband," I said.

Her voice rose, and I heard anger in it.

"No," she almost shouted. "Find the amulet. And find it fast."

"But..."

"No. Don't you understand? If you don't find it soon, maybe even tonight, then more will die. Many more."

A cold chill settled in my spine.

"If I find out you were responsible for any of those deaths, I'll make sure you rot in hell," I said.

She gave a hollow laugh.

"I probably will anyway, Mr. Adams...I probably will anyway."

Then she hung up on me again.

I rang Doug.

"Hey, Derek." he said. "I came round to The Rock last night, and Tom at the bar said that the boys in blue had you. And I heard about Tommy McIntyre. Is everything okay?"

"Hunky dory, " I said. "I'm now a major suspect in three murders, my client is pissed off with me, and I spewed up all over Stan Newman's shoes. Things couldn't be better."

"Well, hold on to your hat," Doug said. "Here comes a newsflash. It's just been on the television that police want to interview an old Arabian gentleman who has been seen in the vicinity of two of the murders."

"They never told me about that," I said.

"They were probably waiting for you to mention it," Doug said.

"Aye. That's their style."

I thought for a bit.

"Did you find out anything more on Dunlop or the Amulet?" I asked.

"Just one thing," Doug said. "But you'll like it. Artie Dunlop is the great-grandson of the Dunlop who wrote the book, the archaeologist at the dig in Ur."

I thanked him, promised him a couple of free beers, and went back to my coffee.

I knew already that the name must be significant... now I had it confirmed. Things were beginning to fall into place, and I now had a theory concerning a feud over the artifacts brought back from the dig. All I had to do was find out who the feuding parties were and I'd finally have a cast-iron suspect. At the moment, all I had was Durban.

After an hour I noticed that two people had gone in to the antique shop and not come back out.

The first was a grandiose lady in high heels, fur coat and hat, looking like a refugee from one of those BBC character dramas set in an old country house. I was willing to bet that her handbag contained an expensive compact and perfumed handkerchief alongside some of those exclusive Russian cigarettes with the gold band around the filter.

She walked with the air of command, head held high, the sun glinting off her pearls and drop earrings. If she was a day under seventy I would be very much surprised.

The second was a very old gentleman, in a tweed suit with a battered trilby and a tartan bow tie. He needed help getting out of the taxi that brought him, and he only made it across the curb by leaning heavily on an ancient oak walking stick.

He looked like he had come down in the world-his suit showed signs of wear and his shoes were scuffed badly at the toes, but he still had the bearing and gait of an old military man. He also had the finest moustache I'd ever seen, stretching out three inches on either side of his cheeks and waxed to stiff points. He resembled nothing more than an old lion, thrown out of the pride, wounded, and running out of time fast.

Durban actually came out of the shop and helped him up the steps; otherwise the old man would have been trying for the rest of the afternoon.

There were several other customers, but these all left at some point. None of them looked in the least furtive, and several carried expensively wrapped packages under their arms.

At four o'clock the closed sign went up. I paid my bill and went to sit in the car, trying to look inconspicuous. Luckily, I didn't have long to wait-there was an over-officious traffic warden nearby who knew I only had a couple of minutes left on the meter I'd parked beside.

Five minutes later Durban left with the two I had seen earlier and got into a car parked just down the street. I had a momentary panic when my car's engine turned over but wouldn't kick into life.

"Come on, darling-be nice," I whispered, and she responded, not quite purring like a cat, more croaking like a toad as I got going and followed at a discreet distance.

It wasn't easy-Durban was a very careful, very slow driver, and I found myself almost screaming in frustration as we crawled through the city, headed south. I managed to drop into place three cars behind them as we wandered slowly through the early rush hour traffic going across the Kingston Bridge. I needn't have bothered; Durban was very much an 'eyes forward at all times' driver.

As usual, the dual carriageway had attracted its fair share of dick-heads, and I was cut off on several occasions, but I always managed to keep Durban in sight. I had a bad moment when I thought they were headed for the airport, but they kept on going past the turn-off, then headed down the slip road for Irvine and North Ayrshire. Traffic was thinner now and I had to hang further back.

Luckily the car was quite distinctive-there weren't any other old 1960's Rovers on the road and I had little trouble following as they headed out into the country.

I had stopped concentrating, singing along to an old Elvis number on the radio, so I nearly missed it when they pulled off into a roadside petrol station in Beith. I just managed to get in to the forecourt behind them, taking a small delight in making the jerk behind me brake hard-he'd been driving just three feet from me, trying to get me to go faster. He obviously wasn't paying attention or he'd have known that my tin bucket was going at top speed anyway.

There was a problem with pulling in to the station, though-I found myself only three feet away from the Rover's back bumper at the petrol pumps.

What followed was pure pantomime. I got out of my car turned half backwards, having to twist my whole body round so that Durban couldn't see my face. He was already out of the Rover and walking around it to the pumps. He passed within two yards of me, but didn't raise his head.

I got round the back of my car and got fuel in, all the time with my back to the car in front.

"Hey, Jimmy," a voice said, and I turned to see a pimply youth at the parallel pump. "They don't have CCTV-if you're going to run without paying, just do it. The cops round here are too lazy to chase you."

I tried to look shocked.

"I'm not going without paying," I said.

"Oh, yeah," the kid said in an American accent. "Tell it to the judge."

Some times it gets like that-everybody you meet is trying to be someone else.

By this time Durban was already on his way to the kiosk to pay. I finished up quickly and followed behind, all the time trying to keep my face hidden.

I dropped into the queue two places behind him. He walked right past me after he'd paid, but I pretended to look at the newspapers, and he didn't glance my way.

They had fresh doughnuts at the counter-thick, floury things coated in sugar. Usually they wouldn't have appealed at all, but my stomach suddenly reminded me that I hadn't eaten all day. I bought a bag of six.

Once I'd paid I was too busy congratulating myself on my skill at avoiding Durban and turned away from the counter, right into the face of the old lady in the fur coat.

She squealed, a small, almost dog-like bark of surprise, and dropped her purse, scattering small coins all over the floor where they proceeded to run under the counters as if they'd been pulled there on strings.