The No. 2 Global Detective (15 page)

‘We're oan the marcch wi' Ally's aarmy, We're goin' to the Argenteeen, And we'll really shake 'em up, When we win the worrruld cup, For Scoatland are the greates' fitba' team. EASY!'

A scuffle had broken out. Just which Scotch World Cup football team was the worst? 1978? 1982? Each of the successive years had a champion. A chair was broken over the back of the man who suggested 1998 and the man who supported the 2002 team had a glass broken in his face.

‘I might need a favour from you,' Rhombus asked Shortbread, ducking as a beer glass flew past his ear. This was more like it, thought Shortbread, watching the glass smash on the wall above his heid.

‘Anything,' she said.

‘I've a meeting scheduled with Wee Wm Low McTartan this afternoon and I don't want it leaking out that I've been ‘given time off for good behaviour'.'

Shortbread understood. Or thought she did. Behind her came the sound of a man being choked to death. Someone hit someone else with a pool cue.

‘I'll make sure no one blabs. Why are you meeting Wee Wm Low?'

It was a good question. Why was he meeting Wee Wm Low? On the immediate level they would probably have a drink together and it was nice, occasionally, to take a drink with someone else. But on the deeper level Rhombus was not sure why he was drawn to the company of Wee Wm Low. What did such a relationship say about him? What did it say about Wee Wm Low and, perhaps most importantly of all, what did it say about Scotland as a nation? Not much perhaps, but there you are.

‘There's one or two wee questions I need to ask him,' Rhombus said evasively. He lapped at his pint and was unable to hold Mary Shortbread's eye. He wondered how much she knew about the possible existence of a sinister police organisation that someone in the grip of Nordic myth-making frenzy had called The Grey Wolves.

The Grey Wolves were criminals in uniform, an organisation begun by those policemen who had spent too long on the fine line between law enforcement and law infringement. The organisation's tentacles stretched who knew how far. All the way to the top, all the way to the bottom. New recruits were as likely to be members as the Chief Superintendent himself. It was thought they were mixed up in everything from prostitution (some of them were very attractive, joked Rhombus to himself), to gun-running, drugs, booze and of course, the supply of fatty foods to minors. If anything big went down, chances are the Grey Wolves were behind it, and if it wasn't the Grey Wolves, then someone, somewhere, would have been paid off to turn a blind eye.

But it was difficult to know who they were. Could DS Shortbread be a member? Rhombus doubted it. He watched her now as she walked away, on her way back to the station. Would there ever be anything between them? People asked all the time. He had thought about it too, on those long nights when he sat wide awake, regretting the absence of a proper sidekick, regretting not having anything more memorable than a SAAB to drive around the place and, of course, Dwelling on his Time in the SAS.

He would pace his flat then, trying to resist the lure of the great pile of automotive catalogues that he had built up over the years, trying to resist the siren call of
The Best of Top Gear
, series 1–9, on video. The next-door neighbours would usually be playing their music. He had got rid of the last lot – a gay man who played Dollar records late at night – by fitting him up for dealing heroin within school grounds and the poor sod was now serving ten to twelve years in Barlinnie Jail. That had certainly learned him. He would have to come up with something new for this new lot, though, thought Rhombus, wistfully downing another pint.

After DS Shortbread had gone back to the cop shop, Rhombus waited in the bar of the Oxymoron quietly supping another couple of pints, giving the jungle drums time to work their magic, before he heided north in his battered SAAB, down Dundas Street, only occasionally wondering if it was dangerous to drive when he was drunk enough to see two steering wheels.

‘Wha' the hell? No matter. I've got four hands.'

The SASA meeting took place in a draughty hall off the Broughton Road. Rhombus let the heavy grey door slam behind him and crossed to one of the battered chairs that the coordinator had arranged in a tight circle in the middle of the planked floor. Five or six men were there already, regulars, faces tight, muscular bodies beginning to get out of condition. Each man wore a black block over his eyes except the coordinator, whose face was pixellated. The coordinator turned to Scott as he took his chair and nodded. Scott stood up and spoke.

‘My name is Scott and I Dwell on my Time in the SAS.'

There was a deep mumble of sympathy from the men gathered round.

‘This morning I did it five times before I got to work.'

‘I feel for you, pal,' said the coordinator.

DI Scott ‘Just Now' Rhombus needed these meetings just to keep himself sane. When it was bad, he attended as many as three a day and, even when it was good, he would make time for at least one a week. He needed to be able to share his problem with men who would not judge him.

He left the meeting feeling more grounded, less confused than when he had arrived. Hearing those old SAS stories reminded him he was not the only one who Dwelt. He got into the SAAB and heided out towards his appointment with Wee Wm Low McTartan in a cavernous chilled warehouse on the Dooneybridge side of Edinburgh. It was piled high with cardboard boxes, all bearing the image of a Highland piper in full regalia, and Rhombus, seeing straight now, was able to read the contents on one of the labels. Huchta-Chuchta Foods. 36 × 18 × 6 Scottish eggs
⁷
. Best before 07.09.09. Export only.

‘Scottish eggs is it now, Wm Low?' he asked. ‘Or is it Scottish Mist
⁸
?'

Wee Wm Low burst out laughing.

‘Oh you always were a one, Rhombus. Always making your wee jokes.'

Wm Low McTartan was Rhombus's worst nightmare. He was wearing a cream linen suit that clashed horribly with his red hair, a dark shirt and tie, and he was smoking a Cuban cigar. On his lap he gripped a small ginger-haired dog that was, even now, coughing. His voice was smoky and rough and his skin was covered in green tattoos. Some men might look ridiculous in such an outfit, but Wm Low exuded naked menace. He really did.

‘Cup of tea?' he asked.

‘Why do you want to see me?' Rhombus asked. No time for niceties.

‘Why do you always answer a question with a question?'

Rhombus shrugged.

‘You've never heard of banter, I suppose?' he asked.

‘A little bird tells me that you might just have some time on your hands at the moment?' continued McTartan.

‘Aye. Mebbe. What of it?' Rhombus said. The jungle drums had done their work once again, he thought.

‘I've a little project you might be interested in. Keep you busy. Stop you moping about the place. Stop you Dwelling on your Time in the SAS, if you ken wha' I mean.'

‘What sort of project?' asked Rhombus.

Wm Low waved a hand to take in all the boxes that were piled about them on pallets.

‘What do you know about Scottish eggs, Scott?'

‘That they represent Scotland's past and, to a certain extent, her future?'

Good answer, thought Rhombus, but Wee Wm Low McTartan rolled his eyes. He stubbed out his cigar. A whorl of grey smoke ascended into the rafters. The dog coughed politely.

‘Well, there is that. But as you may have read in the paper, the Food Standards Agency Scotland has banned them. Says they're too ‘unhealthy', too ‘disgusting', too full of E-numbers, salt, fat, pig gristle, duck beak, chicken foot, sugar, whatever. Give you botulism, salmonella, trench foot, bird flu, you name it.'

Rhombus had read something about this ban but had assumed it was a myth, dreamt up by English tabloid journalists in the pay of Peter Mandelson or someone very like him.

‘Thing is, Scott, the French and Italians cannot get enough of them. All they want are Scottish eggs.
Petit déjeuner, déjeuner et dîner.
More than that, though. The Chinese.'

‘The Chinese? What are they wanting with Scottish eggs?' asked Rhombus.

‘Aphrodisiacs, y'ken? They think they work as well as snow-leopard foreskins.'

‘And you've tried running them down the M1 and the M6 and on to Dover, eh? But you're always being stopped.'

‘Aye,' agreed McTartan. ‘We've lost three shipments in the past fortnight. The bloody FSAS seem to know our every move.'

He was stroking the dog rapidly now, a gelid gleam in his eye.

‘So you've got a mole?'

‘Aye. A mole. I have dealt with him in my own way, of course.'

‘I'll not ask how you got rid of the body,' murmured Rhombus, looking at the boxes of Scottish eggs all round him.

McTartan smiled toothlessly.

‘Aye. There was an accident at the production plant.'

‘Christ.'

‘Meanwhile the Italians and the French and the Chinese are getting desperate for their Scottish eggs and if I don't supply them—'

‘Someone else will, eh?' interrupted Rhombus. Gangsters adored a vacuum, he thought.

‘Exactly,' said Wm Low. ‘I need to send a shipment tonight. Three lorries. Six drivers.'

‘How will you get them past the FSAS?'

‘This is where you come in. I have managed to get my hands on three black Marias—'

‘And you are going to fill them with Scottish eggs and then drive them south, through all the road blocks, pretending they're full of hairy-arsed Scotch prisoners that the English will not even want to look at. And you want me to show them my warrant card if we are pulled over.'

Wm Low smiled.

‘I'm impressed,' he said.

‘There's one thing you have forgotten about,' Rhombus said. ‘Even I can't drive six lorries.'

‘Ah! But that is all taken care of. I have five other, how shall I put it? ‘Associates'.'

‘The Grey Wolves?'

‘I've heard they're called that, but eh? What do I know? Any wolf is grey in the dark am I no' right?'

‘Who are these fellas?' he asked.

‘Oh, just you wait and see,' cackled Wm Low McTartan. ‘Just you wait and see.'

^7.
The term ‘Scotch egg' has fallen out of fashion after a campaign run by the Scotch Nationalist Party who claimed ‘Scotch' was offensive, and referred only to tape.

^8.
Same.

Inspector Scott Rhombus was drunk. A bottle of whisky, four tins of 80/- and Jefferson Airplane ‘Have you Seen the Saucers' at top volume on the stereo. He was sitting in bed, duvet pulled up to his chin, trying desperately not to Dwell on his Time in the SAS. He had Dwelt on his Time in the SAS only three times so far that day – an abstinence, as far as he was concerned.

He tried to work out why was there no question mark at the end of Jefferson Airplane's song title, but had Drawn a Blank. After that, he thought about what he was doing involving himself with McTartan. McTartan had known not to offer Rhombus money, known he would refuse it, insulted. Instead the wee man had filled out a ten pound a month Direct Debit form in favour of DrinkforDrunks, a local charity that delivered tinnies to any Scot, regardless of race, creed, age or gender, who might be too drunk to get to the pub. The charity's motorbikes, with cooled compartments on the back, criss-crossed the town, delivering urgent alcohol to distressed Scotch folk everywhere.

But still the questions remained. Why was McTartan showing him the Scottish egg operation? Surely he knew Rhombus would go straight to the FSAS? Perhaps he had something on Rhombus? But what? Or was this the first overture from the Grey Wolves? It was something that had been bothering him all day.

After he had left McTartan's warehouse that afternoon, he had rung DS Shortbread on his mobile and had her read out the autopsy report on poor old Wee Jock ‘Jocky' McTunnock
^®
. It made depressing reading, right enough, but there was something strange about it and so Rhombus had returned to walk the New Town streets in the thereabouts. Why would an old man like that simply walk into a pond? His blood-alcohol content was high, of course, but not fantastically so for a man of his profession, so it could not have been said that he was literally blind drunk. He did not have much to live for, that was true enough, but still there was something that was bothering about it.

He had later found himself on Abercromby Place. The scene-of-crime guys had moved on, taking their tent with them – which would have pleased His Nibs, thought Rhombus sourly – and leaving the gardens in peace. Rhombus walked around to find the gate he had used to get in that morning locked. He tried another. That too was locked. Then it hit him. An old guy like Wee Jock ‘Jocky' McTunnock
^®
would not have been able to get into the garden in the first place. The fence was too high for all but the most athletic to scale.

He must have been taken to the pond.

Rhombus would have to wait for the results to come back from the lab, but his guess was that someone had dragged the old man into the pond and held his heid under the water.

As he had made his way back to his flat, he had realised that the only questions that remained unanswered were the Why and the Who.

Which were pretty big questions perhaps, and neither of which he would be very likely to answer as he sat in bed getting stuck in to the cheesy-ringed outside of a carry-out deep-pan pizza and another tinny.

‘Ah, what blessed company,' he said aloud, referring to his supper. Just then the doorbell rang. It was the first time that night. People were always disturbing him when he was Dwelling on his Time in the SAS. He looked at his watch and realised that it was about time for the second body to turn up.

It was DS Shortbread. Something had happened.

‘The man who looked after Queen Street Gardens East has just been found deid in his sheid.'