Two-Way Split
Authors: Allan Guthrie
TWO-WAY SPLIT
by
Allan Guthrie
This edition copyright 2011 Allan Guthrie
Original edition copyright 2004, Allan Guthrie.
First published by PointBlank Press, 2004
Published in the UK by Polygon, 2005
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by JT Lindroos
Cover photograph by Lukasz Kryger
www.flickr.com/photos/_kryger/3175366848
Visit the author's website at:
Visit Criminal-E, Allan Guthrie's ebook crime fiction blog, at:
http://criminal-e.blogspot.com
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Version 3-2-4
Also available on Kindle by Allan Guthrie
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For my wife, Donna
PART ONE
11
th
JANUARY, 2001
10:23 am
Four months and twenty-two days after he stopped taking his medication, Robin Greaves dragged the chair out from under the desk and sat down opposite the private investigator.
After all this time, everything still seemed normal.
As the PI shuffled through a stack of papers he'd scooped out of a plastic tray, Robin glanced round the office. It didn't take long. A desk, the chairs they were sitting on, a filing cabinet, a plain grey carpet with a rectangular indentation to the left of the doorway (a heavy piece of furniture had once stood there, he guessed) – that was it. Behind the PI, a framed certificate hung at an angle on the wall and, above his head, a bare bulb dangled from the ceiling. The only natural light came from a single tiny window on the right.
Well, Robin thought, here he was. About to find out, at last. That's what he wanted, wasn't it?
Hands hidden beneath the desk, he started to tap out Bach's Italian Concerto on his thighs, fingers making little slapping sounds against his trousers. The PI glared at him for a second or two, then returned to the serious business of scrutinising his papers.
Robin winced as a twinge in his wrist momentarily paralysed his fingers. When the stabbing pain passed, he locked his hands together and squeezed them between his knees. He took a deep breath. As much as he wanted to know the truth, part of him would have preferred to remain ignorant.
The PI coughed. After a while he coughed again and began placing each sheet of paper, individually, back in the tray from which, only moments before, he'd removed it. When he'd finished, he stood slowly, as if his knees needed oiling, and approached the grey, three-drawer filing cabinet crammed in the corner of the room. He tugged at the middle drawer. It didn't budge. He opened the top drawer, fiddled with a catch on the side, shut it and tried the middle drawer again. This time it slid open.
He started flicking through dozens of green suspension files, tongue darting in and out of his puckered mouth as he sought the information Robin had requested.
Robin stood. "Mind if I smoke?"
"Yes."
Robin shrugged and walked towards the window. A fire escape fragmented his view of a pebble-dashed brick wall four feet away. Hardly the finest vista in Edinburgh. He tapped his fingers against the windowpane, listening to the deep drumming sound, wondering why it was so unlike the tinkle glass makes when it breaks. "You going to be long?" he said.
"Be with you in just a second."
Robin wedged his hands in his trouser pockets and bent his knees. With his head craned back just far enough to be uncomfortable, he could see a sliver of grey sky. He ambled back to his chair, took his hands out of his pockets and rubbed his left eye with the back of his wrist. For a while he sat motionless, observing the PI. Then a muffled cry came from outside, where a crow was perched on the far railing of the fire escape. It shuffled to the left, stopped. Another two steps, stopped again. It looked straight at Robin, opened its beak and squawked.
If it was trying to tell him something, it was wasting its time.
The PI slammed the drawer shut and turned, gripping a white envelope between his finger and thumb as if it was a soiled tissue. He lobbed the envelope onto the desk.
Robin trapped it beneath his palm and let his hand rest there as he gazed out the window, watching the crow fly away.
"Go ahead," the PI said. "Open it."
The envelope was unsealed. Robin reached inside and removed a handful of photographs.
"You wanted proof." The PI sat down.
Robin said nothing. Did he really want proof? Did he really want to know? The skin over his cheekbones prickled as if he'd been out in the sun too long.
Proof. Photographs. He couldn't look. Didn't want to see them.
Don't look. Don't do it. Don't. Oh, shit, you've done it now.
The first photo. A couple getting into a taxi. By itself, proof of nothing. He let out a long breath. They could be going out for a friendly drink. The fact that his hand was on her elbow was, well…you could easily read too much into something perfectly innocent.
This was Robin's first visit to
Eye Witness Investigations.
He didn't know the private detective's name and he'd never asked. He didn't care. His solitary prior contact with the
PI had been over the phone.
Robin had said, "I need you to watch someone."
The PI replied, "May I ask why?"
"I want to find out if she's…seeing anybody." Robin hesitated. "Can you do that?"
"I can do that."
"How much?"
"Three hundred a day."
"Give me proof within seventy-two hours and you get fifteen hundred. You need a deposit?"
The PI said, "That won't be necessary. Just give me your name and a contact number."
"The name's Robin Greaves. I'd rather you didn't phone me, though. I'll get in touch with you."
"Let me write this down." The PI broke off for a second, then said, "What's her name?"
The sound of gunfire blasted through the paper-thin walls of Robin's sitting room. He would have jumped if it weren't for the fact that by now he was used to his elderly neighbour watching Westerns on his TV with the volume cranked up. God, this was hard. Finally, he spoke. "Carol," he said. "My wife." He gave the PI their address.
Within seventy-two hours, he'd said. He couldn't complain. He was getting the service he'd asked for.
He slapped the picture face down on the desk. His palms were sweaty. In the next picture the photographer had snapped them from behind, catching them holding hands.
"I'm sorry," the PI said.
Who did he think he was? Who was he to be sorry?
When Robin looked at the third photo he noticed his hand was shaking. The picture showed the couple entering a nightclub. The next shot, in which they were laughing, had been taken as they left. In the fifth, Eddie had his arm around her. In the sixth, Carol had her fingers tucked in his back pocket. There were ten photographs in all. The remaining four showed the same scene: his wife and her good friend Eddie in the doorway to his flat, joined at the neck, the chest, hips, his arms twisted around her, her eyes closed.
