Two-Way Split (15 page)

He stepped outside. Dirty cotton wool clouds filled the sky. He slung the holdall in the back seat of the car and tilted the rear-view mirror. Why did he do that? There was no need, since the mirror was exactly as he'd left it. Carol hadn't been anywhere near the car, so he didn't need to adjust the mirror.
Neck in a twist?
He had to keep it together. He took a deep breath.
Keep him at bay.

Six feet in front of the car, four pigeons were pecking at the ground. When he turned on the ignition, three flew off. He revved the engine and the remaining pigeon's head bobbed up and down. Briefly, its wings fluttered. For a moment, it looked as though it was about to hop forward, but it stayed where it was, unwilling to relinquish its roadside snack.

Robin stepped out of the car and walked towards the bird. "I need you to get out of the way," he said. "What's the matter? You got a death wish?"

The pigeon shook its head and took off, hardly flapping its wings. Effortlessly, it hovered into place on a nearby lamppost and cocked its head.

Robin returned to the Clio and squeezed himself into the seat. His new coat was heavy. His arms felt clumsy, like weights were pressing down on them. The fabric was making his wrists itch.
Do it.
He bounced his palms off the steering wheel.
Do it, do it, do it.
He pulled out from the kerb.
Neck in a twist?
That would be a bit of a bloomer.

He remembered nothing of the drive to Eddie's flat. Suddenly he was there, crawling along Polwarth Gardens, searching for a place to park. As usual there was little choice and the fact that he didn't want to park too close to the flat further reduced his options. He found a space big enough for the Clio at the end of the road. He reverse parked and cut the engine. Slumped in his seat, he had an angled view of Eddie's second floor flat. If he leaned forward he could see the tenement block's bright red entrance door. Carol was up there right now. Sucking Eddie.

Robin clutched the knife in his pocket. Could he do this?

On the pavement opposite, a young woman turned and shouted at a toddler lagging several feet behind, splashing in a puddle. The toddler bent his head and shuffled forward. She waited. When he was close enough, she grabbed his arm and shook him. He didn't react. She smacked him. Still he didn't react. She yelled at him and smacked him harder. He started to bawl.

A bus trundled past and stopped at the end of the street. Nobody got out. A skinny teenage girl in flared trousers got on.

A light drizzle began to dot the windscreen. Cars buzzed past in swarms. Mother and toddler vanished into a newsagents on the corner of the street. Robin took the knife out of its sheath and scraped the blade over the fine hairs on the back of his hand.

Yes, he could do this.

When he looked up again, Carol was standing in Eddie's doorway.  Very clever. They both knew how punctual Robin was. She'd timed it well. If he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn she'd just arrived.

9:47 am

The kitchen was hot and smelled of fried sausages.

Ask her for the gun.
Pearce finished his fourth piece of toast and marmalade and said, "No more. I couldn't."

Ailsa poured a fresh cup of coffee. When she leaned forward, he saw down her front.
Oh, Jesus. Stop staring at her tits.
He moved his plate to the side, adding it to the small pile already assembled, shuffling the knives and forks around until she sat down again.
Ask her.
Her chair was at the side of the little table. She crossed her legs and her foot dangled inches from his shin.

He added some milk from the carton and took a sip of coffee. "I need your gun," he said.

"Don't be stupid."

"Give me the gun, Ailsa."

"Look, Pearce, I know—"

"If you don't give me your gun, I'll pick one up somewhere else."

"It's not that easy."

"You found one no problem."

"I've got a dark past. I used to know some bad people."

"What am I? A saint?"

"I don't know who you are." She brushed her newly dyed hair out of her eyes. "What are you going to do with it?"

He took another sip of coffee. He stared at her, holding her gaze. She really did look much younger. "Kill somebody."

"For Christ's sake." She looked away, tongue sticking through slightly parted lips. Her eyelashes fluttered, then her tongue slid back in her mouth. "That's really stupid. Why?"

"You need to ask that?" He cradled his mug in both hands. He pressed his palms together, imagining the mug breaking like a skull in a vice.

"Let the police handle it."

"Let's say Thompson had gone too far." He eased the pressure on the mug, picked it up and drank the rest of his coffee. "Let's say he had killed Rebecca. What would you have done?"

"I can't think about that, Pearce."

"Twiddled your fingers while Thompson laughed at you? Sat around doing nothing while the police went through the motions of looking for your daughter's murderer? You think they give a shit?" He paused. "You already have the gun. You're halfway there. You're only missing the ammo. If Thompson had killed Rebecca you'd have found a way to get some bullets, wouldn't you?" When she didn't reply he asked her again, "Wouldn't you?"

Slowly she nodded her head.

"Help me, Ailsa."

"Oh, God, Pearce."

"I'm taking the gun," he said. "If you want to give me a name or a phone number for the ammo, I'd be grateful."

She slumped forward as if her neck was broken. "Ben doesn't give out his phone number."

"That his name? Ben? Ben what?"

"That's all I know. Anyway, I doubt it's his real name."

"Where can I find him?"

She raised her head. Her eyes were closed. "I'll tell him what you need."

He said, "When?"

She opened her eyes. "Pass me your mobile."

He handed it to her.

"This is a bad idea." She started to dial. "You'll end up in prison. Or worse." She punched in the last number and held the phone to her ear. "Alice?" Her voice carried a false gaiety. "Yeah, fine. Joe-Bob around?"

Pearce carried the dishes over to the sink.

"Aha. I'll try again in twenty minutes."

He turned on the tap and tested the temperature with his thumb. "You seriously expect me to believe that there's someone living in Edinburgh called Joe-Bob?"

"How do you know I dialled an Edinburgh number?" She laid the phone on the table.

"Of course," he said. "I was forgetting. Glasgow's famous for its Joe-Bobs."

"Joe-Bob lives in Haddington, if you must know. And it's a nickname. He hates country music." She moved towards him. "And, no, I've no idea what his real name is."

"Joe-Bob?" He squirted a generous coating of washing-up liquid over the dishes.

"Honest to God." She was standing next to him, resting her buttocks against what was probably the cutlery drawer.

"So where does he fit in?"

"Friend of Ben's. He'll set things up for us."

"Why can't we set things up ourselves?" He turned off the tap.

"Ben doesn't work that way."

"What, he only talks through an interpreter?" He grabbed a plate and wiped a streak of baked bean sauce off it.

"Ben sells weapons." She folded her arms. "He's careful who he talks to."

He rinsed the plate and slotted it in the drying rack. "How come you know this guy?" She looked down at the floor. "Sorry," he said, plunging his hands back into the soapy water. "None of my business."

Her hand moved across her face. Her fingertips traced the curve of her eyebrow. "Joe-Bob used to be my dealer."

Water splashed onto the linoleum as Pearce grabbed her wrist.  His fingers were slippery. Soapsuds popped on the back of his hand. His forearm itched as water trickled towards his elbow. She yelled and wrenched her hand out of his grip.

"What's wrong with you?" She balled her fists. "Huh? You want to see my track marks, is that it?" She spread her fingers and brought her arms together, exposing their white undersides. She clenched her fists again. "Well?"

He examined her veins. They looked normal. "I don't see anything."

"You don't get track marks from smack, Shithead. You smoke it."

He nodded. "You ever mainlined?"

She shook her head.

"Ever tempted?"

"Of course." She looked at the floor. "Despite seeing what it did to my friends." She raised her head. "Christ, what is this?"

"You clean, now?"

"What do you think?"

"You said Joe-Bob used to be your dealer. That could mean you've stopped taking drugs. But it could also mean you've found a new dealer."

"I don't want to talk about this any more."

Pearce tipped the water out of the basin.

"You asked how I knew Joe-Bob," she said. "Now you know and I hope you're happy."

He looked for a towel to dry his hands.

She watched him for a minute, then reached under the counter, pulled a dishtowel off a hook and tossed it to him. "I thought you were nice."

He dried his hands, folded the towel in half, folded it again and placed it on the counter next to the sink. "You saying you'd prefer it if I didn't care what you stick in your veins?"

"It's none of your business."

"Right."

"Anyway, I told you, I've never injected." She padded towards the table and sat down. "I never did much smack, even. Joe-Bob ran a sideline in Temgesic. That was my poison."

Pearce's knowledge of Temgesic came from two sources. In a random drug test during his time at Barlinnie two percent of the prison population had tested positive for Temgesic. That was an impressive one point five percent more than cocaine. Also, his sister had used Temgesic more than once to tide her over to her next fix. In both cases the explanation for his source of information was too personal to reveal to a woman he'd only just met. No, that wasn't it. Ailsa would find out about his past one way or the other. Either he could tell her or she'd read it second hand, splattered all over the papers. No way the press would miss the opportunity to cash in on an ex-jailbird headline. Well, in her own sweet words, it was none of her business. He forced himself to frown.

"Pills," she explained. "Buprenorphine. Synthetic morphine. Heroin substitute, basically. With an intensely euphoric side effect. Joe-Bob used to get a steady supply from addicts who got them on prescription to help wean them off heroin. Never worked, of course. Temgesic just became a kind of currency. Part exchange for a fix."

"And you bought these pills from Joe-Bob?"

"For a while, yeah."

"But you don't any more."

"Do I look like a junkie? Anyway, he doesn't deal these days."