Beggars Banquet (16 page)

Which is why Chick Morrison went to the casino the night his wife finally walked out. She’d left a note explaining that she wasn’t leaving
him
; it was just that she couldn’t stand his habits any longer. He tore her note up. It had taken her several attempts: the rejects were little crumpled balls in the kitchen bin. He lifted each one out and spread them on the table, trying to work out their chronological sequence. It wasn’t just a matter of the shortest one being the first attempt: each began on a different tack.

She was leaving him because she felt lost, and had to find herself.

She was leaving him because it would be cruel not to.

She was leaving him - well, he had to admire her for all the effort she’d taken, all the effort she’d felt he merited. Or maybe she just didn’t want him going after her. The thing was, he’d already started - started and finished, really. He’d been following her on and off for three weeks, had seen her enter the man’s house, had watched her leave, patting her hair back into place. He’d taken to tailing the man, too, not knowing why: wondering, maybe, if he could learn something, something about the kind of man his wife wanted him to be. But all he’d felt was growing tiredness, and, in a moment of sharp lucidity, that he didn’t care any more, didn’t love her any more.

Which didn’t make it any easier to just let her go. He’d wondered about killing her, making ever more convoluted plans. He knew the problem with murder was that the spouse was always first in the frame. So the murder had to be
perfect
. He needed either a cast-iron alibi or to make sure the body was never found. It was a matter of pride, wasn’t it? For years, on and off, he’d enjoyed the fantasy of being the one to walk out, the one to make the break. And now she’d beaten him to it:
she
was the one starting the new life; which meant
he
was the one who’d been left in the lurch. He didn’t like that. He resolved to do something about it.

What he did was drive into Aberdeen, park the car, and hit the pubs and clubs. And at closing time, as he was being escorted from the final hostelry, he’d seen lights and smoked-glass doors with an illuminated staircase behind them. The casino.

Lucky at cards, unlucky in love. He’d proven the latter; it was time to give the former a chance.

Walked in, watched for a little while, getting a feel for the place. That was what he did, in his line of work: he tried to fit in as quickly as possible, melt into the scenery. The person you didn’t notice as you left your hotel assignation or partook of a final embrace in an apparently empty car park. Those were the moments when Chick would catch you with his camera, making sure you were in the frame.

But that night, he felt he wanted to be seen. So he sat in on a card game. Did all right at first, losing a little here, winning a hand or two there. He was not a natural card-player. He knew how to play, knew all about card-counting, but wasn’t up to it. He liked to pretend games were all about luck rather than the playing of percentages.

He wrote out a cheque, backed it with his banker’s card. The new stack of chips arrived and he began the dogged task of giving them away. His occasional brash bets were whittled away to steady tosses of a single chip into the pot. It was late into the night; most of the tables were quiet. Gamblers who’d finished for the evening were standing around the table, a phalanx which seemed to constrain those still playing. To get up and leave . . . in front of an
audience
. It would have been like walking away from a fight.

He slid another chip across the smooth green cloth, received a card. There were four people playing, but he felt it had become personal between himself and the sweating man opposite. He could smell the man, could feel his heavy breath brushing his cheek and cooling it. The man had an American accent: fat-cat oil-executive-type. So when his opponent won for the umpteenth time, that was enough for Chick. He had found an escape clause, a way to get out without losing face.

He leapt to his feet, accused the man of cheating. People were telling him to calm down. They were
telling
him he was just not a very good player. Saying it wasn’t his night, but there’d be others. He was looking around for whoever had said he wasn’t any good. His eyes landed on those of the American, who seemed to be smiling as he pulled the chips in with a thick, hairless arm. Chick pointed at the man.

‘I’ll have you, pal.’

‘If you get lucky,’ the man said.

Then there were security men on Chick, hauling him out of there as he yelled back at the table, face red from embarrassment, knowing his escape clause had turned sour on him, same as everything else. One of the other players was leaning over to talk to the fat man as Chick was dragged away. He got the idea the man was telling the winner who his opponent had been.

‘Chick Morrison!’ Chick called out to the room. ‘And don’t you ever forget it!’

The messages were not important. There was another machine at his office, and it would be collecting any offers of work. Eventually, he knew he’d go to the office, get back into a routine. He tried telling himself he was enjoying the break. All he ever did in his job was provide photos for suspicious spouses.

There was nothing from his wife. He thought about heading to her new beau’s house - wouldn’t
that
surprise them? - but didn’t. One or two past and potential clients did call him. His home phone number was part of the message they got if they called his office, though it warned them to call his home only in an emergency. The calls he listened to didn’t sound like emergencies. A woman who was on her third husband. She’d had him investigate all three. He’d reported back that they were all good and true and faithful, but she didn’t sound convinced.

A man who was on the run from his wife. She wanted maintenance payments, money the man said he didn’t have. Now he thought she’d hired a private detective, and wanted to hire one of his own to find out.

And how, Chick wondered, was
he
going to get paid, when the man had no money for maintenance . . . ? Some of these people . . .

But then
she
rang. And the sound of her voice made him replay the tape. And on the third play, he found himself reaching for pen and notepad, taking down her number, calling her back.

It was after hours at the car showroom. She’d told him the door would be open, he could let himself in. To get to her office, he’d walked past a gleaming display of supercars. Chick had never been inside the showroom before; knew there was nothing here he’d be able to afford.

She held out her hand and he took it. She was a well-preserved fifty, expensive hair and just the right amount of make-up. He told her he’d always imagined the J. Gemmell of J. Gemmell Motors would be a man. She smiled.

‘Surprises a lot of people. The J’s for Jacqueline.’

He sat down opposite her, asked what it was he could do for her. She told him she had a repo job.

‘That’s what they call it, isn’t it?’

Chick nodded, though he wasn’t sure himself. He took down details as she told him about the car. It was a top-of-the-range Lexus, bought on credit. The last two monthly payments hadn’t come through, and the buyer had done a bunk.

‘I put word out discreetly,’ she told Chick. ‘I don’t want it getting about that I’m an easy target. That’s where you come in.’ She told him a garage on the outskirts of Inverness had reported the Lexus stopping for petrol. The driver had told the attendant he was on his way to his holiday place in the hills above Loch Ness. ‘I want you to find him, Mr Morrison, and bring my car back here.’

Chick nodded. He was still nodding as she brought a roll of banknotes from her drawer and proceeded to peel off ten fifties.

‘I get a lot of cash customers,’ she said with a wink. ‘Hard to bank the stuff without the taxman taking an interest.’

Chick pocketed the money. Then he asked for the driver’s name.

‘Jack Grover,’ she told him. ‘He has a personalised number plate.’ As she went on to describe Grover, a smile spread over Chick’s face. She saw it and broke off.

‘You know him?’

Chick told her he thought he did. He shrugged like it was the most natural thing in the world, and added that knowing people was his job, after all. She looked impressed. As he was leaving, he had a thought.

‘Any chance of a test-drive some day?’ he asked.

She smiled at him. ‘Bring back my Lexus, you can have your pick of the showroom.’

Chick was actually blushing as he left.

On the drive west, thoughts raced through Chick’s mind. A body could disappear in a loch and never be found. Then there were the Highlands themselves, remote and unvisited. A corpse could lie there for months, becoming unrecognisable. And the roads around Loch Ness were treacherous . . . an accident could have you over the side.

He asked at the tourist board about holiday cottages in the area, got a list. But it might be a private house, so he bought himself an Ordnance Survey map. Each little black dot was a building. He made a triangle of Inverness, Beauly and Urquhart Castle. Somewhere in here, he felt, he would find the Lexus and its driver, Jack Grover, the man who’d beaten him at cards.

The roads were narrow and steep, the land empty except for the occasional croft or recently built bungalow. He stopped to ask questions, not being subtle about it. A man in a big silver car: had anyone seen him? He was living nearby. He spent two days like this, two days of rejection, silence and slow shakes of the head. Two days spent mostly by himself. To save money and the journey back to Inverness, he slept in his Ford Mondeo, parking it on forest tracks. He knew he needed a shave and change of clothes, but those could wait. He wanted the job finished, because now he had a plan of sorts. It was stupid to blame his wife, to think of harming her. Her new man . . . well, that was for the future maybe. But Jack Grover, on the other hand . . . he just
had
to rub
his
nose in it. Just to show him he could.

He was thinking these things when he found the Lexus. It was parked in full view, outside a two-storey house on the outskirts of Milton. Chick stopped his car by the roadside and looked around. The house seemed quiet. He drove into Milton and left his car there - it could be picked up later. Then, taking his camera with him, he walked back to the Lexus, took another look around, and got to work. He was sweating by the time he’d got the door open and started the ignition. He got his camera ready and sounded the horn, wanting Grover to see him making off in the car, wanting a photo of the moment of triumph. But no one came to the door. Chick tried again; still no one came. He felt deflated as he sped out of the driveway and down to the banks of the loch, taking the road back into Inverness.

But as he crossed the Caledonian Canal, he felt the car’s steering slip, and a low juddering from beneath. He pulled over and found that he had a puncture. Cursing silently, he kicked the tyre and opened the boot, looking for a jack and spare tyre.

And found instead a body.

Not any old body, but that of the card player, Jack Grover. Chick stumbled backwards and turned his head to be sick on the verge. Trembling, approaching the boot again, he took a handkerchief out to wipe his mouth. The bundle of notes came with it, floating into the boot. He reached in for them . . . beginning to wonder now. Cash in hand, untraceable . . . Gently, he patted the dead man’s pockets and reached a hand into one, bringing out a wallet. He thought he could hear a siren in the distance. There were credit cards in the wallet, and the same name on all of them: James Gemmell. The JG on the numberplate stood for James Gemmell, not Jack Grover.

He saw it in a flash: there was no Jack Grover; no stolen Lexus. There was just Jacqueline Gemmell’s husband, who had gone home and told his wife about some drunk in the casino who’d been steamed up at him, a private detective of all things . . .

The sirens were closer now. Chick rubbed his jaw, feeling the rasp of his beard, seeing himself dishevelled and dirty, recalling all the witnesses who would say he’d been looking for a man in a Lexus. And the witnesses at the casino - he’d told them to remember his name . . .

Seeing, with absolute clarity, the way he’d been used by Gemmell’s wife, who had found for herself the perfect way to get rid of an unwanted spouse. Chick had been wrong: you didn’t need an unbreakable alibi or some obscure hiding-place. All you needed was someone like him, unlucky in love, unlucky at cards. Someone you could put in the frame . . .

I’m always invited to watch these videos. For two reasons: my working knowledge of French and German, and my technical ability with video recorders. These films aren’t always compatible with the British VHS players. You can lose colour, sound, or even the picture. But with a few home-made cables and boxes of tricks everything’s made hunky-dory, which pleases my friend Maxwell no end.

‘What’s that he’s saying, Kenny?’

‘Which one?’ I can see at least three men.

‘The one who’s talking, idiot.’

‘He’s saying “faster, faster”.’

And Maxwell nods. He looks like he’s watching a Buñuel film, my translation crucial to his understanding and appreciation of the director’s intent. But the film we’re watching, along with Andrew, Mark and Jimmy, has the same
dénouement
as the dozen or so others in Maxwell’s mews flat. Despite being a bachelor, he keeps these videos tucked away in the wardrobe in his bedroom. I think for him the furtiveness is part of the fun; perhaps even all the fun. I look around at my friends’ faces. They are like kids at a birthday party watching Goofy cartoons. They say you can choose your friends, but that’s a lie. My life, I am sure, is a closed loop, like the eight-track cartridges you still find at car boot sales, along with Betamax video recorders and broken Rolf Harris Stylophones.

Look at Maxwell. I didn’t choose him. On our first day at school we just happened to sit together. The next day, it seemed polite to do the same (and besides, the other desks and chairs were already occupied). We never had much in common. More, certainly, when at school than at university. And more at university than since. Maxwell is still single, has a fabulous job (with attendant car and home in the right part of town), and sees life as a series of challenges. I am married, in a dead-end career, with an ailing automobile and a tenement flat. My life too is a series of challenges. But where Maxwell spends his time trying to work out which gorgeous woman to date next, or where next to go for a sun-drenched holiday, I spend my time worrying over mortgage, overdraft, car insurance and council tax.

One night a week, I slip out from Alice’s clutches for the euphemistic ‘pint with the lads’. We meet up in the same pub, then visit a new pub where Maxwell will chat up the barmaid, and take carry-out food back to his place where we might watch a video or play cards. Since the videos are all basically the same video, Maxwell attempts variety by trying to freeze-frame the come shot, fast-forward through the humping, or slo-mo the oral sex. I think this irritates the others, not just me. And at the end of it all, Maxwell has the same comment ready for me. A comment whose surface envy disguises a deeper sense of superiority.

‘Of course,’ he’ll say, ‘Kenny’s the lucky one. He spends all day surrounded by teenage lovelies.’

Of course I do. It’s one of the schoolteacher’s few perks.

You’re asking yourself: what does all this have to do with the fact that Alice was eventually put away for murder? And I answer that it’s all to do with a video. Because the barmaid reminded me of a model on the cover of one of Maxwell’s videos. The video was called ‘Asian Brothel Orgy’. No vagueness there. Video titles are seldom open to misinterpretation. You don’t look at them and ask yourself, Hm, wonder what that one’s about? ‘Teenage Dog Orgy’ would mean just that, I’m afraid.

Of course, none of ‘Asian Brothel Orgy’ took place in Asia, and only one model bore any resemblance to someone from that part of the globe. The cover showed a perky blonde and blue-eyed teenager (American, I suppose, like the movie) looking coy and positioned so that, nude, she still showed little of interest to the regular porno customer. She was the tease, the promise of interior revelation.

The back cover of course was a different matter: medical close-ups of penetration and ingestion. The front cover model naturally did not appear in the film. It took me a while to place her. I’m not suggesting that the new lunchtime barmaid did spare-time modelling for porno cassettes, but the two were distinctly similar. I went to the pub most lunchtimes, but seldom paid attention to the staff, being more interested in my beer and the all too occasional presence of Jennie Muir, our French teacher. Actually, it was Jennie’s more frequent absences from the pub which put blinkers on me. I’d sit eating crisps, staring into the bag as it emptied, wondering what she’d make of my Friday night translations for Maxwell and the others. ‘What’s she saying now, Kenny?’ ‘She’s saying “harder harder, faster faster”.’ When I wanted to watch a video in my own home, I’d try to rent something French, despite Alice’s protests that subtitles were too much like hard work. She preferred Steve Martin or Michael Caine over the latest Gallic smash, and had actually unplugged the machine halfway through
Delicatessen
.

‘It’s anything but delicate,’ she’d fumed.

In my short reverie, prior to two crushing hours with the sixth years or an hour of Shakespeare or poetry, I’d stare into the crisp packet and see it as the interior of a nice flat by the river, a small balcony leading to the living-room where Jennie sat on a white leather sofa, sipping Chablis and chuckling at
Delicatessen
. I proffered more wine, which she accepted. We chinked glasses. Then I folded the crisp packet, tied a knot in it, and tossed it into the ashtray.