Christopher Brookmyre - Parlabane 04 (30 page)

'Calling the police sounds like a very good idea,' Baxter replied. 'There's a phone on the wall behind you. Do it now, because the sooner you appreciate the gravity of this situation, the sooner we can do something about it.'

Rory turned around and lifted the slim, black handset hugging the wall next to the doorframe. 'What do I dial for an outside line?' he asked.

'Nine,' said Baxter.

Rory hit nine and held the handset to his ear, then pressed the cradle up and down before hitting nine again.

'No outside line. Very funny. Now what do I really dial?'

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'You really dial nine,' Emily said, having made a call from her room that morning.

Baxter tried to grab the handset from Rory, but he was fobbed off as Rory dialled zero instead. They all heard a phone ring down the hall at reception.

'Maybe it's just this extension,' Rory suggested, hanging up and heading out into the corridor. They all followed, looks being traded as they left the table and moved for the door. Parlabane and Vale, she had already observed, were schooled in an unspoken communication that suggested they knew each other from more than just a few shared assignments. They were both checking Baxter for the sincerity of his expression, he expectantly examining theirs for signs that they believed him. He looked Emily fully in the eye for perhaps the first time since that awkward, pseudo-clandestine reunion by the hill, and she saw genuine, restless anxiety, an appeal that said: 'You know me and I need your help.' It wasn't a card he'd ever play if his game was a bluff. Rory was holding out one of the receivers from the phones on the reception desk, a blank expression on his face. He was less cocky but he wasn't ready to admit he was worried yet.

'It's dead as well.'

'The switchboard's blank,' observed Vale.

Parlabane hopped behind the desk and gripped the mouse on the desktop PC, clearing the screen-saver. Its monitor displayed a dial-up networking dialogue box informing the user: Unable to establish connection. The phones really are dead,' he confirmed. 'Internet access, everything.'

'This proves nothing,' Rory insisted. 'In fact, what did I just say? If you're shitting us, you won't allow me to phone. Voila, I can't. Same as earlier, you'd already disabled the phones. Back then it was the SIMs, now it's the landlines.'

Baxter put his hands to either side of his head in frustration.

'Take the fucking minibus, then,' he said. 'Check it out for yourself. I just hope you don't run into whoever out there is responsible for demolishing the only direct means of escape.'

'Check it out for ourselves? Great idea, like phoning was a great idea. Except that Grieg's got the keys to the minibus and he's conveniently out of the picture. Remember what Toby said? You are an unreliable source of information. You have a vested interest in things appearing to be beyond your control. Christ, I wish I'd gone to my bed like the others, I'd be missing all this shit.'

'Okay, how's this for control?' Baxter asked, holding up a set of keys.

'You've got a spare?'

'Of course I've got a spare. You don't think I'd entrust a spanner like Francis with the only set?'

Rory took them. 'Let's go for a ride.'

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'We've got to warn the others,' Baxter entreated.

'No, no, you're coming along where we can keep our eyes on you. And when we get back, the Milky Bars are on you.'

'Fifty-year-old Springbank,' Baxter said as Rory pulled open one of the front doors.

'Eh?'

'Fifty-year-old Springbank. It's in a locked cabinet behind the bar. If it turns out I'm lying, it's yours.'

'And what's my stake if you're not?'

'The least of your worries.'

Rory trotted out into the wet night and hopped into the minibus driver's seat, Baxter clambering into the row behind him. Vale, Parlabane and Emily remained beneath the stone pagoda that extended from the front wall above the storm doors, deliberating the necessity and wisdom of them all taking the trip.

'Do you reckon this is straight up?' Emily asked. 'Or is us going off on a night-time trek in the minibus actually part of Baxter's plan? He seems genuinely anxious to me.'

'See above, re Escheresque nightmare,' Parlabane replied. 'No point thinking about it. That way madness lies.'

'I'm staying put,' said Vale, resting his back against one of the two stone pillars that supported the stone canopy. 'If somebody has dynamited the bridge, then driving down a road with no exit strikes me as extremely foolish. And if all is well, it's a waste of time. My instincts are towards the latter. Like this afternoon, why would some anonymous ne'er-do-wells just happen to be targeting our merry little group?'

To Emily's surprise, Rory climbed back out of the minibus again and walked around to its front.

'Engine's dead,' he reported. 'Conveniently. Or inconveniently, if you believe we're under threat from evil forces. I'll just reconnect the sparkplug or whatever neatly reversible damage Donald here got up to while we were eating.'

He popped open the bonnet, Baxter standing at his back.

'Shit,' Rory gasped.

'Doesn't look too fucking reversible to me,' Baxter observed bitterly. Emily stepped out into the rain, while Parlabane pulled the front doors wide open to shed more light on the minibus. There wasn't a cable left uncut, and the light spilling out of the doorway illuminated a black patch of fluid oozing from beneath the vehicle, the rainwater nudging the slick into tributaries and rivulets but unable to wash it fully away. Vale walked across the monobloc to 181

the Range Rover Emily assumed to belong to Sir Lachlan. He knelt down next to the vehicle and patted the underside as well as the ground next to it.

'Brake line has been cut,' he reported. Vale walked briskly to the VW Golf a little further along the concourse and repeated the drill. 'This one too. Can I suggest we get inside? I might be getting a little too caught up in the spirit of the UML Experience, but I do rather think we might be in some danger.'

Parlabane held open the door as they filed quickly inside; all but Rory, who ambled at the back in a deliberate demonstration of ongoing scepticism.

'Yeah, yeah,' he said. 'So the staff cars have been tampered with. UML

wouldn't cross that line, would they? Except that the whole hotel is in UML's pocket for the duration of this weekend. Look at yourselves. What are we doing right now that we didn't do already today? Running around in a panic thinking something scary's going on. Donald here even mentioned what he called "that car-won't-start moment" to me earlier.'

'"Only the true messiah would deny it",' quoted Baxter.

'Eh?'

'Meaning there comes a point where you have to listen to what you're actually being told as opposed to what you want to believe. Do you know what sub-dom is, Rory?'

'Yeah. It's the politically correct term for S&M. Is that what we're playing tonight?'

'In sub-dom sex, the partners establish a codeword between themselves so that if the sub wants the dom to lay off, he or she'll know it's for real - as opposed to all the "no, no, please stop I beg you" stuff that gets both their rocks off. I realise I'm trapped in this cry-wolf shit of my own making, but will you please, please, please listen to me when I say that if we
had
established a codeword, then right now I would be screaming it at the top of my fucking lungs. This is not a joke, it's not a stunt and it's not a fucking team building exercise.'

Rory shrugged.

'Yeah, but you would say that.'

Baxter lunged at Rory, Vale and Parlabane diving to intervene before an event elsewhere served as sufficient distraction to cool their passions. The sound of a seven-foot window being panned in can have that effect.

'What the fuck was that?' asked Rory.

'Came from down the hall,' Vale said. 'Sounded like our little private dining room.'

They ventured forward cautiously, the need to know pushing them on against the resistance of what they might find out. Rory took the lead, bolstered by scepticism more than bravery. Vale gestured to Emily to stay back, but she only complied as much as remaining a few paces behind. She was equally 182

compelled by the desire to know what was really going on as by an outright reluctance to be standing near the front doors on her own. Rory reached the open doorway first, followed by Parlabane and Baxter a long second later.

A door swung open further down the corridor, sparking a new wave of minor myocardial distress before Sir Lachlan, the waitress and the chef emerged into view. For three people out of the loop on recent developments, they looked disproportionately concerned about investigating a sound of breaking glass.

'It's Grieg,' Parlabane reported, while Rory stood and stared, gaping like a goldfish on Quaaludes.

Emily swallowed, feeling a dryness in her throat as she made to speak. 'How is he?' she managed to ask, though she feared they all knew the answer.

'Shorter,' said Parlabane.

Emily made to move forward but Parlabane blocked her path. 'You don't want to see this,' he told her.

'Now, Rory, you're the expert,' Baxter stated acidly. 'So tell us, do you reckon that's an official UML mock-up headless corpse, or what?'

The remark at least shook Rory from his catatonia. His eyes lost their glazed stare and instead focused disbelievingly upon Baxter, like he was blaming him for the reality that had come literally crashing down. If so, he was only shooting the messenger.

'That is the single most revolting thing I've ever seen,' Rory observed, his words flowing slow and deep.

'I'd be surprised if it retains that distinction over the next few hours,' Parlabane predicted.

'We're in a lot of trouble,' said Rory, speaking barely above a whisper.

'
Oh
yeah,' confirmed the hack.

183

Sunday, October 27, 2002

Much to Digest

Parlabane stepped aside to let Sir Lachlan and the chef look for themselves. The girl wisely declined, and didn't look like she needed any such bludgeoning visual cues in order to appreciate the gravity of the situation. All three of them, in fact, had appeared to be already fearing the worst before they had any idea of what was lying front-down (he couldn't accurately say 'face-down') on the dining table.

'I'm with your man Rory,' said the chef. 'That's the most mingin' thing I've ever seen as well.'

Parlabane suspected that the sight was not without competition in the chef's experience. He was a sinewy looking hardcase with facial scarring unlikely to have resulted from overuse of the same Bic disposable, and upon first glance Parlabane was fantasising about the guy kicking Gary Rhodes's spiky little head in.

'We need to call the police,' Sir Lachlan said.

'Your phones are out,' Vale told him.

'Well, one of you must have a mobile.'

'S'awright, I've got mine,' said the chef. 'It's in my jacket, hangin' up.' He disappeared to the kitchen and emerged a few seconds later with a depressing expression of concern as it failed to respond. 'What the fuck?'

'SIM card's gone,' said Rory. 'Ours too.'

'How could it have. . .

Fucking Mathieson,' he said, answering his own

question. Wrongly, Parlabane would guess.

'Who's Mathieson?' Vale asked.

'Ex-head chef,' Sir Lachlan said. 'He was dismissed today. Ger here took over his duties.'

'Dismissed?' asked Baxter. 'Just like that? What for?'

'Does it matter?'

'Well, I'd bloody well say so if it could explain anything that's happening around here tonight. How was his mental state, would you say?'

'It doesn't matter,' insisted the chef, weighing in on his boss's behalf.

'If he's a nutter and he's gone postal, I'd say--'

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'It doesn't matter,' Ger repeated, with a certainty that Parlabane didn't fancy one bit. 'He left in the huff and he thieved all the meat en route, but he hasnae

"gone postal" and he's no' responsible for that poor bugger on the dining room table.'

'How do you know?'

Ger sighed. He, Sir Lachlan and the girl, Alison, traded looks.

'One moment, Gerard,' Sir Lachlan said, before stepping into the dining room. He returned a few moments later carrying the brass ice-bucket that had earlier been chilling Liz and Kathy's Chardonnay. 'Okay, go ahead,' he instructed, emptying the melting ice on to the carpet. It was another Kodak moment, truly: Rory and Emily engaged in Freestyle Synchronised Boak, each miraculously getting their heads clear of the receptacle between heaves to allow the other a shot. Sir Lachlan stood between them, holding the cooler on his outstretched palms like he was doling out the salver of Ferrero Rocher.
Wiz zis spew-bucket you are really spoiling us.
Parlabane closed his eyes for a moment, waiting for - and in truth expecting

- nature to take its course. It didn't, but that wasn't to say it wouldn't any time soon. He felt saliva rising around his gums and tongue, as though the cursed meat was still in his mouth, but then that was always the sensation after eating something he regretted, no different from a pudding supper without first consuming six pints of Heavy.

Vale simply shook his head. It would take a lot to turn that bastard's stomach, and Parlabane very much doubted the Headless HR Officer would even make the top-ten most revolting things the ex-spook had ever seen.

'How could you be sure?' Parlabane asked Ger.

'A tattoo. It made unmistakably specific reference to a previous career.'

'He didn't used to be a farmer, by any chance?'

'No, he was in a boy band. Why?'

'Nothing.'

They moved back to the reception hall, away from the dining room given what it now contained and what had earlier been consumed there. Emily and Rory sat at the foot of the grand staircase, a Y-shaped affair that split on the first landing and doubled back on itself to reach an overlooking gallery above. Alison and Ger stood leaning against the reception desk with its useless phones, Sir Lachlan to one side of the front doors he'd just locked. Vale stood next to the seated pair, Parlabane opposite, as directed by a private gesture no-one else noticed. Between the two of them they had a view of all possible points of entry, if not much means of defending themselves in the case of incursion, which was where the reassurance of being with Vale broke down. The more you realised he knew what he was doing, the plainer it became that you didn't have a clue.