Cold Grave (35 page)

They were on their second frame when Dunbar approached them. He stood quietly for a few minutes, weighing up the standard of their play and sipping on his vodka and Coke. Clearly he wasn’t too impressed by what he saw because he put coins down on the rim of the table to signal that he wanted to play the winner. Danny, in the process of potting the six ball, glanced up at him but contrived to look indifferent about the prospect of someone else joining their game. Neither he nor Winter looked at Dunbar throughout the rest of the frame, just concentrating on each other and the game until Winter knocked in the black ball to snatch another victory.

As soon as the black dropped, Dunbar stepped forward, slipped his coins into the slot and the pool balls clattered into the tray. Without saying a word or looking at Winter, he arranged the balls in the triangle, placing the ‘big balls’ and ‘wee balls’ to suit him. Only when he was satisfied did he stand up straight and look over.

‘Play you for twenty quid.’

Winter looked at Danny, who simply shrugged. Now able to look at Dunbar properly without raising suspicion in him, they could both clearly see a glassy look in his dark eyes that had been fuelled by something other than vodka.

‘Aye, okay,’ Winter agreed. ‘Why not?’

Dunbar, still wearing his leather coat, broke off and immediately left Winter with an opening he took advantage of, pocketing three balls before missing. Dunbar grinned at the miss and chalked his cue before knocking in four balls of his own and looked good to win the frame quickly before a ball rattled in the jaws of the pocket and stayed out. Winter stepped back in, potting two more, then snookering Dunbar behind the black.

The younger man didn’t look at all impressed and arched his eyebrows disapprovingly at Winter as if he regarded it as unsporting. Winter merely shrugged in return, indicating that he should just suck it up and get on with it, immediately remembering the nature of the man he was winding up and regretting it. Dunbar got low over his shot and tried to come off the side cushion but failed to hit anything, leaving Winter with two shots. He knocked a ball over a pocket before potting it, then another before clipping the black into the middle bag to win the frame.

He stood up from the table and looked over at Dunbar, who wore a scowl but was fishing in his pockets for money. He produced a twenty and dropped it contemptuously on the table for Winter to pick up. ‘Another frame,’ he demanded.

Winter picked the cash up from the table and pocketed it. ‘If you’re sure.’

Dunbar’s answer was to drop coins in the slot and send the balls crashing back into play. As he busily racked them up on the baize, another punter wandered over to the table to place a coin on the table so he could play the winner. Without looking up from the table, Dunbar reached for the coin and threw it across the room.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ the other guy protested.

Dunbar didn’t look at him but continued to rearrange the balls in the triangle.

‘I said what the fu—’

Dunbar turned, looking up to stare into the eyes of the slightly taller man who confronted him. Maybe the guy recognised Dunbar or maybe he just recognised the look in his eyes because he took a step back immediately. Dunbar followed him with a step of his own and the other guy retreated two yards, then another, albeit with an outstretched arm and mutterings of discontent. Within seconds he was safely back at the other side of the bar, his dignity almost intact.

‘Your break,’ Dunbar told Winter.

Swallowing hard and wondering just what they were getting themselves into, Winter broke off, scattering the balls across the table. Dunbar, his large voddie freshly restored, moved in to the table and swiftly potted four balls before finally missing. Winter knocked in three of his own before leaving the cue ball tight on the bottom cushion. The safety shot forced Dunbar to let Winter in again and he potted another two balls, an attempt at a third coming back from the knuckles of the middle pocket. When Dunbar moved in again, it was with the merest hint of a stagger and both Winter and Danny thought the vacant look in his eyes had increased. Sure enough, he potted just one ball and Winter stepped in to win the frame.

The twenty-pound note lay crumpled on the table almost as soon as the black hit the back of the pocket. Dunbar stood and stared at Winter, anger and frustration pouring out of him.

‘A hundred,’ he grunted.

‘What?’

‘A hundred quid for the next frame.’

Winter again looked over to Danny, who responded with a wary shrug of his shoulders.

‘Okay, but it’s the last frame,’ Winter replied.

‘Sure. Let’s see the colour of your money first. The big guy here can hold the stakes. He’s not going to run anywhere. Sure you’re not, big man?’

‘Not me, son,’ Danny agreed with him. ‘I’ve never run in my life.’

The two men produced one hundred pounds apiece and handed them over for safe-keeping. Danny and Winter sought each other’s eyes over Dunbar’s head, anxiously seeking the reassurance that they both knew what the other was up to.

The gleam in Dunbar’s eyes was wild now, a slippery yet distant self-confidence that knew no wrong. He prowled round the table, clearly enjoying living on the edge.

‘Your break,’ Winter told him.

‘Bollocks. Deciding frame. Toss for break. Call.’

‘Tails.’

Dunbar lifted his hand from the coin that sat on the back of his hand. ‘Tails fails,’ he announced.

Winter powered his cue through the white ball, sending it spinning into the pack and bursting it open. Balls spiralled round the table but none of them dropped into a pocket. Dunbar was straight onto the table, his eyes searching the balls for a likely opening, before he got down low to knock a long six-ball into the far pocket. Another three balls quickly followed without touching the sides and, although he looked to be in difficulty with his next shot, Dunbar cleverly doubled a ball into the middle pocket before tucking the white safely onto a cushion. Winter was forced to take on a long pot into the opposite corner, knowing that if he missed it, then Dunbar was probably going to be left with three relatively simple shots to win the frame and the cash. He glanced up from the table to see Dunbar’s eyes on his and he held them for a couple of seconds before going back to the cue ball and striking through it. The 12-ball rocketed towards the far pocket but just caught the jaws and rebounded out again.

Dunbar smirked evilly and stepped in to pot the last of his two balls and then sank the black confidently into the corner. He stood up from the table and turned towards Danny, his hand outstretched.

‘Money.’

Danny handed over the two hundred quid and Dunbar quickly trousered it, downing the last of his vodka as he prepared to leave.

‘Not so fast,’ Winter blurted out. ‘You hustled me, you cunt.’

‘Dry your eyes,’ Dunbar laughed. ‘Learn your lesson and get some practice in. You’re shite.’

‘No way. I want my money back.’

‘Fuck off. Seriously, fuck off. I’m leaving and if you don’t want to get hurt, then get out of my fucking way.’

Winter stepped back as Dunbar came towards him, letting him past on his way out the door. Behind Dunbar’s back, Danny signalled for Winter to wait and give him a head start before going after him. Winter did as he was told and Dunbar was almost out the front door when he shouted after him that he wanted his money. Dunbar didn’t turn round but just laughed derisorily.

Winter and Danny started after him, ignoring the hushed warning from the barman to leave it alone. When they got onto Maryhill Road, the snow was falling once more and they saw Dunbar twenty yards ahead, his black leather coat flashing like a diamond.

‘You did know you were being hustled, didn’t you?’ Danny asked Winter quietly.

‘Course I did. I’m not completely stupid. Anyway, don’t be so sure you know who was hustling who.’

Danny nodded and smiled as Winter called after Dunbar again.

‘You. Fucking wait.’

‘Fuck off,’ Dunbar shouted back over his shoulder. ‘You don’t know who you’re messing with.’

Dunbar walked on unperturbed past the bookies and the derelict structure at the end of the block before turning right up the grassy bank towards the canal. It was exactly where Danny and Winter hoped he was going and they speeded up after him. As they came round the corner and on to the square of scrubland, they saw Dunbar waiting patiently for them.

‘I don’t have a problem with you two,’ he slurred. ‘Don’t make me have one.’

‘We want a word with you, son,’ Danny told him.

‘No, you don’t. Believe me, you don’t.’ Dunbar’s eyes were wild. ‘Go away before this goes bad.’

‘Sorry, but we can’t. You’re finished here.’

Dunbar took an uncertain step to the side, his hesitant movement punctuated by a stamp of his left foot to steady himself. As he did so, he reached with his right hand inside his leather coat and emerged with something in his hand that gleamed in the moonlight. Dunbar continued to raise his hand high above his head until they could see he held a samurai sword. Now they knew why Dunbar wore the full-length coat.

‘Fucksake,’ Winter gasped to Danny. ‘I thought you roofied this bastard.’

‘I did. He should be out for the count by now.’

Dunbar whirled the sword in an arc above his head, slicing through the falling snowflakes and staring at the two men through bleary eyes. The sword sang through the air, its swish the only sound Winter could hear above the pounding of his heart.

‘Any bright ideas?’ he asked Danny.

‘Like I told the kid, I’ve never run in my life. Getting a bit late to start now.’

Danny slipped his jacket off and wrapped it round his left arm. Winter followed suit and took a few paces to his right as he watched Danny move to the left, both holding their barely protected arms in front of them in a poor imitation of shields.

Dunbar was clearly struggling under the influence of the liquid Rohypnol Danny had dropped into his vodka as he played pool, reeling slightly from side to side, but he kept a firm grip on his sword and was flashing it before him. Danny and Winter cautiously approached him from either side, inching nearer but wary of the scything blade.

Winter, seeing what Danny was doing, suddenly shouted at Dunbar, grabbing his attention. As he did so, Danny threw a ball of snow into Dunbar’s face, momentarily blinding him, and followed it up with a charge towards his sword arm. He got within a yard of his target before Dunbar instinctively lashed out, the arc of his blade catching Danny high on his shoulder and causing a spurt of fire engine red to erupt. Danny cried out and fell back, his right hand clutching at his left shoulder. Winter hurled in from the right, crashing a boot into Dunbar’s thigh and sending him sprawling back onto the ground, knocking the wind from him.

Winter rushed to Danny, seeing the blood pouring from the wound and staining the snow. Danny had been relatively lucky: the sword had sliced through his flesh but hadn’t bitten deeper than an inch or so. Winter unwrapped the jacket that covered Danny’s hand and switched it to his shoulder to stem the flow, watching as the last few drops fell onto the white. From behind him, he heard Dunbar scrambling unsteadily back to his feet, his sword flexing protectively in front of him. He backed away towards the canal towpath, his sword always between him and his attackers.

Winter started to his feet to go after him but Danny caught his arm.

‘No. Let him go. Don’t be fucking stupid. I’m in no state to tackle him and you can’t do it on your own.’

‘So much for the plan to spike his drink.’

Danny grimaced, as much at the pain from his arm as Winter’s dig at him.

‘It worked — to an extent. It’s probably the only reason we’ve still got both our hands but I’m guessing the cocaine is keeping the GHB at bay for now. You still got those twenties you won from him?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Good, because if we don’t get Dunbar tonight, then the tech boys can get DNA from those.’

‘
If
we don’t get him tonight?’

‘We give him a ten-minute head start. There’s no way we want to catch him if the GHB hasn’t worked; he’s far too fucking dangerous for that. On the other hand, if it does the trick, then we’ll find him no bother even with that start.’

‘Danny, you need to go to hospital.’

‘And I will — after this. Jesus, why does it have to be so cold? Here, take my jacket, it’s not doing the job.’

Danny took off his shirt, letting the wound temporarily run free again until he’d instructed Winter how to fix a tourniquet to his shoulder with one sleeve and wrap the other round the cut. As Danny stood bare-chested and blood-streaked in the snow, Winter shook his head in disbelief. Uncle Danny was over thirty years older than he was but still tougher and braver than he’d ever be. Mind you, his admiration for his uncle didn’t stop him from wishing he’d photographed the gaping sword wound before it had been covered up.

When Danny had his jacket back on, he glanced at his watch and forced himself to pace round the scrubland for a few minutes, keeping warm and marking time until they went after Dunbar. Finally he nodded at Winter and they warily started down the towpath, knowing full well that the samurai could be waiting for them at any point on the unlit path. They edged along, Winter somewhat uncomfortably in front, his eyes straining in the dark for any sign of Dunbar. In the end, they almost fell over him.

They were no more than a yard from his prone body when Winter’s leading foot brushed against the blade of the sword, causing it to sing sadly and for Winter nearly to soil himself.

‘Jesus,’ he gasped, stepping back and forcing Danny to walk straight into him.

Dunbar was out cold, the sword abandoned by his side. The GHB had taken its toll at last and, along with the cocaine and the vodka, was going to give Dunbar a long sleep and a monstrous hangover. Danny reached into his jacket pocket with his good arm and produced plastic bindings.