Crime (37 page)

Chet’s shoulders bristle and his back stiffens as he grips the
wheel
. When he turns, his eyes have the protrusion and burn of the death’s head. — What in hell’s name are you saying …?

Johnnie gazes in stupefaction at Lennox, then there’s a spark of interest.

— When I stumbled on your little nest of vipers I was so excited, Lennox expounds in a low lisp, his senses now merely a conduit to the voice of another: someone hated. — You see, I’d been emailing back home to my own organisation, trying to get in contact with like-minded souls in America. But no luck. I was prowling freelance when I met her, by accident. The mother. I could smell it off her; you always can. And the girl. You know what they called me back in Britain, Johnnie? Mr Confectioner. But I never tempted a child with candy. Their mothers though, oh, they could be bought off with a few drinks and some sweet talk.

He can see his own ugliness reflected back in Johnnie’s eyes. Like he did looking at Horsburgh.

How he’s marked me, how they always mark you
.

— A dopey, negligent woman with low self-esteem, and a delightful little nymphet, taught how to give pleasure and say nothing. I was making my move when
you
, Johnnie, he tersely nods at him, — you almost ruined everything with your ham-fisted approach. But really I should thank you. It was your action that delivered her into my care. I had a wonderful night in that hotel room, Johnnie. That was a result, and much appreciated.

— You’re full of bullshit, Johnnie says, both hands white on the rail, but his weak sneer can’t conceal his entrancement.

— Shut up, Chet barks. — Shut up, you fucking perverts, and he disintegrates into an agonised howl. — I’ve had enough of this. All your fucking blackmail! IT ENDS NOW!

Johnnie looks from Lennox to Chet. — If I tell Dearing about this, you are fucking finished, old man!

— So to the victor the spoils, Lennox gasps, pulling Johnnie’s attention back to him. — She’s yours and I’ll never know the beauty of a hairless minge again.

— We saw her first, you fuck: we staked that dumb-ass bitch of a mother out for months … you think I enjoyed balling that
stretch-marked
hag? He points at the pole dancer on his chest. — I’m into young pussy, is all. I did the fucking dirty work and then Dearing breezes in … Johnnie stops, as if realising he’s said too much.

— Fair enough, Lennox says as Chet moans something he can’t make out. — So fuck it: throw me to the fishes. I like young pussy too; in fact, I can’t live without it. It was a good run while it lasted!

Johnnie’s head wobbles with vigour. — Nobody’s goin to no freakin fishes –

— But Lance is calling the shots. He’ll want rid of me, then he’ll destroy you, long before you need to go down, Johnnie.

— You know nuthin about us –

— I know from what you’re saying that you’re doing the dirty work and he’s getting the pay-off.

Johnnie stiffens, puts one hand on his hip. — Damn straight, he acknowledges.

— And I know that I could give you more options than this. Lennox looks out over the dark, still waters. — America’s finished, Johnnie. It’s crawling with Feds and DEA agents. Drugs, terrorism, illegals: all this crippling paranoia about borders. Over my way, we bring in some really beautiful girls: East European, Asian. The border controls are limited, the terror alerts almost zero. Most of them can’t even speak English. Those Thai girls, Johnnie, he says as his adversary licks his lips, — they are something else. They come from nothing so they’re happy to get anything. Not MTV-saturated brats who expect stuff; they’re silent and obedient, just the way we like em, right?

A hatchet grin cleaves Johnnie’s doughy face in two.

Lennox fights to return the complicit smirk. — I could get you sorted out, Johnnie.

— Sounds finger-fuckin good to me, Johnnie says. Then his face tightens again. — But Dearing –

— Forget Dearing. He’s a cop. If you start getting rid of bodies, and it looks like this whole thing is going to shit, then who’s going to carry the can? The cop or the stooges? He shouts over at Chet: — What about you, Lewis? You aren’t a killer. Are you going to let Dearing lead you up the garden path?

— SHUT UP! SHUT UP, YOU FUCKING TWISTED PERVERTS!

Johnnie turns and looks at Chet. — Fuck you!

— Get onside with me, Johnnie! Lennox shouts, — and I won’t let you down!

Johnnie nods in dim complicity, and Lennox can’t believe it.
The fucking simpleton
. And now he’s reaching behind Lennox and is cutting at his twine bounds with a serrated knife.
He’s no right in the heid
. As his face is squashed into Johnnie’s flabby breast, he almost feels sorry for Dearing, stuck with such a blundering sidekick.

— I could sure use a little help, Ray. Things have gotten a bit out of control. Dearing thinks he knows it all but –

Johnnie gasps as his eyes expand then roll in his head and he slumps forward, crushing Lennox, who vainly tries to slide out from under him. Standing above, holding a fire extinguisher, is Chet. Lennox is immobilised with Johnnie’s stunned, heaving bulk on his lap, unable to free his wrists from the last of the twine. Disordered by fury, Chet keeps the extinguisher poised. — You fucking scumbags! I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOU ALL! He raises the metal cylinder above his head, as Johnnie slides off Lennox, rolling on to the deck with the slap of a landed fish.

— STOP! Lennox screams. — I’m NOT what you think!

Chet pauses, wobbles, but keeps his balance, as Lennox realises nobody is operating the boat.

— I made that shit up to buy time with that arsehole. He looks down at the groaning Johnnie.

— Nobody playing fucking fair, Johnnie wheezes deliriously, — only ol Johnnie here tryin to play fair …

Chet won’t relinquish his hold on the extinguisher. — I’ve had enough bullshit and deceit –

— CHECK! For fuck’s sake, check my ID in my wallet. I’m a cop! Lennox screams. — Tianna’s safe, she’s with my fiancée, Trudi. I’ve a number in my wallet with my ID, you can contact her there!

Chet finally lowers the canister. His powerlifter’s mitt grabs Lennox’s neck. — I should … he starts as Lennox feels his throat
constricting
, but the sailor’s other hand is pulling the wallet from his pocket. He unleashes the grip and reads a card as Lennox rasps an intake of air. — Lothian and Borders Police? What the hell is that? That isn’t even Alaska … or Utah … you have no jurisdiction here! What the hell has this got to do with you?

— Nothing, Lennox heaves, struggling to fill his lungs. — Absolutely fuck all. I’m a cop on holiday with my fiancée. We’re planning our wedding. We had a big fight and I went off in the huff and met Robyn and her friend in a bar. Then, well, you know the rest. He nods at the moaning Johnnie, still spangled on the deck.

Chet looks at him for a few seconds. — I believe you, he says finally, — I’ll cut you free and then –

But Johnnie suddenly springs up, the blood cascading down his back, grasping the blade from his belt. He swings it at Chet and misses, — YOU FUCKIN IDIOT! COULD’VE FUCKIN KILLED ME!

Chet shrieks and runs up on to the top deck, with Johnnie in pursuit. — Dinnae run away fae that fat cunt, you’re a powerlifter: break ehs fuckin neck! Lennox roars. Then an irresistible, clattering halt, and he shoots off the seat under its impact, as he sees Chet and Johnnie vanish from the deck like magician’s assistants. There’s no time to work out what’s happening; still trussed up, he’s propelled across the lower deck, slamming back-first into the steps that lead up to the bridge.

Things slow down after that jarring loss of momentum; Lennox shakes his head to try and clear it. A wrenching racket from the engines, like a food mixer amplified through a sound system, tells him the boat has run aground. He tries to catch his breath. He can’t determine Johnnie and Chet’s fates as propulsion mechanisms continue to snarl and wheeze in impotence, but it seems likely that the impact has thrown them both overboard. He pulls himself along towards the steps that lead down into the cabin, letting his legs swing over. It’s a steep fall and he’s bound at the ankles, but he’s no choice. Swallowing hard, he takes a deep breath to drain himself of everything superfluous to the jump. His body seems to leave his essence behind as it falls the distance, but they reunite as
Lennox
hits the deck feet-first before crashing on to his side, a brutal signal of agony making him believe he’s broken his arm. Forcing himself up against a kitchen worktop, he hops into position, sticking the fishing twine that binds his wrists into the teeth of the electronic can opener. Unable switch it on, he saws crudely. As it snaps free, the pain in his arm almost causes him to black out. Balancing himself with his pulped right hand, Lennox breathes in deeply, trying to force down his heart rate. Then he rummages through the opened drawers, finding another serrated knife and taking it to his ankles, wincing as he hacks himself free.

All around him the now twenty-degree-angled edifice emits wind-blown moans and whines, juddering and creaking as if its hull is being rent apart. Cupboard doors have sprung open on one side, sending provisions tumbling on to the craft’s floor.

Lennox rubs at the back of his head with his throbbing right hand. There is an egg-shaped swelling, tender to the touch, but no blood. The left arm hurts unbearably; he can’t lift it above chest level. Nonetheless, he feels adrenalin’s charge and hoists himself up the steps, springing on to the bow. Johnnie is above him; top deck, starboard side, knife poised, threatening, but not striking at Chet, who is holding on to the railing, trying to climb back on to the tilted boat. — Let me on, or the engine will burn out, he warns.

Thank fuck they’re amateurs who don’t know what they’re doing, Lennox consoles himself. Disgusting paedophiles, yes, but different from a deranged killer like Horsburgh. Noncing is their game, pure and simple; they have no contingency plans, no exit strategy. Things are going wrong for them, as he found eventually happened with all criminal activity. It was like the bookies or the casino: the occasional big win only hastening your next devastating loss.

But revulsion bubbles in him, and he craves violence’s release. — C’moan then, fat boy, he shouts. — Let’s fuckin have ye!

Johnnie turns and moves towards Lennox, the knife in his hand, struggling to negotiate the sloping deck. Despite his bulk, Lennox can see that the fear is ripping out of him. He’d miscast this masturbating stoner as bully of the barrio, but Johnnie’s as out of his depth as the beached boat.

Lennox adopts the fighter’s side-on stance and though his left arm still pains him, he is able to raise it into the blocking position. He gets in a couple of feeble jabs that hurt him more than his opponent, but the very shock of contact all but disables Johnnie. He manages a weak and wide swing of the blade but this puts him off balance, allowing Lennox to step inside, elbowing him with his right, to protect his damaged fist. He follows up by catching Johnnie with a roundhouse kick, sending him blindly flailing to the deck. After a few more blows, Johnnie has dropped the knife and is slowly being worked over. — I came on holiday with my fiancée to GET THE FUCK AWAY from scum like you. And this Dearing cunt is a fucking cop. His foot whacks into the fat man’s face, extracting a doglike yelp. — Where is she, Johnnie? Lennox punctuates his questions with blows. — Where’s Robyn? Where’s Dearing? Where’s fucking Starry?

Johnnie’s groans can barely be heard above the noise of the engines. But when they abruptly cut out, he hears him howl, — I DUNNO!

Lennox looks to the top deck starboard. Chet had climbed back on the boat and got on to the bridge, shutting the power down.

Johnnie now snivels puplike as Lennox sits on top of him, injured fist round his throat, the other ready to hammer him more. Eventually he miserably concedes, — Robyn’s at her place; Starry’s with her. Lance is meeting some people … at the Embassy Hotel tonight … in Miami.

Assisted by Chet, Lennox reciprocates the treatment Johnnie meted out to him, binding his wrists and ankles in fishing twine.

— We wasn’t gonna hurt nobody, Johnnie says meekly.

— Shut the fuck up, Lennox spits, striking him across the face with the back of his left hand. A yellow puddle spreading out from under the polyester trousers encourages him to stand up. Its slow path towards
Perfect Bride
makes him aware that the boat’s angle has almost righted itself since Chet cut the engines.

Lennox kicks the magazine from the piss and gestures to Chet, and they head downstairs. They sit as he rubs at his arm, then massages his nipping eyeballs through closed lids. — I need to know the score.

Chet nods and looks at the mess on the floor, then he rises to a locked cabinet, producing a bottle of malt whisky and two cut glasses. Lennox grimaces at the volunteered liquor, nauseated by the smell. — I don’t drink that stuff.

— A Scotsman and you don’t drink whisky?

— That’s the way it is, he says, but he certainly needs a drink. — Anything else?

— I’ve some Ukrainian vodka.

— That’ll do.

— With soda?

— Fine, Lennox says, wondering why he is drinking with this man, even as he instantly imbibes the spirit, extending his glass for a refill.

As he replenishes it, Chet coughs out his understanding of events. — They’re keeping Robyn at her place with Starry. They seem to believe she’s cottoned on to what their game is, but I think they think she knows more than she does … if you follow me.

Lennox nods, pressing him to carry on.

— I need to get out of this, Lennox. These people are sick and evil. They are paedophiles and God knows what else. Dearing told me that you were one of them, an outsider trying to muscle into their sex club –

— No. I’m certainly not.

— Sorry. I couldn’t be sure.

— But what about you? How did you –

— They were blackmailing me. I didn’t know where to turn. Dearing is a cop, for chrissakes.

Lennox slowly blows out some air. As soon as he’d learned about Dearing, he knew he could never have gone to the police in Miami. It would be like some cop from the Fiji Islands wandering into Fettes HQ and saying to an officer on the desk, ‘One of your polismen is running a paedophile ring.’