Savage Night (3 page)

But his existence wasn't comfortable any longer. Not since the arrival of Mr Smith.

***

A TELEPHONE CALL had kicked it off. Tommy was at home in his office, which was where he preferred to work.

He picked up the phone, already annoyed at being disturbed.

"Is that Tommy Savage?"

"Yeah. What do you want, I'm busy?"

"Now that would be telling."

"So tell."

"Well, Tommy. I want your arse."

"Huh?" Tommy wondered if he'd heard right. "You want what?"

"Your arse. It's mine."

Little creep. Tommy didn't know how he could tell that the guy on the other end of the phone was little. But he heard the voice and pictured a small man.

Whatever the creep's size, Tommy'd had a good day up to that point. Taken Jordan to school in the morning, did a couple of hours' work, then popped out for coffee and got talking to an Italian divorcee called Bella. She was in her late thirties, from
Napoli
, no kids, living in Edinburgh. She liked Blues music, wine, walking and football. He liked her accent, her smile, the way her sweater curved.

They'd exchanged phone numbers. Which was promising. He hadn't had a girlfriend since Hannah and caution was now a habit. Tommy didn't want somebody else 'falling out of love' with him. Fraser was grown up when Tommy and his mother split, but Jordan was only nine at the time. She wanted to take him to South Africa with her. With her and her new boyfriend, Russell.

Dirty divorce, filthy custody battle. But Tommy'd won. She couldn't prove any of her allegations, and he could. She wasn't exactly stable and medical records showed just how fucked up she was. It helped that Jordan didn't want to leave Edinburgh. And that he hated Russell.

But right up to the day she'd got on the flight, Tommy didn't think Hannah would leave.

Anyway, whether it was Bella from Napoli or because the sun was shining, he was in a good mood so he didn't hang up, or swear when the caller said he wanted Tommy's arse.

Instead, he made a joke of it. "Sorry, my arse is spoken for."

"Witty." Same little voice. "I want you to pay."

Tommy wasn't entirely sure how to reply to that. "Pay what?"

"You mean, pay
for
what?"

"I do?"

"You will pay for what you've done."

Very dramatic. The guy sounded like he was reading the words from a script. "Oh, I see," Tommy said. "And how will I pay?"

"With money."

Thick as mince. Made Phil seem like a brain surgeon, and that took some doing. "So I'll pay by paying," Tommy said. "Is that right?"

"Don't try to be smart. You know you have to pay."

He had no idea what the creep was talking about. "Who are you?"

"You can call me Mr Smith," the guy said. "You'll be hearing from me again." He hung up.

It had to be a crank call. Tommy put it out of his mind. Mostly.

For a couple of days, life went back to normal. And he'd pretty much forgotten about Mr Smith. But sure enough, the bastard called again.

"I was thinking about how best to start the ball rolling," he said.

No introduction, but Tommy recognised the voice immediately. "Not you again."

"Yes, me again. We should meet."

Tommy walked over to the door of his office, closed it. "Why should we do that?"

"Cause I want to show you how serious I am."

"About what?"

"Making you pay."

"Christ's sake. For what?"

Smith laughed.

Tommy sat down at his desk and stared at the computer screen, randomly clicking on various properties he'd been looking at on the ESPC website. Smith carried on laughing. After an age, he stopped and Tommy closed his web browser and said, "I don't want to meet you. I have nothing to say to you."

"But I have quite a bit to say to you," Smith said.

***

A FRENCH CAFÉ off Princes Street. Tommy breathed in the smell of coffee and steamed mussels while he waited for Smith.

Tommy ordered an
espresso
, wanted to be wide awake. Smith was going to get his full attention.

A diner arrived, a small bald guy. Maybe this was his lunch guest. Or host. Although he doubted they'd be eating much, let alone squabbling over who was going to pay the bill. But the bald guy waved to a woman at a nearby table and went to join her.

Smith arrived ten minutes late. He didn't look at all like Tommy had imagined. The man who gangled towards Tommy's table, slight swagger to his walk, was as tall as Tommy, maybe had an inch on him, which made him well over six foot. Skinny, clothes hanging off him. But the thing that made him stand out was that he was wearing a black ski mask. He'd caused a visible tremor as he walked through the restaurant. Diners stopped eating to stare. A couple of waiters paused to look at him.

Tommy wondered what the protocol was for dealing with a patron in a ski mask. Especially one who wasn't armed, or causing any trouble. At least, no trouble as yet.

Wasn't against the law to wear a ski mask, was it?

Smith shoved his tongue out through the mouthhole, let it stay there as he stared down at Tommy. He wasn't being rude, just seemed to be his habit to stick his tongue out while he was thinking. Couple of seconds later, he held out his hand, uncovering a bracelet of barbed wire tattooed on his wrist. Looked like a prison job.

Tommy ignored the outstretched hand, noticed that in the other one Smith clutched a large Poundstretcher carrier bag.

"Glad you could make it," Smith said, his tongue finally sliding back home and his tattooed hand tucking back into his pocket.

Tommy tilted his head.

Smith said, "Nobody eating rare steak, is there?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"Look around. Tell me if anybody's eating rare steak."

Tommy did as requested. Faced Smith again. Shook his head.

"Okay, then." Smith sat down opposite Tommy, bent to take something out of his carrier bag. A book. A large one. He shunted a sturdy green-and-white-dotted vase housing a single dried flower out of the way, and dumped the book on the table hard enough to make Tommy's teaspoon rattle.

A waiter approached the table. A couple of other waiters stood behind their colleague, a few feet away. The waiter looked at Tommy. Tommy gave him nothing.

"Sir," the waiter said to Smith.

Smith said, "Give me a minute."

The waiter didn't move. He cleared his throat. "Sir."

"I said, give me a minute. I'm not ready to order."

The waiter said, "Can I ask you to remove your … hat?"

"You can ask," Smith said, dark brown eyes staring at Tommy through the peepholes in the ski mask. "But if I did, you wouldn't like what you'd see."

"I'm sure, sir, it'll be fine."

"I'm sure that it won't. Come here." Smith beckoned the waiter closer. Whispered something in his ear.

The waiter chewed his lower lip, then said, "Certainly, sir. I understand."

"And, son, anybody orders a rare steak, let me know."

The waiter looked at him, nodded.

Smith reached into his pocket, gave the waiter a couple of coins.

"Thank you, sir." The waiter walked off, indicating by a subtle blend of gestures and whispers to his colleagues that they should get back to work, leave Smith alone, he was harmless. Tommy wondered why Smith was so interested in steak.

One by one, the other guests returned to their food, occasionally sneaking glances over at Smith and Tommy. But now they seemed reassured that Smith didn't carry a threat. The waiter had checked him out. The new arrival was an eccentric, a man who felt the cold more than most. Tommy didn't know what they were thinking, but that's what was going through his head.

"What did you say to the waiter?" he asked Smith.

"Never you mind." Smith tapped the book on the table. "To business."

"A phone book. Very kind of you to bring me a present. I'm afraid I don't have one for you."

"I really hate mouthy wankers like you." Smith flicked through the book. Opened it. He turned the book round to face Tommy. "Fifth name from the bottom. " Smith gestured with an outstretched palm. "Go on. Look at it."

Tommy played along. "Which page?"

Smith swivelled the book round. Looked at it. Swivelled it back again. "Left."

Tommy let his gaze travel up from the bottom. Counted five lines. Mr E McCracken. "Never heard of him."

"You will." Smith reached into his bag. Produced a pen. A pink marker. "Mark it." He handed Tommy the pen.

Tommy looked at the phone book. Looked at the pen. Looked at Smith. And drew a line through the name and address in Sleigh Gardens. The pen wasn't a marker, it was a highlighter.

"All the way along," Smith said.

Tommy shrugged. Whatever made the fool happy. He rubbed the nib over the rest of the line, highlighting the phone number too.

Smith fished around in his bag again, tongue poking through the ski mask as he concentrated, and surfaced with a notepad and a biro. He handed them to Tommy. "Write down the name and address, please."

"Why?"

"Cause I want you to remember them."

"I've got this." He showed Smith the telephone directory.

"Nope." Smith took it from him. "I've got it." He held it so Tommy could see the address. "Now write it down."

"What's the point of all this?" Smith didn't answer, so Tommy scribbled down McCracken's details. Handed the notepad back to Smith.

"That's yours," Smith said, bagging the phone book. "You've done well, Tommy. Don't lose that name and address. I'll be in touch."

Tommy could hardly wait.

Smith got up and left without another word. Tommy looked at the notepad, at the name and address that meant sweet fuck all to him.

He called over the waiter, the one whose ear Smith had whispered into. "The guy with the ski mask," Tommy said. "What did he say to you?"

"You don't know?" The waiter bent over. "He wasn't your friend?"

"Just some guy I was meeting for lunch."

The waiter looked at the table, repositioned the vase in the middle. He said, "You want to eat?"

"I'm not that hungry, thanks."

"More coffee?"

"Just tell me what he said."

The waiter clasped his hands together. "His face," he said. "He said it was horribly disfigured. He was the victim of an acid attack. The sight of it, he said, would put the other diners off their food."

A likely story.

Tommy nodded and when the waiter went away, ripped off the page from the notepad and stuck it in his pocket.

***

THE FOLLOWING DAY Tommy got another call.

Smith said, "Hope you still have that name and address." He didn't wait for an answer. "Buy a
Scotsman
and turn to page four."

For a while afterwards, Tommy pottered about on his home office computer, deliberately ignoring Smith's instructions. He wasn't going to buy a newspaper just because some skinny creep with a whiny voice and a cheap ski mask told him to. But after an hour or so, Tommy was fidgeting so much, and so unable to concentrate, that he rescued the crumpled piece of paper from his desk drawer. Not sure why, cause he hadn't forgotten the name. McCracken.

Tommy went down to the corner shop and bought a paper, resisting the urge to look at it until he was back in his office.

Page four had three stories, but the one his eye was drawn to first was the one Smith wanted him to see. It read: