The Amulet (20 page)

She nodded.

"Just don't be late. It's a longish drive, and it would be best to get there early rather than late."

She stood and waved me off as I drove Doug's car down the driveway. I looked in the rear-view mirror. It was the picture of the life I would never have-the big country house, the wife at the door waving me off to work. I felt like pounding the dashboard in frustration as I pulled out on the main road.

I thought I'd left plenty of time to get to Clarkston, but I got lost in North Glasgow. I stopped in a high street of a suburb I didn't know, and made the mistake of asking a kid for directions.

"Hey son," I said, rolling down the window. "How do I get to the city center?"

"Down the road, left, then left again," he said.

I thanked him, followed his instructions, and five minutes later found myself travelling back down the same high street again. The kid was pointing at my car and laughing. I slowed down and rolled down the window.

"Hey mister, are you wan o' the 'Blues Brothers'?" he said. "My mammy says they're shite."

The temptation to stop and pound the little shit to a pulp was high, but I fought it off.

"You're a genuine pillar of the community," I said. "You'll probably grow up to be a Tourism Coordinator."

He looked at me as if I was stupid. It was that generation gap thing again-it seemed there was nobody under twenty who understood me. I left him trying to catch flies in his open mouth.

The local newsagent had a street map, and I stood in the shop, tracing a required route.

"Are you going to buy that?" a shrill voice said. The shopkeeper advanced down the aisle towards me, her hands over her bosom as if she was afraid I might attack it.

"No. Why bother, when there's so many helpful folk in this town?" I said. I left her to catch whatever flies the kid missed.

It took me a couple more hours to get to Clarkston, then twenty minutes more to find a parking place. I ended up ten minutes walk away, and as I walked back towards the church, I was surprised to see Durban's Rover parked just outside the driveway.

I was late-the service had already started. To my surprise, the downstairs area was full-even the standing room. I moved upstairs, but even there most of the pews were taken. Wee Jimmy had known a lot more people than I imagined. At least I had a good view of proceedings.

Old Joe from the paper-shop was down near the front. His wife wasn't with him, though-after all, someone had to run the shop. Durban stood near the back. He had a solemn look on his face, but every time I looked at him, I saw the fate of the kitten, and the monster that had been conjured in the clearing. He saw me looking, and dropped me a slow wink.

Two rows in front of Durban, my attention was caught by a mass of long black hair. The owner of the coiffure turned slightly, and I saw it was Mandy, with a new wig. She had dressed demurely for the occasion-her boobs were nearly covered, and her skirt was halfway down her thighs. The man to her left stretched a hand round her shoulders and squeezed her close, but her expression never changed, and she didn't stop chewing her gum.

The priest stood above Jimmy's family, hands outstretched, appealing for God to take the soul into heaven. I have always found the idea of heaven, especially the Christian one, particularly distasteful-not enough fun, and too much piety for my liking. My personal prayer was for Jimmy's soul to find happiness wherever it had gone.

The prayer finished, the congregation muttered a ragged "Amen", and six of Jimmy's family, all small males with thinning hair, ages ranging from twenty to sixty, stepped forward to lift the coffin.

The organ began the funeral march in a loud burst of wheezing bellows, and a small procession led by the tall minister filed out into the sunshine. I gave them a couple of minute's start, then made my way down the stairs.

The sunlight was blinding after the gloom of the church, and it took my eyes a minute to acclimatize. I looked around for Durban and saw him entering his car. He waved to me, and his smile was broader than ever. I was about to follow him when a hand clasped my shoulder.

"It was good of you to come. Jimmy thought a lot of you, he always said you were his best friend-you always treated him like a human being."

I turned and looked into the face of John, Jimmy's oldest son, a small, quiet man whose eyes were filled with pain.

"I'm really sorry, John," I said, then realized I didn't have anything else to say-my mouth had gone dry. How could I tell this man that his father had most probably been killed by an ancient Arabian demon, and that even now the killers were plotting global domination by Elder Gods from a different time and space? In the cold light of day, it all seemed absurd.

Not for the first time on this case, I wondered if I was going mad.

I had stopped paying attention, so I got a surprise when Jimmy's son gripped my right hand, turned and walked away. I looked down. Sitting in the palm of my hand was a small, oblong piece of card. The side facing me was blank, but I didn't need to look to know that the other side contained a drawing of a small red coffin and a number. I had been chosen to aid in lowering the old man into the ground.

It was only when I raised my head that I saw the priest beckoning me across to join the other men clustered around the grave.

I stood on the left of the priest, both hands gripping white-knuckled on the purple ribbon. As the priest prayed, we slowly let our ribbons pass through our fingers, lowering the coffin into the dark black earth.

I had to fight to keep control of my end of the box. The pain was back in my arm, a deep, lancing throbbing that almost made me lose my grip. Somehow, I managed to cling on-I think it was the thought of the potential embarrassment if I failed that did it.

As the priest came to the end of the prayer, the pine box settled on the floor of the pit and a smattering of earth rattled across its surface.

The rest of the funeral crowd began to drift away to different corners of the graveyard. Jimmy's relatives got into the long black cars, shaking hands before leaving for the traditional round of tea and whisky. Soon there was only the priest and myself left, looking down at the coffin.

The priest turned away, but I stayed there for some time. I wasn't sure what was keeping me there, and I had no idea what I would say before I opened my mouth.

"I never really got to know you as well as I would have wanted to, but I hope that wherever you are, you're happy. And I promise you-I'm going to stop those who did this to you."

And suddenly I found myself crying. No tears, just great dry heaves that raked through my body. I wasn't sure whether I was crying for Jimmy, for John Harris, for Doug, or for myself, but when the sobs finally passed I felt a whole lot better.

I had Doug's book in the pocket of the leather jacket. I took it out, half-expecting it to be smoking this close to a church. I removed the photo of Fiona Dunlop with my fingertips without opening the book. Resisting an almost overwhelming urge to keep it for myself, I let it drop into the grave. Remembering a funeral from my childhood, I searched my pockets for small change. Finding a five pence piece, I tossed it onto the coffin, wincing as it rattled heavily across the brass plate directly above where Jimmy's sightless eyes must have been.

A flash of black and white sped from a tree on my right, swooped into the six-foot hole, and, as I looked on dumbfounded, the magpie hopped out, the coin firmly held in its beak. It turned one jet black eye on me and seemed to give me a long, slow wink; then, with a quick flurry, was once again airborne.

I had a feeling that Jimmy had just sent me a sign. Perhaps the supernatural was not all a bad thing. I left the graveyard with a slightly lighter heart than I'd entered it. The sun was shining, and the leather jacket suddenly felt heavy. I took it off and swung it over my shoulder, feeling the weight of the grimoire hit me in the small of the back. I caught myself whistling as I left the grave behind.

My newfound good cheer didn't last long-Newman and Hardy were waiting for me just outside the graveyard gates. I hadn't spotted them at the funeral, but they both wore black ties, and it looked like they had combed their hair. They were really pushing the boat out. I wondered if they had really known old Jimmy.

"We thought we'd find you here," Newman said.

"We wondered if you had anything new to tell us?" Hardy said.

My heart sank. I thought they'd found Marshall's body. I knew that if they had, I was in trouble. I had been seen in the bar, and I had been seen leaving just after him, and I was sure I must have left fingerprints all over his room.

"Come on guys," I said. "I've just buried a friend-can't it wait?"

"Oh, a friend, was it?" Newman said.

"And how many more 'friends' are you going to be burying?" Hardy said.

I had a sudden mental image of myself at Doug's funeral, trying vainly to explain to his mother how her son had come to die. I resolved that I'd do everything in my power to make sure it didn't come to that.

"And what do you mean by that?" I asked, trying to keep my anger at bay.

Suddenly I realized that they couldn't have found Marshall-they were being much too polite. If they had discovered the burglar's body, I would have been in the cells faster than I could blink. I began to relax-not much, though. It always paid to be careful where Stan and Ollie were concerned.

"Well?" said Hardy.

"Well?" said Newman.

"Well, what?" I asked, and Newman stepped towards me before being restrained by his partner.

"Well, have you remembered anything else?" he said, slowly enunciating every word, the voice he would use when talking to a school child. "Or are you too busy playing at detective to do any real work?"

"No. There's nothing else I can think of. Did you find out where that fancy leather outfit of Tommy's came from? I think that might give you a clue as to who killed him."

"We thought maybe you lent it to him," Hardy said.

"We thought maybe you were bum chums?" Newman said, and both the policemen laughed. I didn't join them-there was no humor there.

"No. There's no mileage in following the outfit," Hardy said.

"We've found out that he brought it himself, mail order," Newman said. "We found the receipt."

So Tommy had never intended the outfit to be sold. That didn't surprise me. I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but Tommy had been congenitally incapable of telling the truth, no matter how easy it would have been to do so. He saw it as a contest between himself and the rest of the world. I reckon the rest of the world won, in the end.

I suddenly had an idea, a way to get some more help on our side.

"Actually, I did hear something this morning. I was just going to follow it up."

I hoped they were going to buy it. If they did, it might slow our adversaries down and give us more preparation time.

"Remember that thing I was looking for?" I asked.

Hardy snorted, but Newman looked interested, so I addressed the rest to him.

"I've heard that Durban-you know, of Durban and Lamberts-I've heard that he's been putting out feelers, trying to find a buyer."

It had the desired effect. I'd played on the right prejudices. What more could they want-two antique dealers dead, and now a third involved in the case. I could almost hear their synapses making connections. The wrong ones, of course, but if it got them off my back and onto Durban's, I wasn't going to complain.

"I wouldn't bother following it up," Hardy said.

"Just leave it to us," Newman said.

"We'll check it out," Hardy said.

"You'd better be careful," I said. "That was three that time."

"What-"

"-was-"

"-three?" they said in turn. Then I got that smile again. I wondered how long they spent practicing together.

They had already walked away when Hardy turned back.

"By the way, Mr. Adams-how did you get that?" he said, pointing to my arm.

At first I didn't realize what he was asking, then I looked down.

My bandages had leaked. It must have happened when I helped to lower the coffin. There, in the crook of my elbow, was a still spreading stain of blood, an inch wide.

I tried to look casual, but I'm not sure I succeeded.

"I cut myself shaving," I said, showing him the plaster on my ear.

He looked closely at me, suspicious. I realized why when I ran my hand over my chin-it was obvious I hadn't shaved recently.

"Designer stubble," I said. "It's all the rage. I was just tidying it up a bit."

"Designer stupidity, more like," Newman said.

"Come on," Hardy said, as he turned away once more. "We can't stand around here all day."

Newman still studied me. He came closer and waved a finger in my face.

"You're up to no good, laddie. You know it, and I know it. So you had just better be careful. We'll be keeping an eye on you."

"Just the one?" I asked, and cursed myself inwardly. I could see that I'd gone too far. He stepped closer to me, so close that I could smell his cheap after-shave.

"That mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble some day," he said. He clenched his fist and drove it, hard, into my midriff, forcing me to double up. I almost expected a follow up blow, but when I looked up he was just standing over me, a look of sadness on his face.

"Now look what you made me do," he said. He waved his finger in my face again, but I forced down the urge to bite it.

With one last wave of his finger, he stomped off after his partner, leaving me to start breathing again. I realized that someday soon I would have serious trouble from that policeman, but at the moment I had more than enough other worries.

I had one last look back at the graveyard before I left. The men had started to fill in the grave, and some of the flowers were being blown away by the wind. The magpie was nowhere to be seen. I said a small personal prayer to Jimmy before leaving, hoping that wherever he was there were still Chandler books to read. If he was in the right place, he might even get to read a new one.