Two-Way Split (4 page)

"I want to know how long it's going to take me to pay it all back."

"That's up to you. This isn't Burger King. You don't get paid an hourly rate, same as I don't pay your national insurance and neither of us pay any tax."

"So how do I pay you back?"

"Commission. You earn twenty percent of what you recover. I'll deduct that amount from your debt. So the more you get out of my clients the happier, and richer, we'll both be."

"None of these people, your
clients
, have any money, Mr Cooper."

"It's surprising how often they can
find
money."

"Shit."

"You think so? We must use different dictionaries. Tommy Gregg, now he was a shit."

Everyone knew about Tommy. He'd mouthed off about how he wasn't scared of Cooper. One night, Cooper and one of his thugs visited Tommy's flat armed with a coffee grinder. These days, Tommy walked with a limp.

"This is the only offer you're going to get," Cooper said. "It's generous and it's non-negotiable. Difficult to believe, but Tommy used to fancy himself as a hardman." He laughed. "See him now, Pearce. If I told him to suck my dick, the dirty toeless cripple would be down on his knees with his tongue hanging out like a hundred-quid-an-hour whore before I got my zip down. You wouldn't want to end up like that, would you?" He paused for a moment. "So what's your answer?"

Pearce said, "Okay," and Cooper said he'd see him tomorrow. One of his lads would show him the ropes.

When Pearce told his mum she said, "Don't do it. I'll lend you the money."

"And where are you going to find two grand?" he asked her.

"I suppose I could borrow it from Cooper."

"Right, Mum."

Pearce dug in his pocket and pulled out the list Cooper had given him. Four names, four addresses, four debts. The first on the list wasn't at home. Cant had been second. The woman, Ailsa Lillie, was number three. She owed Cooper three hundred quid. Pearce wondered how much she'd borrowed. Hating this job already, he checked the street number, folded the paper and put it back in his pocket.

Cars slalomed down Easter Road, weaving between lay-bys and traffic islands. Buses stuttered along, threading through gaps in the oncoming traffic towards the next stop or pedestrian crossing. He squeezed through a gap in the queue at a cash machine, nearly treading on the tail of a dog tied up outside the neighbouring newsagents as he did so. At the first break in traffic, he crossed the road.

Ailsa Lillie's building was next to a bookies. The exterior wall was black with soot and traffic grime. The outside door was open, but he pressed the buzzer and waited. No harm in being polite.

10:58 am

There they go again
.  Bang. Bang. Bang, bang, bang.

Robin couldn't sit in his flat doing nothing, not with that racket driving him mad. For at least a week now his almost totally deaf neighbour had been watching back-to-back John Wayne movies with the volume turned all the way up. Robin usually retaliated with a CD of a late Beethoven string quartet, or something with a prominent brass section – Janacek was good – or a Baroque opera played so loud the windows rattled. Often he'd sing along at the top of his voice. But not today. Today was different.

Two hours to go. He was tense. Couldn't stay cooped up. Had to get out.

As if being a tenant again wasn't depressing enough, their flat wasn't as nice as the old one. They no longer had a separate kitchen, for instance, and on the rare occasions either he or Carol cooked, the smell permeated the furniture in the sitting room. The couch would stink of fish or steak or bacon or whatever for days. A granny carpet – flowers, in pinks and purples – covered the floor. The piano had been moved once too often and badly needed tuning. Didn't matter, though, since he hardly ever played it. Five minutes now and then, maybe once a week, if the pain wasn't too severe. Once his Robinson upright might have been a musical instrument, but these days, it functioned primarily as a piece of furniture.

If he was going out, he'd better fetch the bag.

Maddening striped wallpaper covered three of the bedroom walls. Despite the illusion of depth created by the mirrored wardrobes running along the remaining wall, the room looked crammed. On the dresser squeezed in the space between bed and door, stood twelve framed photos of Carol. Watching himself in the mirror, he knocked them onto the floor with a sweep of his arm.

How could she do this to him? He couldn't believe she'd let Eddie touch her.

Observing his movements in the mirror as he shuffled forwards, he moved his right hand slowly, as if waving underwater.
Conducting, of course
.
Who was asking?
Yeah, he'd carry on as normal.
An orchestra. What else?
Pretend he didn't know. Raising himself on his toes for an imagined upbeat, he adopted a faster tempo. His hand sliced through the air. After a few bars, he stabbed the circled finger and thumb of his left hand at the brass section. His hands dropped to his side and he shook his head. "Late again," he said. "Just not good enough."

Otherwise he risked jeopardising everything. And this was personal. Nothing to do with business. Tomorrow was soon enough to decide what to do. He would deal with Carol first and then he would deal with Eddie.

The bag lay under a pile of dirty clothes. He dug it out and slung the strap over his shoulder. If Eddie knew what he was about to do now, he'd have a heart attack. Robin chuckled at the thought.

Outside, the temperature was only a notch above freezing. But it was dry and he didn't have far to walk. Just as well, since he couldn't risk taking the car. He stepped under the canopy of poles and planks erected after the accident about a month ago when a window lintel had fallen from the third floor and struck a pedestrian on the neck. Workmen had arrived days later and covered half the block in scaffolding. They hadn't been back since.

He passed Mrs Henderson, an old lady who lived in one of the ground floor flats in his building. She was wheeling a tartan shopping trolley behind her. He said, "Good morning," as he overtook her. She peered at him through her thick-lensed glasses, and nodded her tangle of white hair at him.

He turned the corner and crossed the road, the heel of his hand tingling. He wondered how the PI's nose felt.

***

Hogging the centre of the congested post office, two freestanding display racks forced the queue along the side of the walls. More racks, stuffed full of leaflets, spanned the length of the near wall. Opposite, protected by a clear anti-bandit screen (that's what they're called, so Eddie said), two cashiers served with an unremitting lack of urgency. Robin observed the fat one, who looked about sixty. As she chatted to her colleague the flab under her chin wobbled.

When he reached the front of the queue he said, "A first class stamp, please." Her hairspray caught in his throat and he coughed before he had time to cover his mouth.

She said, "And then, well, I shouldn't say," and tore a single stamp out of a book. He pushed a fifty pence piece through the gap at the bottom of the grill. "But there could be some trouble," she carried on, counting his change from neat piles stacked in a velvet-lined box. Her podgy white fingers pushed the money towards him.

"I'll see you later," he said. Only then did he get her full attention.

"What did you say?"

He smiled at her and scooped up his change.

"Do I know you?"

He said, "Not yet," and left. She'd know him soon enough, though.

10:59 am

Ailsa Lillie buzzed Pearce into the building without a word. When he knocked on her door it opened a crack. She kept the chain on.

"Who is it?" Her voice was deep and came from the back of her throat. She wasn't from Edinburgh. Her accent carried a north-east lilt.

"Can I come in?" He smiled at the slice of face that had appeared between door and doorframe. It looked as if someone had dunked her head in a sack of flour. Her hair was grey, her face pale except for the purple bruise over her eye.

"Why?" Her head shook. She looked about forty.

He lowered his voice. "You owe a friend of mine some money."

"Who?"

"You know who, Ailsa. Let me in."

"You seem nice," she said. "But I'm a poor judge of character. You could be a serial killer for all I know."

"You owe Mr Cooper three hundred quid. You think a serial killer would know that?" He hesitated, then continued, "All I want is for us to agree on some kind of mutually acceptable repayment terms."

Her eyes dropped. Without looking up she said, "Mutually acceptable?"

He nodded slowly. The door clicked shut. Seconds later it opened fully and she stood in front of him.

"Close the door behind you." She turned away from him, feet silent on the carpeted floor. "The bedroom's this way."

"Wait." He stepped into the hallway and eased the door shut. She ignored him. He watched her disappear into the bedroom. She moved like somebody much younger. He slipped the chain back on. "Ailsa," he said. "Ms Lillie," he said. After a moment he followed her.

She was lying on her stomach on the unmade bed, her right leg dangling over the side. Repetitively, she dragged her toes over the surface of a faded red rug that was threadbare along the edge.

"Ailsa."

"You keep saying my name."

"I'm trying to tell you—"

"What's yours?"

"My name's not important."

"I'd like to know." She swivelled her hips and faced him, arms stretched over her head. "Oh please, at least grant me that. After all…"

"Pearce," he said.

"You
are
nice." Her green eyes shone. "Sit down next to me, Pearce"

He strolled towards the bed and sat down.

"How do you want to do it?" she said.

 "What happened to you?" He reached towards her. When his fingertips were an inch from her face she turned her head away.

She laughed, but there was no humour in the sound that rasped from her throat."What happened your face?"

She mumbled into the pillow.

"I didn't hear you." He leaned closer.

"What do you care?" Suddenly she sat up, pointing a pistol at him, holding it as if it was scalding her palm. She was shaking violently.

"If you shoot me Cooper will just send someone else." He held out his hand. "Someone who might not be as nice as me."

"Are you a bit thick, Pearce?" She clamped her other hand around the one that was clutching the gun and tried to steady her aim. "If I shoot you," she explained, "I'll go to prison. Cooper will be the least of my worries. I'll be safe."

"I might not be as thick as you think. Why don't you tell me about it?" he said. "You borrowed the money from Cooper to buy that gun, didn't you?" Her gaze flickered and he continued, "I would guess that the weapon was purchased with a certain person in mind. Am I right? Maybe that special person is the same one that knocks you about. How am I doing so far?"