‘That’s my man!’
I handed over the fiver — he took the money and ran.
I set off in the opposite direction. Crossed at the lights. Took the path round the Gardens. Got halfway along when the one o’clock gun sounded at the castle.
At the Mound I shot up the steps to the Old Town. My heart thumped like a road drill. The sweat on my brow dripped in my eyes. I felt way out of shape. Not up to this. I hoped the Cube felt worse.
‘Just keep up, Mr Cube,’ I whispered, ‘just keep up.’
At the top of the High Street, by the statue of David Hume, I spotted him skulking on the edge of the Lawnmarket, right where the scaffold once stood for public hangings. He’d no clue how close to a lynching he was himself.
I had him pegged: out of breath, fanning his chops with the pages of his paper.
I headed down the Royal Mile. Picked up my pace, worked through a stitch. I took a turn onto Cockburn Street. Just about heard the Cube panting at my back. My legs ached as I put in for a last spurt.
Head down, I tanked it up the steps of Fleshmarket Close.
At the top, I slumped. Back to the wall.
My chest wheezed. ‘I am so, so shagged.’
I watched, moved into an empty shop front, and waited.
The Cube looked close to a coronary. He struggled to find the strength to drag his pudgy frame up another step. But, all credit to the man, he persisted.
As my breathing returned to normal, I felt an uncontrollable urge for nicotine. Sparked up a tab and drew deep. I relaxed at once. Flung back my head and waited.
On the final steps the Cube coughed and choked like a nag on the way to the glue factory.
As the top of his head came into view I stepped out in front of him. He hunched over, looked up, and I blew smoke in his face. ‘Ta dah!’ I said. ‘And as if by magic, the shopkeeper suddenly appeared.’
25
The Cube made to run.
He hobbled back down the steps, on his bandy legs, arms flailing. I let him open a dozen paces between us before I stubbed my tab and reached out to collar him.
‘I think it’s time you and I had a little chat,’ I said, as I latched onto his throat.
He tried to speak, ‘I–I-I…’
‘Catch your breath, fuckhead, you’ve a lot of explaining to do.’ I grabbed his paper, ‘And you won’t be needing the Daily Ranger!’
In the winding streets of the Old Town, it’s never hard to find an empty vennel. Very few people stray from the well-trodden paths. I pushed the Cube through a set of rusty gates into a dark courtyard. A stack of mouldy crates fell with him as he tried to scramble to safety.
‘No escape this time,’ I said.
His eyes darted from left to right. I saw him toy with the idea of balling a fist. I didn’t give him a chance. My right connected like a car crash. If pain was a target on his face, I’d hit the bullseye. Blood oozed from nose and mouth. He dropped like a telegraph pole in high wind. Soundless. Sprawled out on the ground, motionless.
‘Is that it?’ I thought.
A one-punch job.
I grabbed the collar of his mangy leather and sat him on his fat arse. He lolled woozily, but responded to a slap.
‘Now, there’s plenty more where that came from.’ I felt fierce, I knew the territory. It didn’t matter whether I was acting up, or it was real, either way, the Cube shat bricks.
‘Spill,’ I told him.
‘What? What? I was just…’
Wrong answer. I drew up my elbow, the dumbfuck followed it. He caught a mouthful of bone.
‘I can honestly say, I’ve never heard a grown man scream before.’
He spat blood, his face turned into a mask of agony.
‘Are they tears?’ I said. ‘Are you crying?’
He said something, but I couldn’t make a word of it.
I stepped back, lit a tab. I wondered if I’d gone too far. This guy looked to be in the wrong line.
As I knelt down beside him, he flinched.
‘Okay. Maybe you’ve had enough — you ready to talk?’
He nodded feverishly. ‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’
‘Good.’
I drew on my tab, blew into the tip. Little orange sparks flew. Then I held it like a dart, close to his eye.
‘Now, I am warning you, one word of a lie and you’ll need a white stick and a Labrador to get out of here — understand?’
‘Yes! God, yes! I’ll tell you all you want to know, just leave me alone. God, you’re insane!’
Too easy. Was I really this menacing? I’d need to hit some serious psychological tomes for the answer to that.
‘Why are you following me?’
‘It’s a job — I’m on a job.’
‘You’re an investigator?’
‘Aye!’ He ferreted in his jacket, for his wallet. ‘Look — look,’ he said. He produced a stack of cards. Cheap printouts, poor quality. They all read Private Investigator. The address said Gorgie. He ran the show from a cold- water flat. Whoever hired him either worked to a budget or didn’t know shit.
‘Not exactly bloody Magnum PI are you?’
‘I do all right.’
‘Mate, believe me, you’re far from fucking all right.’ I pressed my knee in his back and grabbed a handful of hair. ‘Now, who hired you?’
‘Arghh… I can’t.’
I tightened my grip, dug my knee into his shoulder blades. Felt the pressure mounting on my kneecap as he let out a scream.
‘Okay — just let me go.’
‘Name?’
‘I don’t have a name, she didn’t give me a name.’
‘ She?’
‘Aye. A woman, Russian — sounds it anyway. She just told me to follow you and report back to her at the Shandwick.’
Nadja. I didn’t need to know any more.
‘On your feet.’
‘What?’
‘Get on your fucking feet, now!’
He stood up; brushed at his backside. The way he looked, blood smeared on his face, hair sticking up like a duck’s arse, he needn’t have bothered.
‘What are you going to do with me now?’ he said.
I sooked the final draw out my tab and flicked the dowp into the alley. ‘I’ll ask the questions. Now, walk.’
‘Where — where are we going?’
I prodded him in the back and pushed him into the close. ‘To see your employer. I’ve words to have with Nadja.’
‘But… why do you need me? Surely, I’m no use to you now.’
