Chapter 5 #2
“Good evening,” he opens in a nasal tenor. “Leith Cargill, I presume?”
Sensing he seeks something from me and in no mood for pleasantries, I cut my gaze to Galiene. “You may go.”
She shoots me a protective look. “Let me know if you need anything.”
When she’s closed the door, I take a seat in an armchair. “What brings you here?”
His eye twitches, hinting at discomfiture. “Aren’t you going to ask who I am?”
“What makes you think I don’t know already?” I don’t, but it’s fun to fuck with him.
He huffs, eyeing the chair beside me with longing.
I don’t invite him to sit.
“I’m Hume Irving, barrister at Felton, Hammer, and Schirm.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I’m gathering evidence for a case against you.”
“Hmm. I’m pleased to see my nose is still excellent at smelling rats.” I rest an ankle on the opposite knee, giving him a glacial once-over. His fingers curl into a fist, as if he’s gearing up to deliver a bombshell.
“The case—the case is about the murder of your former guardian, Wylie Annand,” he says in a strained voice. Clearing his throat, he does his best to square his shoulders. “I plan to convince the Procurator Fiscal to reopen the formerly closed case.”
I hold the back of my hand to my yawning mouth. “Remind me, Irving, because it’s been awhile, what exactly you’re referring to.”
He takes a deep breath and steps further into my office. “Your fingerprints are everywhere in that house—including on the mantelpiece clock that police believe was used to kill Annand.”
“Aye, so they are, because I lived there for eight months,” I drawl. “Annand had me wind all the clocks, including the one the intruder used to kill my guardian.”
Irving’s lips twitch in a nervous rictus. “So you claim. And the Procurator Fiscal in two thousand four threw out the case largely on the basis that you couldn’t wield that mantelpiece clock on your own. You hadn’t hit your growth spurt yet, or some such nonsense.”
I observe him dully as one contemplates mold growing on a bathroom wall.
But Irving, unfortunately, seems to be winding up for his coup de grace.
“You claimed you were over at the neighbor’s house two doors down, while she was away on a trip.
You were feeding her cat and goldfish, and at the time of Annand’s murder—so you alleged—you were spending time with the cat.
But no one saw you. Sure, the neighbor says you took good care of her pets while she was away and you must’ve been there that day.
But that leaves it open for you to have committed murder between 3 and 5 that afternoon.
” He pauses for dramatic effect. “No one wanted to believe a fourteen-year-old could commit such an atrocious act. And, speaking of acts, you put on quite a good one.” He nods, plunging his hands in his pockets.
“At the time, they fingerprinted you and treated you as a potential suspect. But public opinion was with you, and they didn’t have enough evidence to put you behind bars.
The Procurator Fiscal decided this wasn’t enow to press charges, so he let you go. ”
I suppress a laugh. I went on my own, long before the COPFS gave me the green light.
“Now where are we, Irving?” Resting my elbows on the armrests, I clasp my fingers.
“You’re what, sixty? Your career is about to peter out if you don’t do something to resurrect it?
” I smile to see the red creeping into his face, confirming my suspicions.
“Enter this old unsolved case and I, who am plenty disliked for my involvement with the Syndicate. The Lord Advocate already has a case against me, so you thought you’d ride on the coattails of this high-profile case, tacking on the virtually closed case from twenty years ago. Am I correct?”
His jaw sets tightly as he juts up his chin. “You’re no longer so innocent or likable, Cargill.”
Aye, he’s confirmed all my suspicions.
I push to my feet, advancing toward Irving, who backs up a few steps.
“Go ahead, Irving. Do your worst. Try to get your own career back on track at the expense of mine. It’s the rule of nature.
Big fish eat little fish. Only beware: you may think you’re the big fish one moment, merely to find you’re the small fish the next. ”
I grin down at his cowering face.
“Get lost, Irving,” I growl, watching him jerk, spin about, yank the door open, and dash out.
I scrub a hand over my face, willing the images to stay down.
But they surge forth anyway.
* * *
With each jostling of the crate I wince at the pain in my backside. I hope it isn’t much further to the port. My heart rockets out of my chest, and my breaths chase each other like field mice running from a snake.
It’s my seventh birthday, and I got seven lashes of the whip.
Da said this was all I deserved when he caught me with two stolen papayas from the yard down the street.
But he and Maw didn’t feed me last night or this morning because I freed a macaque from one of the cages in their lab.
Maw hit me on the face hard and locked me in an empty cage for the night.
All night I thought of how the monkeys must feel huddling in a strange metal cage far from their home. Does hunger gnaw at their bellies? Do they dream of where they were born?
Then I hatched a plan. If the monkeys can be freed, maybe I can be too. Maybe I can run far away—or stow away on a boat.
So this afternoon when the truck came bringing supplies, I waited till one of the crates in the back was empty and sneaked into it. I know this truck is headed for the water, and there I’ll have to hide again in something bound for the deep sea.
I once read a story about a cat who had to leave his home in the city because it was being torn down. He ran all the way to the countryside, where he met more small animals who were losing their homes, and they banded together on a quest for a permanent home.
Maybe I can find a new home, one where I won’t be punished for reading books and asking questions.
If I’m caught, they’ll send me back to Da and Maw, and I’ll be hided into next week.
Shuddering in the close, cramped darkness, I resolve not to be detected. I have to escape. I may not get this chance again.
* * *
Fury pushes up from my lower belly to my chest, putting pressure on my lungs.
All my life I’ve been running. Running from my parents, running from the law, running from Annand.
Now Irving waltzes in and opens up the closed case from twenty years ago, trying to set me on the run again.
I sink into the nearest chair, burying my head in my hands.
This is why I went easy on Iona yesterday at the restaurant. She’s haunted by something too, and I didn’t have it in me to probe into what set her off.
Straightening my spine, I steel my cold heart against her. She caused Aaron’s death, and I should be seizing every opportunity to punish her. Instead I’m nursing old wounds, empathizing with her, and hearing her first request replay in my head, I’m trying to locate someone and bring him to justice.
Whom could she be after and why?
I massage my temples and grunt. “Nevermind, you idiot. Your first priority is tormenting her. If an injustice was done her, so much the better. It’s all she deserves.”
But I picture the elegant slope of her steep jawline culminating in her shell-like ears. Ears I’d like whisper filthy things into, making her blush the color of rose marble. I smile, recalling how prettily she flushed yesterday when I spoke of breeding.
If I weren’t on a mission to do away with her, I’d grab her supple hips and fill her with my seed.
Clearly it’s time to distance myself from her so as to advance my own agenda.
* * *
The Diamond, in Cranhill, is jam-packed with patrons of all ages, nationalities, and persuasions.
Declan meets me at the door and leads me through to a VIP section where dozens of women instantly fawn over us and fold their bodies into pretzels to please us.
I have about as much interest in the brunette draping herself over me as collagen injections.
“Savannah, get us a bottle of top-shelf mezcal.” Declan doesn’t spare a look for the long wavy blonde insinuating herself against him.
She unglues herself and gives him a two-fingered salute. “Coming right up.”
I could save all these women the bother of kissing up to Declan and me. Declan is gone on a sixteen-year-old named Màiri who was brought into the midst of the Syndicate to be trafficked and ended up on his doorstep. Speculation is rife amongst the Crew that he’s going to marry her.
And as for me, my lust for revenge against Iona has replaced any sexual urges I might’ve had.
Chebs?1 and arses are just so much distraction from my mission.
Forby, there’s a subtle yet definitive substance to Iona’s whole bearing that rules out giving other women the slightest consideration.
Next to her diamond and gold, these women are brass and plastic.
I don’t think about the long-term repercussions of these musings.
Sliding into the booth, I unhook one woman’s arm from around my neck and move another woman’s thigh from my lap. “If I’d known we were trying out for Love Island, I’d have shaved more closely.”
“You’re perfect as you are,” a strawberry blonde to my left croons, admiring my five o’clock shadow.
“There’s a raffle for a Bel Air Balenciaga handbag in half an hour,” Declan announces.
The women scatter like pigeons, heading for the bar, where a bartender hands them tickets.
The first blonde returns with a green ceramic bottle of Cuishe and sets it between us. She runs her tongue over her upper lip. “Anything else, gentlemen?”
“Not for now, Savannah.” Declan nods her away.
Savannah tosses me a saucy wink. “I’m at your service.”
When we’ve poured our shots and tossed them back, Declan scans the place. “Feel like a few games?”
“Nah. I’m not in the zone.”
“Watch the fight?”
“No thanks.” I smile. “But don’t let me hold you back.”
“Why are we here tonight, mate?” He leans in, a picture of formidable power, like one of the last of a near-extinct species of bear.
“I’m being investigated.” I pour more mezcal in our glasses.
“For?”
“Murder.”
He shrugs. “And?”
Sometimes I forget whom I’m dealing with. Declan doesn’t ask how or who, only what we’ll do about it. “This was twelve years before I joined the Crew.”
He screws up his lips in thought. “You’re saying it’ll be layman’s courts dealing with it? Och, I suppose ye cannae very well represent yourself.”
“No. I’ll hire someone I know.” I have a couple of people in mind. “It’s all extremely annoying.”
Declan holds up a hand. “We’ll spare no effort or expense for you, Leith.
Do you have any idea how much you mean to us?
” He squints at me. “In case you don’t, let me spell it out.
When Da had a hip replacement two years ago, he trusted you to make all the decisions for him.
When Uncle Callum and Da were at odds over how to deal with The Spotheads, they had you settle the matter.
And when they were trying to figure out what mattered most for the next boss, they consulted none other than you.
And they abide by your decisions. You know why? ”
I lean back in my seat, facing him. “I’ve the feeling you’re about to tell me.”
“You’re level-headed, cool, rational. Just as a counselor and legal advisor ought to be.
” Declan slams back his shot and reaches for the bottle to pour us more.
“It’s what I love most about you. So we’ll pull out all the stops for you, get you off the hook, and make sure no one fucks with Leith Cargill again. ”
A sly smile finds my lips. “Thanks, Dec. You mind being my best man at the wedding?”
“I’d be offended if you asked anyone else.”
I clap a hand on his shoulder. “Keep in mind I feel the same about yours.”
“Mine?” A puzzled frown knits his brow.
“You’ll wed soon too. With all your siblings and cousins deh?2 forget about me.”
He chortles into his drink. “One step at a time. You first.”
I lift my glass. “To wives.”
“Hmm.” Declan clinks his glass to mine, suppressing a grin. “To friendship.”
“That too.”
1?breasts
2?don’t