The pub hadn’t changed. It was still sporting a big, somewhat frayed Union Jack above the bar, reminding McNab that he was a left footer in a right-footed establishment. Thoughts on independence for Scotland hadn’t crossed this threshold. Neither had thoughts of supporting a rival football team, despite the recent financial struggles of their own.
But there had been one change. The clientele was no longer uniformly white, although the areas of the bar they chose seemed to have demarcation lines. McNab wondered too at the Polish voices, as he’d assumed that the majority of Poles were Catholic. As for the Turks and Romanians, he had no idea which religious flavour they preferred.
The text he’d sent from the car had remained unanswered, but he was hopeful his contact would appear. Money was always short here. Money for drink, money for drugs, for the rent, especially now that they had to pay up front for that extra room. And he’d indicated he was willing to pay a substantial amount for information that would lead to his enlightenment on that cocaine stash.
McNab ordered a pint and took it over to a corner table, marked by cigarette burns but no longer sporting an ashtray, full or otherwise. In all honesty, he’d preferred the smoke-filled version of the place – back then, meetings were less obvious.
He was an inch from finishing his drink when Big Davy walked in. Broad rather than tall, he carried himself with confidence and a sense of belonging. Davy wouldn’t cower in the corner like McNab, hoping no one would notice his presence. He didn’t glance McNab’s way, but he’d sussed him nonetheless. McNab carried on reading the beer-stained copy of the Daily Record he’d found on the seat. It was yesterday’s edition, but the doom and gloom were the same. Davy ordered a pint and drank a half of it like a man with a thirst, then he took out his fag packet and headed outside.
McNab, knowing the drill, followed. Smoking was another obsession he’d managed to shake off, until he’d ended up in the police safe house, where death at Russian hands had begun to look better than the crushing boredom. So he’d reawakened the habit to pass the time. A mistake he was still paying for.
Davy was standing on his own, inhaling a few swift draws to take the edge off his craving. He didn’t turn when McNab lit up beside him. McNab tried not to inhale and failed.
‘Been up the Braes recently?’ McNab said by way of entry to the conversation.
Davy made a sound that might have been a laugh. ‘What’s up there then?’
‘A snowfall.’
Davy took another draw. McNab tried not to.
Eventually Davy came back with, ‘I heard it didn’t lie long.’
‘True, but when it went, it left something behind.’
Davy remained silent, working his cigarette until he’d sucked it dry. He dropped the end and ground it out underfoot. McNab forced himself to do the same.
‘The snowman had nothing to do with that,’ Davy said.
‘So no connection between the snow and the deposit in the stone circle?’ McNab said to make sure.
Through the smoke, Davy’s cold eye fastened on McNab. ‘Didn’t I just say?’ he spat at him.
‘So where’s the snow now?’ McNab tried.
Davy smiled. ‘Falling all over the place.’
‘Orkney?’
Davy grunted. ‘Who knows and who the fuck cares?’ He held out his hand. ‘Got a spare smoke, Inspector?’
McNab handed him the packet, sorrier to see the cigarettes go than the money he’d tucked inside. Davy headed back in. From the doorway, McNab saw him order up another pint, this time accompanied by a whisky chaser. Davy was spending his earnings already.
McNab stood for a moment, wishing he’d handed over the money inside the copy of the Daily Record instead. He licked his lips. Even that slight encounter with nicotine was buzzing his blood and his brain. Giving up fags was harder than celibacy. He’d certainly thought about smoking, dreamt about it, at least as often as sex.
He spat the taste out of his mouth and tried to focus on what he’d got, which wasn’t much. Davy had intimated that the body and the coke were unrelated. That could be a lie, but who would draw attention to a stash by leaving a body behind? Then again, they didn’t know that someone would dig up the stash and call the cops. If just the body had been found, there wouldn’t have been a connection.
As far as a fucking game was concerned, McNab decided, he was definitely on Level 1, assuming there was nothing lower than that.
He’d parked the car round the back. It looked lonely sitting there on the crumbled asphalt. As he slipped in and started up the engine, a big black Mercedes tank with a heavy metal grille up front, swept in to keep him company.
Very close company.
So close McNab could no longer open the driver’s door, even if he’d wanted to. The buzzing in his brain upped tempo as nicotine met with a sudden surge of adrenaline.
McNab hit reverse and roared back, spraying stones. The tank went into reverse too, right across his path. McNab slammed on the brakes and caught a whiff of smoke, rubber-scented this time, as the back of his car pinged against the tank’s grille.
He forced the stick into first and, foot on the accelerator, ramped up to third and took off, just as the tank gave him a shove. Now he was flying forward towards a sagging fence. He swerved right at the last moment as the tank roared in from behind. With its heavy metal grille it cared less about hitting the fence than about squashing him.
McNab screeched a circle, smoke coming from his wheels in a black cloud as he left his treads behind. He cursed himself for lingering, for not leaving the car out on the main road, ready to jump into. He was definitely losing his touch. Or else deliberately courting trouble in search of excitement or a hard-on.
A glance in the rear-view mirror showed that the tank had turned and was on its way, burning as much rubber as he had. When McNab swivelled to the front again, he found three masked youths, hoods up, standing across the exit, each holding a machete.
‘Shit!’
He pressed his foot to the floor. The one in the middle was the last to abandon ship, but not before hurling his machete at the windscreen. It hit with a crack and flew off as McNab bounced the car via the intervening pavement and onto the road. He swerved left, aiming for the nearest main thoroughfare, knowing he had more than one back street to reconnoitre before then.
The posse was waiting at the T-junction. Another trio of machetes, suggesting they must be buying them bulk order. His one consolation was the absence of guns.
So far.
The tank was back on his tail, bearing down on him like Spielberg’s truck in Duel. McNab decided to take no prisoners and mowed into the triplets, sending them flying. No one threw a weapon this time, but a shower of stones hit his rear window. He took another left at the junction, passing a wide-eyed woman with a pram, praying that the truck would miss her too.
Then he was out and onto the main road, squeezing himself between a bus and a pissed-off Volkswagen, whose driver blared his horn.
McNab gave him the finger.
Once clear, he contemplated calling in to report that the natives were restless in the area of the Union bar, but decided against it. By the time a couple of cars had reached their destination, all would be quiet on the western front. He’d gone snooping and someone had taken offence.
He headed for the flat, in need of a drink – more than one, in fact – and there was the safest place to indulge. When he pulled up outside, he checked his face in the mirror to find a bloody cut where his head had slammed into the windscreen. He wiped it clean with his arm. It wouldn’t do to scare the neighbours.
The flat, on entry, seemed different. He sniffed the air. Where was that familiar fusty smell of dirty dishes and unwashed clothes? He opened the inner door and looked about in surprise. The room was clean. No piles of dishes in the sink. No clothes lying around.
Iona!
He marched into the bedroom. There was no one there, but the bed had been changed, something he couldn’t remember when he’d last done.
McNab swore very loudly and slammed the door shut again.
Back in the kitchen, he went in search of the whisky. She’d washed all the glasses and put them in a cupboard along with the bottle. He poured himself a large glass and drank it. Being in a room that didn’t smell, he could suddenly smell himself, a mixture of sweat and fear. He poured another shot and headed to the shower.
Undressed, he examined himself in the mirror. If they’d pulled him out of the car, what would he look like now? McNab had a sudden flashback to his hours tied to the chair under examination, Russian style. He’d ridden the pain then with ever-increasing anger. Eventually he’d come to embrace it, even welcome it, because it had pissed off his torturer so much. If you can’t frighten with the promise of pain, what the hell can you do?
He’d begun to understand then what sadomasochists sought. The way in which pain and pleasure became linked. How whipping and being tightly bound could bring blood surging to the surface, making anticipation of what was to follow both exquisite agony . . . and ecstasy.
He was pumped up like that now. He let himself imagine finding Iona here and what he would have done to her, partly from anger, partly from relief that he had outwitted his attackers – Mercedes man and the hooded wee punks.
He caught tight to the sink and let the feeling wash over him.
The ring of his mobile brought him back to the here and now. Glancing at the screen, he found Iona’s name.
Serendipity.