Jack in the Box, page 20
Anger swelled in him. Rare, slow to rise, but unstoppable. He placed the teddy back on top. ‘That’s just a cupboard, basically. I’m looking for a way in and out. A tunnel. A hatch. A teleport system. An escape pod . . . an actual panic room. Somewhere someone can hide. Somewhere he could creep in without being seen.’
The foreman took a more conciliatory tone. ‘There was a good CCTV set-up here.’
‘It shows nothing. The guy got in; he killed a woman, then he got out. We don’t know how. I don’t know how.’ Lomond sounded desperate. He’d wasted the morning. He’d grown cold, and so had whatever leads they had. Even the ersatz bomb had turned up nothing significant. Lomond needed to sit down. The canvas cover spread across the bed was frosted with dust, chips of plaster. The carpets were stripped, rolled up.
And nothing. All day, nothing. The crew were only hired for so long. Lomond went outside and rested on a covered garden bench. He gazed across the fake grass, now rolled up to expose the hard-packed frigid earth. Nothing. He got up and trailed a hand along the moss-effect covering on the fence. Nothing behind there either: no conjuror’s trick.
Slater called, ‘How’s it going?’
Lomond placed his thumb and his ring finger on his temples. He squeezed. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s turned up. No tunnels. No hatches. They’ve torn the place apart.’
‘How can there be nothing?’
‘I don’t know! I’ll be happy to ask the guy responsible when the time comes!’ Lomond took a breath. ‘Sorry. What turned up with Laybourn?’
‘Rats.’
‘Say that again?’
‘Aye. Rats. Remember the exterminators we saw at Myrtlewood? He’s been hired to plant rats and cockroaches, would you believe it? We caught him dumping boxes full of rodents in the middle of nowhere. Had an attack of conscience, disobeyed orders. He made it sound like it was a big deal. Oh, and the background checks came back. Guess how many men Laybourn killed twenty years ago?’
‘Don’t mess about, Malcolm. I’m tired.’
‘Four. Four people.’
‘Smother any of them?’
‘Nah. Guns and, on one occasion, his bare hands. Worked with early drone warfare, apparently, at the end of his time in the forces. No mention if he shot anyone by remote control. He was in demand as a private contractor when he left the army. Decided to wander the forests like Gandalf, shifting gear in his van. Still a suspect, gaffer. A big one. And there’s one other thing. We had a wee poke about the shipping containers where Laybourn dumped his furry friends. It turns out someone was living there.’
Lomond watched the workmen file out of the house. Ruined, he thought. All on account of him. He’d been so sure.
‘Let’s follow it up. I need something to chew on.’
45
One thing Shane had liked about his grandfather: the name. Raglan. It was like a character from an ancient Icelandic saga. A berserker, arms spread wide, a chest you measured in feet, not inches. Shoulders that made goalposts feel insecure. The reality may actually have tallied with this, in fact.
Although his mother and father never spoke about it, Shane had heard the rumours. People disappearing. People encased in the foundations of his property empire. Which Shane’s mother had expanded. But Raglan was something else. A link to an unimaginable past. It wasn’t true to say Raglan had risen from nothing – no one ever did, really. His dad had owned some bookies, then some pubs, and then there was Raglan. Shane’s uncles, Struan, Tosh and Ranald. Hard names, tending to the north, hanging a right past Orkney.
Shane had been mortally afraid of him. Now, even in his decrepitude, there was still something frightening about Raglan. Shane was maybe an inch or two taller already, but the breadth and bearing of the old man was still there, dressmaker’s lines you could put through the shoulders and hips and elbows, even if the head had sunk. He still had his hair – Shane was sure he’d inherited it, looking at the old photos of the black-haired, scowling man that adorned too many walls in the family home. Now it was white, but thick and untidy as if it had been cut by someone with a sense of humour. Below, the jaw jutted comically – at one time it had been imposing, but now it looked as if something had come unhinged. The muscle was still there, though, filling out the stained grey jumper and joggie bottoms as he stood with his back to them, looking out of the window. The rest of his room in the nursing home was cosy, and far too warm. He had a view of the grounds, and beyond that the lights of Glasgow.
The face swung around, disconcertingly fast, to take in his grandson. The old man looked him up and down. ‘Where’s Tosh?’ he said. Tosh was the middle son, the de facto head of the clan, and, everyone thought, the hardest. If you didn’t count Nicole.
‘Tosh is looking after his business affairs,’ Shane said. He had learned not to make sudden moves in front of the old man. Even taking off his headphones had been akin to a gunfighter unlooping his belt, very, very slowly.
‘Fuck are you?’ Raglan asked, tilting his head to that dangerous angle. Shuffling his feet.
‘I’m Struan.’
Confusion. It was said that Shane took after Struan – might have been his son. Apart from one detail. ‘Eh? Struan? Struan’s a ginger.’
Large hands, closing over the forearms. Still looked as if he worked out. Been a swimming star as a kid, had Raglan. Something terrible had happened to him since the days of the muscleman poses of the 1960s, the black bathing suits.
‘It’s just Shane trying to be funny, Dad,’ Nicole said. ‘And failing.’
‘Shane?’ The confusion remained. That could be a precursor to a wild swing. Nicole had been in the way of one of those, a long time ago. She had borne the black eye and burst nose with commendable chill. Patiently explained what had happened. Raglan hadn’t hit her – it had been The Condition. It was Understandable. Shane had never been given one, though he supposed his number would come up eventually.
‘Shane’s my son,’ Nicole said. ‘With Vincent.’
‘You’re not still with that wanker, are you?’ Raglan huffed.
‘I’m not,’ Nicole said, with a winsome smile.
‘Good. Always thought he was a poof.’ The old man stared at his grandson with a renewed curiosity. ‘Shane, eh? What kind of name is that? You bent?’
‘Well, it’s better than a big jumble of consonants,’ Shane said. He met his grandfather’s gaze coolly.
‘I’ve ripped somebody’s jaw off their head,’ the old man said, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Oh aye, you should’ve seen that. Nobody made any smart remarks after that.’
‘Especially not the guy who got his jaw ripped off.’
The old man cackled. ‘Some mouth on him!’
‘Yeah, he takes after his father,’ Nicole said. ‘We’re going to have to go now, Dad. Been lovely to see you.’ She kissed his cheek. The old man opened and closed his mouth, seemingly astonished at the gesture of affection.
‘Got my papers?’ he said.
‘You got them this morning,’ Nicole said. She guided him, subtly but firmly, towards his chair, his tartan blanket and the remote control.
‘Shame about Eddie.’
‘It is. Crying shame.’
‘I’m going to his funeral.’
‘Of course you are. It’ll be nice to say cheerio.’
‘Aye. He was old, right enough. Rickety.’
‘It’s a shame when they get that way.’
‘I won’t keep you,’ the old man said, sinking into the chair. ‘Mind and leave a window open for me, now.’
‘The last time that happened, you squeezed out, Dad,’ Nicole said.
‘Not my fault if they can’t lock their bloody windows! When am I getting home?’
‘Soon as you’re better.’ The winsome smile again. Then Nicole nodded to Shane. He read the gesture and backed off.
‘Bye, Granda,’ he said.
‘Bye, Glenda,’ the old man said, and grinned, showing a gap in his front teeth big enough to admit a shotgun barrel.
In the corridor they nodded politely at the nurses, and squeezed past a resident inching forward on a walking frame. He was struggling a bit; Shane instinctively took him by the elbow. ‘Want me to get a nurse?’ he asked.
‘You’re fine, son,’ the white-haired gentleman said. ‘Room’s at the end. Nearly there. Got to keep moving, you know. Old Eddie didn’t.’
‘Yeah, shame about Eddie,’ Shane said. ‘Take it easy now.’
Nicole watched this exchange without blinking. Once they were past the security doors and out into the cold air, she said, ‘It’s good that you can look after old people like that.’
Shane shrugged. ‘We’ll all be there one day.’ Nicole said nothing. ‘Can you drop me off at the top of the hill before we get back?’
‘Sure. Any reason?’
Shane shrugged. ‘Meeting someone.’
Nicole hid a smile. ‘Oh, I see.’
‘Just a pal.’
‘You don’t need to hide things from me, son. I’ve lived.’
‘Haven’t you just,’ Shane muttered.
Nicole let that go. They strode down the tree-lined pathway towards the main road. ‘I wanted to bring you out here to have a chat with you, in fact. It’s been hard to catch up with you.’
‘Sure. What’s on your mind?’
‘I know the police being in the house is weird. They have to do their work.’
Shane grinned. ‘I notice you didn’t mention that to Granda.’
‘No. Granda doesn’t like the police. Anyway, we have to let the police do their work. But I wanted to say . . . I’m proud of you.’
The boy cleared his throat. ‘It was obviously a fake. Obviously.’
‘The police didn’t think so. They reckon you were a bit daft.’
‘I was right, though,’ he said, a surly tone now.
‘You were. No denying it. And you sorted the situation out. They could still be standing there in the kitchen now, waiting for the bomb squad to defuse it.’
‘Had to defuse it anyway.’
Nicole pursed her lips. ‘I gather your stepfather wasn’t too happy.’
‘Is he ever?’
‘He cares. He thought he was going to die.’
‘He dived for his son. Brave, I guess.’
‘Well, instinct kicks in. His was to dive for Jared. Yours was to defuse a bomb.’
‘There was no bomb,’ said Shane. ‘It was a wind-up.’
‘That brings me to the next point.’ They had reached the bottom of the hill, close to the public park where Nicole had parked the car. ‘Any reason you can think of that someone would target us with a fake bomb?’
‘Nothing to do with me.’
‘You sure about that? I wonder what you’re up to sometimes. All that time spent on your computer.’
‘I can tell you one thing I’m not doing – making pals with bomb hoaxers.’
‘No, I know. But it does make me wonder – who’s targeting us?’
‘It’s a bit weird, the box.’
She frowned at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘There was a scarf or something, stuck in the lid.’
‘So?’
‘So . . . don’t you go on the internet?’
She looked at him blankly. ‘Sweetheart, I can’t remember the last time I sat down to watch the telly. So what’s the thing with the box?’
‘It’s to do with Jack-in-the-Box. Same with the guy who turned up dead in the old fridge at Hazell Court.’
‘Well, maybe, maybe not. No one’s breaking into our house though; I can guarantee you that.’
‘Nah, he’d be mad to do that. Makes you think, though. It must be something to do with us, or he’s targeting us. Or something.’ The boy shivered. ‘Maybe we’re suspects.’
‘Maybe we are. But the police’ll catch him, sooner or later. Right now, we’re going somewhere else.’
Shane gave a lopsided smile. ‘Taking me to McDonald’s?’
‘Oh, better than that.’ She looped an arm through his. ‘I’m taking you to the sale.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Eddie’s sale. There’s an auction of his stuff.’
‘Who’s Eddie?’
‘You heard your granda – old man, lived down the block from him. Died the other week. No close relatives. He had a few antiques and first-edition books. Stuff’s gone to auction. For an absolute song.’
‘Right,’ Shane said uncertainly.
‘C’mon. We’ll get a bargain then put it on a proper auction site. I’ve had some of the stuff assessed. Hey,’ she whispered, coming close, her perfume strong in his nostrils, ‘I’ll split the money with you. It’ll be our secret.’
‘Sounds good to me. I’ll defer to your judgement.’
She glared at him with something like passion, something certain and fixed. ‘It’s a skill to master, son, because let me tell you, you’ve got to learn one thing in life, and that’s profit. Your granda, whether he was ripping people’s jaws off or not, he knew it, and he taught us all that. You do more damage making deals than you do with your bare hands. Know why? Because you never get caught. You need to have an eye for a deal. You need to see it through. And you always make sure you get paid out.’
Shane took a long, slow breath. His eyes were wet. ‘Why are you telling me this? Auctions? It’s weird. It’s not right.’
‘Right and wrong doesn’t come into it. You’ve got a good life. You’ve got a decent brain. You’re good-looking. And you’ve got a name. Lots of things going for you. But if I was to die first, you might have a problem. You won’t inherit everything. But, eventually, your brother might. Half-brother, I should say.’
‘Brother,’ Shane said sharply.
‘You follow my meaning. So we’re going to the auction. You’re going to make some deals. You’re going to get used to it. And soon you can go into business with me.’
‘That’ll be brilliant.’
‘Won’t it? Right?’
She crushed him with her embrace. This was as close as Nicole got to hugging her son. It was a curiously aggressive gesture. He wanted to shrink away. Instead he said, ‘I’ll let you start the bidding.’
46
The IT guy had put himself forward as liaison, and Lomond couldn’t work out why. He was ponderously slow. There seemed something insolent in his slouch and his let’s-see-thatagain demeanour – either that or a carefully masked anxiety disorder. The drab, baggy clothes hung off his frame as if they couldn’t wait for the blessed release of the washing machine. His name was Fahey and, he said, he’d been with the police for years.
‘So, uh, I didn’t catch your name?’ Fahey said as he opened up a triptych of computer screens in a curtained room several fathoms down in Govan HQ.
‘Inspector Lomond.’
‘Right. I’ll take you through the drone footage we got off Mr Finch.’
After a brief bumble through log-in screens and asterisked-off password fields, Fahey found the files. ‘He keeps quite good records. All dated and filed.’
‘He didn’t initially strike me as that sort of guy,’ Lomond confided. ‘Hobbyists, though, eh? Some guys don’t take anything as seriously as their wee pastimes.’
‘Amen.’ Fahey pursed his lips. ‘Right, this is the first one. Whee, off we go!’
The first film was startlingly professional-looking, credit where it was due. Summer grass, gilded by what Lomond knew instinctively to be evening light – something in the red, not yellow or white, a base tone. ‘Crepuscular, that’s the word,’ he said out loud. Fahey turned his head very slowly to gaze at him, but said nothing.
The picture rose, sci-fi fast, taking in a panoramic view of woodland. Lomond recognised it right away. ‘That’s the back of Myrtlewood Crescent.’
‘Yeah. The woods. All totally verified, triangulated and pinpointed. Can give you the day, as well. This was in August. About five fifteen p.m.’
The drone rose vertically, no deviation, just a straight line up into the pale blue. Then it banked to the left, and skimmed the treetops. Birds – Lomond recognised a jay’s blue and brown plumage – rose and arced away at the drone’s progress.
‘Big enough to scare the natives,’ Lomond commented.
‘Aye, that’s a big drone. Hi-spec model. Now, this is a good bit of flying.’
A thrilling plunge through the trees, a Hollywood swoop. Lomond felt butterflies in his tummy at the illusion of velocity, of perspective, as green leaves and warm wood spread out before the drone. Surely it would crash, he thought. But, no, it followed a sure path through the interstitial spaces between the leaves on the canopy.
‘He knows the trail,’ he said.
‘Aye. Now. Here’s the houses.’
Fences came into view, one of them stained burgundy – that was Finch’s own house. Then came the house of the dead woman, with its back fence overhung with the astroturf drapery.
‘Weird stuff, that,’ Fahey said. ‘The fake grass. Not for me. Bad enough on the lawn, eh? She’s got it hanging up.’
‘Not for me either,’ Lomond said. ‘But I guess it keeps. No mess. Low maintenance.’
‘Suppose there’s that.’
‘I hate it. I’m a gardener.’
‘I’ve got a flat,’ Fahey said, almost wistfully.
‘Wouldn’t have it on a windowbox, either.’
After another long pause, Fahey said, ‘Heh.’
Before it reached the house next door the drone had veered away, sharply, as if it had taken fright. ‘Hold it there,’ Lomond said. ‘Can you spool the video back a bit?’
‘Sure.’ A couple of clicks, and the footage ran back slowly.
‘There.’ Lomond pointed. ‘Freeze it there, please.’
A split-second was a cliché, but that’s precisely what it was. ‘Yep. There’s a woman in the window,’ Fahey said.
Lomond peered closely at the figure. The definition was excellent, and for a chilly moment Lomond wondered if she was clad all in white, like a shroud, or something from an adaptation of a novel by a Brontë. Then he realised she seemed to be wearing a hoodie, some sort of novelty animal pattern, like a sheep, or a llama. She had dark hair, a coffee cup in her right hand, and she appeared to be peering up into the sky, right at the drone.
