The Sirens - 02 Read online

  He was still having problems being on his own though...and he spent a couple of weeks persuading me that his newfound skills could help my business.

  "You can find out just about anything online," he had told me. "Let me help you. I can make you money."

  He knew and I knew that he mainly wanted to spend his days somewhere he felt safe, and I owed him. He'd saved my life in the Amulet case, he was my friend, and besides...my own nerves weren't so calm anyway...it would be good to have him around. Yesterday I'd told him he could have a job...on the basis that he only got paid when the Agency made enough to afford it. The only thing he asked me was whether he'd have to pay the phone bill for his connection. We'd shaken hands on it, then gone out on the town.

  He'd started in the morning, and already we had a check for a grand. If I believed in good omens, I might believe he was already bringing us luck.

  "So what do you think?" he said, and fell into an almost perfect impression of the old woman. "Ma boy isnae ma boy."

  I laughed, and that spurred him on.

  "It wisnae like this when I was a lassie. I remember the time..." He said. This time he even had her mannerisms perfect

  "Please...stop," I said. "I thought she was going to sit there all day."

  "She might well have done. And did you see her pocket your cigarettes?"

  "Nope. She was too quick for me."

  "Aye, I don't think there's much that gets past her. I'm surprised she let 'her boy' go so easily."

  "I dunno," I said, "Maybe the pod-people have got him."

  In the old days that would have opted us into a long conversation about 50's B movies...but we were a long way from the old days. His face went ashen and a shiver ran through him.

  "Please. No more weird shit. Just give me a simple kidnapping."

  I smiled.

  "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

  I handed him the address on Skye.

  "There's no phone number on here...she must have forgotten it. Do something useful and find the number while I get some more cigarettes."

  * * *

  Down in the newsagent's Old Joe was in his usual place. Apart from the occasional funeral, I don't think he'd left the place in more than forty years. As I stood in the queue I watched him work. He knew all his locals by sight if not name, and would have their 'orders' made up in advance. I knew he remembered them from what they bought every day. The boy at the front was 'A Daily Star and twenty Benson and Hedges'. The woman in front of me was 'A pint of milk, four bread rolls and a packet of M&Ms', and the little old man in front of her got a brown bag which Joe told me contained a Hustler and a Penthouse.

  "Was that old woman up to see you?" he asked as he handed me the regulation two packs of Marlboro.

  "Aye. She could talk for Scotland that one," I said.

  "Tell me about it...she was in here before she went up to see you. Did she tell you about her bad back?"

  I shook my head.

  "Or her bunions?"

  Again I shook my head.

  Joe nodded sadly. "It was just me, then?"

  "What can I say," I replied. "You're a good listener."

  "You'd have to be with that one...there wouldn't be much chance of anything else. Did she have a job for you?"

  "Aye. And she's a good payer."

  Old Joe looked worried.

  "I don't like her, Derek. There's something not right about her."

  "Come on, Joe. You're nae judge of character. Remember the vicar you told me was 'nothing but trouble'?"

  Joe was about to reply, but I wasn't going to let him off that easily.

  "And remember that nice boy two years ago...the one you sent up with your personal reference? The one that pulled a knife on me?"

  He looked sheepish.

  "Momentary aberrations," he said, and pulled at my arm as I turned to leave. "I'm serious, Derek. I have a bad feeling about her. Don't take the job."

  "Too late," I replied. "But look on the bright side...I'll have enough money to buy cigarettes for months to come."

  "Does that mean you'll be settling your bill?" he said, almost wistfully. It was a question he'd asked me many times, and one I'd ignored just about as often.

  "Maybe I can interest you in barter?" I said, "Doug could set you up a spreadsheet."

  "And what would I need one of them for?"

  "To keep track of your business, your taxes, stuff like that."

  "The taxman owes me one hundred and three pounds," he said. "I owe the VAT man two grand, my turnover went up three-point-five percent last year and I've made sixty pounds and forty-three pence so far this morning. And you still owe me two hundred forty pounds. As I said...what would I need a spreadsheet for?"

  "Maybe you could count the number of folk that come into the shop?"

  "Six hundred and twelve this week so far," he said with a smile. "And that doesn't include repeat visits. See Derek. I notice things. And I'm telling you...there's something about that old woman."

  "Oh aye...there's something about her, all right. If she comes back in keep her away from your cigarettes and whisky. She'll cancel out your profits in no time."

  I didn't take Old Joe seriously. Like I said, he'd been wrong before.

  But even bad guessers get one right at some time.

  * * *

  Doug had the computer up and running by the time I got back to the office.

  "Is the beast ready to go to work?" I said, motioning at the machine.

  He was already sitting at the desk chair, fussily arranging his working area to his liking. I let him get on with it, but I was going to draw the line if he started bringing in pictures of family.

  "I've spliced the phone line," he said. "I'll only get half the bandwidth until we can get around to broadband but..."

  I stopped him. Two technical computing terms at a time were enough for me.

  "I don't need to know," I said, and gave him a smug grin. "I'm the boss."

  "Aye...from here on in known as 'The Dinosaur in the Corner'."

  "Just call me Barney."

  I got the coffee going and settled in my chair.

  "Shouldn't you be off doing something?" Doug said, "Canvassing your snitches, calling in markers...whatever you call it."

  "Information gathering," I said. "That's what the job is all about...and that's why I have you, and you have yon beast on your desk. Get to it, boy. Gather me some facts!"

  I got a rare smile from him, and he bent over his keyboard.

  I had time to smoke one cigarette before he came over to stand beside my desk.

  "I tracked down that phone," he said. "It's in a pub in Portree, 'The Auld Kelpie'. A kelpie is..."

  "I know what a kelpie is," I said. "Did you try the number?"

  "Not yet. I've been looking up the pub's history. It's four hundred years old and..."

  "Too much information," I said, stopping him.

  "No, wait," he said. He was like an excited puppy on a mission...well nigh impossible to stop without a well-placed kick. And I hadn't yet sunk as low as kicking puppies.

  "The pub has a history of murders, hauntings, even kelpie sightings. Back in the early part of the 1900's three staff disappeared one night...their bodies were never discovered...and..."

  I delivered the verbal equivalent of one of those puppy kicks.

  "I thought you said no more weird stuff?"

  It had the desired effect...it stopped him in mid-gush. He didn't even realize it himself, but Doug had a kind of reading blindness. It allowed him to trawl for hour after hour, document after document, book after book, on the occult, the paranormal and weird shit of every smell and texture.

  And he could do it all without once making the connection between his own fear and his reading material. It was only when I reminded him that he remembered the Amulet Case. Then it all came flooding back to him...the tentacled demon, the ancient Arab and the black chaos where I'd found him curled into a ball, screaming, bleeding and insane with fear
.

  He went white, all color leeching from his face, and he sat down, hard, in the guest armchair. The old lady had left something behind in exchange for my cigarettes...the sickly sweet smell of lavender and mothballs wafted in the room once more.

  I took the phone number from his suddenly shaking fingers, and passed him my mug of coffee in return.

  He gulped at it gratefully.

  "See. I told you. Too much information," I said.

  Doug sat still and sweated while I phoned the pub in Skye.

  It rang for long seconds...so long that I was close to hanging up. But just as I'd had enough, it was answered.

  "The Auld Kelpie. Irene speaking. How can I help you," the young woman at the other end said.

  At least it sounded like a young woman. And the accent was perfect. It spoke of open spaces, sparkling seas, red hair, green eyes and long walks in the sunset. The image was so clean, so vivid that I had to force myself to answer.

  "Can I speak to John Malcolm please?"

  "I'm sorry. There's nobody of that name here."

  I slapped myself on the forehead. The old woman had said it...she'd reverted to her maiden name...and I didn't know her married name, the surname of the man I was after.

  I decided to try the truth...sometimes, even in my business, it was easier that way.

  "Sorry," I said. "I'm after John, he's an accountant from Glasgow. He's been there for a while...months at least. I need to talk to him. His father has passed way, and he's needed at the funeral."

  "Och. That's a shame," she said. "But I still cannae help ye. There's nobody of that description here. This is a local bar, for local people. We don't get much in the way of passing trade."

  "Can you just ask?" I said, but she'd already put the phone down on me. I rang again, twice, but it was now permanently engaged. I had the feeling it would be like that for a long time...at least as long as I tried to ring.

  Doug looked up as I put the phone on its cradle. The color was coming back to his cheeks, but his eyes looked red and watery, as if tears were not too far away.

  "It looks we'll have to do it the hard way," I said. "How far is it to Skye?"

  Doug may have nearly recovered, but he had lit a cigarette, something he only did 'in extremis'.

  "About a four hour drive," he said, and punctuated it with a cough. He smoked as if he didn't really believe he was a smoker...all tiny puffs and theatrical flourishes. He looked like an actor practicing the act.

  "Put that out," I said. "You know you don't want it."

  "I need practice," he said. "The old lady is my new role model."

  "If you follow her example the only thing you'll be modeling is a coffin."

  That got me another smile, but my next words wiped it from his face, fast.

  "We'll take your car," I said, and once more the color drained from him.

  "We?" He seemed to shrink down in the chair away from me, and this time there really were tears in his eyes. He couldn't look straight at me, his gaze flitting from computer to door and back as he continued.

  "You don't really need me...do you? I thought I'd stay here...just in case any new clients come in. And..."

  I stopped him.

  "It's okay Doug, really."

  "No...you see, I can do more here," he said. "And if you need anything I can get it on the PC, and...

  "Doug," I said, softly this time. "It's okay."

  He handed me his car keys.

  "You can take the car anyway," he said. "I'll be fine without it."

  "It'll just be the one day," I said. "I might even be back later."

  "In the meantime, I can see if I can find the old woman's married name," he said.

  "Aye. That would be good. And keep digging into the history of the pub. There might be something I'll need to know when I get there."

  "I'll call you. You have your cellular phone?" he asked.

  In truth, I had no idea, but I smiled and nodded anyway.

  "Do you want me to leave you these?" I said, motioning at my cigarettes as I stood.

  He smiled at me sheepishly. The tears had dried, but he still looked pale and ill as he shook his head.

  "One good cough and my lungs would come up," he said.

  "Okay then, hold the fort," I said. "And get me more information, fact boy!"

  "Yes sir, Barney, sir," he said. His smile was a small one, but it was a start. In five minutes he'd be back at the PC again, reading about mutilation, torture and barbarism, smacking his lips with relish and laughing at the more gruesome bits.

  When I left he was indeed back at the computer, but when I closed the door I heard him move to lock it behind me. There wouldn't be any new clients while I was away.

  * * *

  Doug's car was parked out back, in front of the garage. Inside the rotting shed, my old two-door, one litre Nissan was quietly rusting to a long-overdue grave. But I didn't mind. Today, and probably as long as Doug was working for me, Adams Detective Agency had a new company car...a nice shiny Land Rover. It was last year's model, only four thousand miles on the clock, with reclining seats, automatic gear stick, power steering, four-wheel drive and more toys than any machine had a right to.

  Doug had bought it not long after the Amulet case...it was the closest thing he could get to travelling while still inside a house. He said it made him feel secure, and I could see what he meant as I stepped up into the driver's seat and the door shut behind me with a satisfying clunk. The machine was as big as an elephant, and half as maneuverable. Driving it was like wallowing in mud, but the high-driving position made me feel superior. Once I'd finally reassured myself that I knew the difference between the controls for the indicators and the windscreen washers, I was able to drive it, carefully, out of the garage area and onto the streets of the city.

  At every corner I leaned against the camber, convinced the vehicle was going to topple over, and at Anniesland Cross I took a bend too sharp, and had my heart in my mouth for a long heartbeat until I was sure all four wheels were on the ground. I slowed down and lit up a cigarette, trying to ignore the convoy that started to build up behind me on the road.

  I felt washed out and stressed after just ten minutes driving, never mind four hours, but once I got out of the city and onto straighter roads I was able to stop concentrating so much and feel my way into the rhythm of the car. After another twenty minutes I was finally able to relax slightly, and mull over the case.

  It seemed simple enough. Boy falls out with domineering father, leaves home under a cloud, father dies, boy says "So what?" It was a familiar enough story, repeated in hundreds of families every year. Only two things rankled me. First the whole My boy isn't my boy spiel didn't feel right. I'd been lied to often enough to know that Ms. Malcolm hadn't been telling me everything she knew...but then again, clients rarely did. The second thing was the secrecy in the pub. If the old lady was right, then there was no chance of them not knowing who I was after...not in a small town in the Highlands.

  I let it go. There was no use in going over it again...not until I'd seen the lay of the ground for myself. I lit the first of a long chain of cigarettes, opened the window, turned up the stereo, and cruised through the scenery while Robert Johnson told tales of standing at the Crossroads and getting his lemon squeezed.

  About an hour in, the rain started to fall, but the huge wipers treated it with disdain. I was alone on the road as I crossed Rannoch Moor...a landscape of peat bogs, black pools and flowing mist that unsettled me more than any city street at night ever had. I took my speed up to seventy and concentrated on the road, only relaxing fully once the road rose up towards Glencoe Pass.

  I stopped and pulled over into a lay-by at the top of the pass to stretch my legs. The view was stunning enough to stir the dormant highland genes of even the mostly cynical city dweller. The rain had abated to a fine drizzle from an almost clear sky, and it lay like a silvery skin on the road that twisted away down the glen. High up on a bluff to my left, a line of six
climbers started the ascent up the ridge. I marveled at the size of the backpacks that they carried...huge bulging bags that I would have had trouble lifting, never mind taking up a mountainside.

  The tall, majestic cliffs on either side were a mass of greens, greys and browns, the colors merging and fading to a misty wistfulness in the far distance. A perfect rainbow arced over the road, showing the way to the North, to the real Scotland past this formidable natural gateway. High overhead a buzzard soared, its hunting calls piercing the still air. For long minutes I had the whole road to myself, and I let the tranquility fill me up.

  I was called back to real life when an old car wheezed into the lay-by behind the Land Rover.

  "Hey, mate," a Glasgwegian voice said. "Am I on the right road to Skye?"

  I wandered over to the car so that I could avoid shouting...somehow it would have felt like sacrilege, there in the glen. As I got closer to the car, I realized I knew the driver.

  "Small world, Jim," I said. "You're a long way from The Halt."

  "Derek Adams? What in the name of the wee man are you doing out in the fresh air? No good will come of it, I can tell you that for a bob."

  Jim Morton was a reporter, someone I'd shared a beer with from time to time. We had worked together in the past, and worked against each other at other times. I wondered which one it might be this time.

  "Are you working?" I asked.

  He looked furtive, although it was hard to tell, as his expression always looked like he was hiding something.

  "Is that a professional question or a friendly one?"

  "That depends," I said.

  "On what."

  "On whether you give me the professional or friendly answer."

  He laughed, and got out of the car. It was my day for giving out free cigarettes, and we lit up together.

  "I'm working," Jim said finally. "But it's a wild goose chase if you ask me. Somebody reported a werewolf. A fucking werewolf! And even more unbelievable, Johnny Brown has sent me out here to do a 'strange people in the islands will believe anything' story about the locals."